#[cracks knuckles] pain thread let's go

[vullcanica]

@vhgr : 🎲 for silas & aemond

33. A kiss to a scar, birthmark, injury, or other marking

"I'll break their fingers." It's a quiet, gentle sentiment. Whispered low into the scarse stitch of space between them, yet no less terribly, viscerally earnest. He would if he only could. "The maester's too." But he cannot. The stupid old healer's dead, the guilty are untouchable and Silas' rage would serve Aemond poorly now. So he whispers. His fingers trail parallel beside the long angry-red scar, tender in their path, and he searches for words to soothe the sting of deeper hurts, knowing there are none.

He thinks of ugly rumors then, of subtle courtly-worded jabs and jeers of all manners that he's heard, things so far from the ugly, terribly truth; he thinks of years of suffering them. Oh, little can make up for wounds so raw and fresh, but all he has, he offers. Leans down and presses all the aching tenderness he feels for Aemond into a kiss to his fair brow, right where the scar has split it jaggedly. And lingers there, softly.

"Does it still hurt?"

kiss roulette // accepting

[moonstruckme]

Hi, I love the emt!marauders you post, I was wondering if u could write one that the reader has a chronic disease that involves getting sore when it's cold? Idk how to explain, I have lupus, and when it's cold, my joints tend to get sensitive and sore...so something with fluff/comfort, pls?

Thank you for requesting my love <3

cw: reader has unspecified chronic pain that flares up in the cold, I relied on the internet to write this so if anything seems wrong/inaccurate please let me know

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 887 words

Sirius is furious with himself for not checking the weather report. It’s so rare that you all have time off work on the same day, it’s possible you’d gotten ahead of yourselves in the excitement, but the sudden onset of winter wasn’t part of anyone’s plan. Even in Remus’ coat and tucked under James’ arm, you’ve gone quiet and withdrawn. Sirius can practically see you cringing with every step you take down the sidewalk. 

The other boys are similarly concerned.

“Let’s pop in here,” James suggests, maneuvering you all towards a bookstore. 

“Jamie,” you say, voice all sweetness even when it’s threaded through with exhaustion, “don’t go in somewhere you don’t want to just for me.” 

“Doll, I know how it might seem that way,” says Sirius, “but despite popular misconception, James actually can read.” 

You crack a smile, though it looks like it costs you. “Right, thanks, but we’re supposed to be out doing things we all like. If we went into a bookstore, you two would just end up sitting somewhere while Remus and I looked around.” 

“I like seeing you comfortable,” James says, somewhat poutily, “and I like buying you things. A bookstore is sounding rather enjoyable right now.” 

“Don’t you want to go inside?” Remus touches his knuckles gently underneath the butterfly-shaped rash on your cheeks that’s worsening due to the sun and cold. It’s not a terribly frigid day but the wind makes it worse, and however you try to act your boyfriends can see the toll it’s taking on you. “Even if it’s just for a while, it’ll be good to give yourself a break.” 

“Rem’s cold too,” Sirius says, noting the tension in the other boy’s posture now that he’s given up his coat, “aren’t you, lovely? C’mon, I know where we can go.” 

You don’t seem to have it in you to protest as Sirius leads you all down the block to the coffee shop around the corner. The heat is blasting inside. He finds you a table away from the door, where the cold breeze coming in can’t reach you and the whirring of the coffee grinders is less deafening. James insists on buying you each a warm beverage and a sweet (only you and Remus protest this; Sirius doesn’t know why you bother). 

“My poor girl,” Sirius murmurs, holding your frozen hands carefully in his. Remus’ coat pockets have done an insufficient job protecting them. Sirius devotes himself to rubbing warmth into each finger. 

“I think my drink would do as good a job of warming them up,” you say amusedly. 

“As good? I’m insulted.” 

“You know she really should be stretching her joints herself, love,” says Remus. 

“I do know,” Sirius replies primly, “thank you very much. It’s only that I’m very selfish.” 

Remus hums into his tea. “Selfish enough to let her drink go cold.” 

Sirius relents and lets you pick up your mug. You squeeze his hands thankfully before letting go. 

The windows at the front of the shop are foggy. It’s not cold enough yet for frost around the edges, but the mist gives the bustling street a blurred, wintry look, like the four of you are encapsulated in a warm snow globe scene, unmoving and separate from the outside world. Sirius finds it rather peaceful. 

“Did anyone bring ibuprofen?” James asks. 

You cringe sheepishly. “No, sorry. I forgot it at home.” 

“Don’t be sorry, lovie.” James palms the back of your neck, thumb rubbing soothingly. “Any of us could’ve thought of it. We’ll stop somewhere and grab a bottle.” 

“It never hurts to have extra,” Remus agrees before you can argue. 

“Okay,” you say, voice gone soft as it often does when you feel your boyfriends are taking too much notice of you. Sirius doesn’t understand your aversion to this in the slightest. “Thanks.” 

“It’s ungodly freezing out,” Sirius complains. “I move that we make a coffee shop stop every two blocks.” 

James’ face lights. “It could be like appetizer hopping—”

“But with pastries,” Sirius finishes. 

You don’t immediately argue, a promising sign. Remus appears to be warming to the idea as well. “We’d have to pace ourselves a bit more,” he points out, looking at your table cramped with plates and saucers. “Maybe at each place we pick one thing to share.” 

Sirius scoffs. “Suit yourself. I’m not splitting a muffin into four pieces and eating only one.” 

James looks as though he agrees, but he only says cheerily, “We’ll figure it out as we go. Does that sound good?” 

He poses the question to everyone, but they all know he’s really only asking you. Remus and Sirius give their assent quickly and you shrink a bit in your seat, embarrassed. 

“If it really doesn’t sound too inconvenient for you guys.” You lift one shoulder in a shrug. Sirius thinks with satisfaction that the motion looks easier than it might have when you first came in from the cold. “Then yeah, I’m alright with it.” 

“Oh, yes,” Sirius teases, “an afternoon spent enjoying coffee and pastries with the three most fetching people on the continent. I should really rethink this, it may be too inconvenient.” 

“Prick.” James elbows him and leans over to wrap an arm around you protectively, but your smile blooms, and that’s all Sirius wanted in the end.

[twola]

I’m back! After a road trip and some time off, here’s another little smut piece for you. I am also still working on requests, if you have one in!

Cleanliness and Godliness

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

One can’t write Arthur smut without using the overdone bathtub trope.

“Jesus Christ, Arthur.” You look at him with a pained expression - and he sheepishly stands in front of you in the alley - covered in mud, blood, and god knows what else.

The sweet smells and sights of Valentine after market day, of course. The sun had begun to set over the peaks of West Elizabeth in the distance.

“Ain’t me who started it.” The outlaw grumbles, taking his worn leather hat from his head and shaking flakes of drying mud off of it before slapping it back onto his head.

You cringe in disgust, seeing that he did not do a thorough job of cleaning the hat.

“C’mon. Let's get you a bath over at Saints.” You sigh, hitching up your skirts as you walk past him into the muddy street, stepping toward the one hotel in this cowtown the gang has stumbled into.

“Woman-”

“No. Don’t you woman me, Mister Morgan.” You turn around, dropping one side of your skirt and pointing at him with your finger, “You’re covered in horse shit. Take a damn bath. I don’t want you anywhere near me til you do.”

The man frowns, and you cross your arms over your chest with a loud humph. There’s even mud in his beard - his hair, everywhere.

“You go take a bath and I’ll get us a room tonight. How’s that for a proposition?” You say, tapping on the ground impatiently with your foot.

A smile starts to appear on his dirty face.

“A room, y’say?” He steps closer to you, at which you very quickly pedal backward before he can grab you.

“After,” you raise and lower your finger at his frame, “You go and clean yourself up. Got it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

You smile as you turn and gather your skirts from the muddy street and make your way to the hotel.

-

Arthur was a man of the outdoors. Riding and sleeping under the stars. Civilization be damned.

But he was not going to complain about how good this bath felt, water steaming hot, his muscles relaxing after a fight, his weary bones finally at rest.

He ran his bruised knuckles through the hot water, wincing slightly as the water burns a small spot of broken skin. Arthur was able to steal a glimpse of his face before stepping into the tub - his three-day-old beard was unable to hide the darkening bruise along his jaw.

The bastard got lucky with a swing, that was all.

The latch of the door slowly unlocks, and Arthur sits up in the bath, torn from his thoughts.

“Y’need some help in there?” A soft voice calls through the crack in the door.

He smiles, reclining again.

“Hmm, maybe.”

The door opens and a female figure slides in. You stand there with a playful smile on your face as Arthur greets you with one of his own.

“I don’t remember payin’ no wash girl.” Arthur drawls, turning his head toward you, a lazy, relaxed smile on his face as he leans back in the tub.

You close the door behind you quietly.

“On the house, Mister.” You smile at him as you start to unbutton your blouse, “Want me to give you the whole experience?”

Arthur raises his eyebrow, nodding dumbly as he sits up in the tub. You smile back at him, heart warmed, as you step closer to the tub.

Buttons thread through eyelets in the steamy room as your skin is bared to him, stripping your blouse and dropping it to the floor. Your chemise leaves little of your chest to the imagination, gauzy in the candlelight. The drapes on the windows are partially drawn, leaving the room in a dim hush.

“You sure are handsome, mister.” You laugh as you sit on the rim of the large iron tub, one of your hands landing on his shoulder and squeezing lightly. Your thumb works in a circle over his shoulder blade and he hums in appreciation.

“Then you must get some ugly fellers comin’ in here.”

You frown lightly before reaching down into the water and checking its temperature.

“Lemme get you cleaned up.”

You gather suds in your hand and stand up, leaning over the tub and him to reach his arm on the opposite side of you. Rubbing gently at his skin, you snicker to yourself as you notice where his gaze has settled: directly in front of him, where your chemise top hangs low and your breasts sway gently with your movements.

Arthur’s hand raises from the water, his fingers grasping at the lace trim of your chemise and slowly pulling it down as you lean over him, your breath stuttering slightly as the fabric brushes over your nipples before he frees one breast to the open air, only inches from his face.

You’ve stopped bathing him, your hand bracing yourself on the side of the tub as you lean over it, gooseflesh breaking out over your skin, even with the warmth of the steaming water beneath you.

Arthur looks up at you, for one moment, his fingers still on your chemise, wetness spreading out over the cotton and lace.

You’re throbbing between your thighs, wanting to lean further and press your sensitive nipple to his mouth - your breathing getting faster as he pulls at the neckline again, your other breast freed from the fabric.

He leans forward and blessedly takes one of your hardening, pebbled nipples into his mouth and sucks it with a gentle pull from his lips. His hand moves to the other breast, kneading it slowly alongside his slow suckles.

You cannot help but to whine aloud as you feel his tongue lave around your peaked skin, his rough and calloused fingers enclosing on the opposite one, gently squeezing to replicate the pressure of his mouth on your skin.

The water in the tub sloshes as he sits up further, pressing his face into your breasts even more as his other hand begins to work himself under the surface. You moan aloud as you steal a look over your shoulder, the soap-covered surface of the water breaking and you can see his hand stroking up and down his hardening length.

Your bloomers are damp as the fabric clings to your skin, the hand closest to you moving to press your fingers against yourself through layers of fabric, moaning needily aloud as Arthur sucks hard on your breast.

He’s panting underneath you, pulling away from your breast as his eyes trace your arm down to where you press against yourself fervently.

“Christ - get in here before I pull you in -” he rumbles out as he yanks your chemise up from your skirt, untucking it as you pull away and stand next to the tub. You quickly shuck it from your frame, pulling it over your head and tossing it to the floor as Arthur gazed upon your chest, your nipple damp and shiny with his saliva as you begin to untie your skirts.

You look up from untying your skirts to see Arthur laying back in the tub, languidly stroking his cock in the water, eyes trained on you, gaze unblinking. His mouth hangs open as he pants, and god, if he isn’t the most beautiful sight you’ve seen.

Finally, the knots are untied and you let the skirts pool at your feet, slipping your shoes off as your fingers dip into the waistband of your bloomers. You push them downwards, revealing to his hungry eyes the curve of your ilium, the starting of the dark thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs, until finally, those too pool at your feet.

He smiles up at you, the wonderful man, bruised cheek and all, and takes his hand from his cock to reach toward you, the warm bath water tracing down your skin as his thumb gently glides along your hip.

“C’mere, darlin’.”

You lean back over the tub to take his lips with yours, smiling into the kiss, before drawing back and lifting one of your legs to climb into the tub. His hands immediately clamp to your waist to pull you in, and with little further movement from you, you’re straddling him in the tub, lowering yourself into the warm water and settling astride his hips.

Both of your hands float southward, grasping his cock and he hisses in pleasure, his hips jutting upward in the tub against yours.

You raise up on your knees again, holding the base of his cock with one hand, while the other moves up his chest to his bruised cheek.

“You’re so handsome, even with half your face black and blue.” You whisper playfully into his lips before kissing him deeply.

He grunts back against you, “May wanna get your eyesight checked.”

You pout again for a moment, biting your tongue as the thought flees your mind. Arthur is slowly, gently pulling your hips down onto him. You take the hint and press your hips downward.

“Oh, oh-”, you whine as you lower yourself onto him, his cock carving out that space in you that you always long to have filled, “God, Arthur, you're so good.”

Your hands fly to the lip of the tub behind his head as he pulls you down all the way, the stretch of him always painfully sweet.

“You’re the o-only one I want.” You gasp as you bottom out, your rear landing on his thigh.

“Terrible judgment you’ve got there.” Arthur laves his tongue across your earlobe with his hands spread over your hips as you move yours to his shoulders.

“I love you.” You whine against his temple as you roll your hips once, and the groan of pleasure that escapes his lips is the only reply he can give for several moments.

The sound of water sloshing fills the room alongside heavy panting and barely concealed moans.

“Christ, woman-” Arthur juts his hips upward, turning his head inward to catch your earlobe again, “I love you so damn much.” He groans into your ear and you mewl, leaning backward to take more of him.

His lips return to your breast, sucking at your nipple as you roll your hips over his in the tub, both of his hands sure on your waist, aiding in your movement. You whine as you feel him start to buck his hips up in time, meeting you with thrusts that force him deeper, deeper into your tight cunt.

“Arthur-” You cry out, head falling back as you come, muscles seizing and cunt clenching hard around him. He grunts in response and continues thrusting up into you, his mouth hanging open as the water sloshes up the side of the tub.

You’re coming down from your high when you return to him, gasping like a fish out of water as he fucks up into you, your forehead pressing against his as your fingers curl around the lip of the tub again.

His teeth grit, trying to suppress a moan as his powerful arms move you, pulling your hips up and off of him as he closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose, and looking at the reddening of his chest and the noises he’s trying to stifle, you know he’s coming in the warm water.

He comes down from his high panting, cheeks and chest flushed from both exertion and the bath water. You press your forehead against his and smile, breathing heavily yourself.

Your hands move from the lip of the tub to cup his cheeks, and you lean down once again to press your lips to his, which he heartily accepts. Your tongues press against each other sweetly, his arms tight around your waist. Nothing could ruin this moment.

Unless…

“You need some help in there, mister?”

Normally, the girls have the sense to wait for a response, but for god knows what reason, this one simply unlatches the door and begins to step in.

“Oh!” The girl’s eyes widen as you move to cover your breasts, crying out as Arthur sits up and draws you into his embrace, one hand around your back and the other tucking you into his shoulder.

“No- no, ‘m fine.” Arthur grits out, trying to move to cover you decently.

After a moment of recovery, the bath girl groans and rolls her eyes, pulling the door shut as she grumbles under her breath.

“Ain’t they supposed to wait until you tell them to come in?” You grit into his shoulder, arms still wrapped around your chest, as you sit up, warily eyeing the door.

Arthur shrugs, one finger moving under your chin and pulling you back toward him.

“Well, we know she ain’t coming back anytime soon.”

[hatsukeii]

hiii mootie congrats on the 900!!!

would love to play the guitar ^^,,, i'm thinking a first aid ear mic and a wound-kiss guitar pic.

A little birdie's told me that Denji's my biggest fan <3 (Don't tell the birdie I'm his biggest fan though bc it's a snitch)

("Did it take u this long to come up with something" Shhh shh shhhh... let's focus on u reaching 900 followers 😋🫶🏽 again CONGRATS !!!! u deserve them all mootie ur writing is so yummy ily and your creations)

oooo sick!! the band you've joined is...

kiss it right! / denji x reader

genre(s): fluff + crack!! reader is nonchalant + tired of his bs, denji not so much (he's so annoying your honour i love him i fear...) injury, kiss it better fic! giggles! blushing! kicking my feet like a teenage girl!!

warning(s): injury so blood and pain ig, heavy on the needles because reader is giving him sutures, also ik denji is a bit of a pussy which is a bit ooc but he's supposed to be super weakened after a fight so it makes a little more sense that he's really sensitive to pain here

wc: ~1.1k

your first gig is in... an ambulance?!

setlist:

🎵 someday, the strokes

🎵 calling after me, wallows

🎵 kiss her you fool, kids that fly

"Quit squirming so much, I'm not done yet!"

Denji hates stitches. You know it by the way he wriggles and tenses up with every contact the needle makes with his skin, and how he just refuses to stay still the second he sees the thread of dread. Frustrated, you smack the front of Denji's knee, a signal for him to stay still, but you hit a nerve and his leg jerks up reflexively instead, his shoe coming dangerously close to your chin. You drop the needle and thread in your hand at his sudden movement, and a groan sounds from your throat.

"Shit. Didn’t mean to do that, sorry Denji."

Denji sulks, bottom lip jutting out in an annoyed pout. Everything rattles and shakes as the ambulance rolls past a speed bump, and he almost wishes he was the one unconscious on the stretch instead of Aki. He watches you yank at the end of a spool of thread, and loop it through the head of a new needle. Your tongue pokes out from your pursed lips, holding the needle impossibly close to your face as your pinched fingers jab and poke at it. Your brows furrow in concentration, leading the thread through and tying it in place. When you reach over to grab another alcohol swab, Denji shrugs inwards again, and you take notice of his shift in posture when you turn back to see his legs crossed.

"Denji..."

"Sorry, you know I hate needles." The sole of his sooty sneaker lies on the bloody gash on his shin, and you wipe a film of sweat off your forehead with the back of your forearm.

"You'll give yourself sepsis like that."

"I dunno what that is." He mumbles, head hanging low to watch blood pool out from the torn flesh of his leg. Sepsis. That sounds bad, but not as bad as watching a needle sink into his skin, and come out on the other side.

"C'mon, you trust me, right? I make it better, every time." Denji knows you're right, so he nods, hugging his legs against his chest instead.

"Put the bad leg back down, and let me fix you up, okay?"

The ambulance makes another jolt when he lowers his leg over the edge of the seat. Cold, stinging cotton wipes at the blood that has dried around the gash, and Denji has to grip the seat until his knuckles go white to stop himself from whining. When he sees the needle reappear in your hands, he keeps reminding himself that this could, very well, all be worth the pain in the end. If he's lucky.

You slather numbing cream on the swollen flesh around his gash, before pulling the thread taut in preparation, and aligning the tip of the needle with the bottom of the wound.

"I'm trying to set a personal record, so stay still."

"What's your current record?"

"Minute and a half." You don't look up from the gash when you respond to him, not even as Denji whistles, impressed. You breathe in, eyes darting to the digital clock on the dashboard of the ambulance, and slide the needle through one side of the gash. Denji's leg tenses in his efforts to stay impossibly still, even as the thread runs back and forth through his skin over, and over, and over again. Your eyes squint, face inching closer to his bare shin as you pull the thread tight, and the split flesh comes together with ease. You look at the digital clock again, fingers twisting and tugging quickly to tie off the suture.

"Close, minute and thirty-three. Maybe next time."

When you chuck the needle out into a medical wastebin and look up, Denji is staring down at you, a grin plastered on his face. You roll your eyes as you rip the latex gloves off your clammy hands, sighing out in exasperation. He wiggles his eyebrows, pointing at the stitches on his shin.

"Don't even try."

"But I swear it works!" Denji beams like a puppy seeing its owner for the first time in years. You stand and turn away, pulling the elastic from your hair and letting it fall freely. It covers your red ears, and that's good enough.

"I'm not giving a fresh suture a kiss, Denji."

"You say that every time! I'm sure you've seen worse, right?"

He's right, you have seen worse, but that is the extent of it. Kissing a fresh wound is, quite literally, the textbook definition of immature. And unhygienic. You turn back to look at Denji, who is still pointing at his shin expectantly, and is still pleading with that stupid look on his face. He looks a little too excited for somebody who's just had his leg stitched back together.

"I guess you were good enough today."

Kneeling down again, you meet the sutures on his leg, dried blood gathering around the surface of the thread. You sigh, reaching behind for another alcohol swab, and wipe over the wound once, twice, then a third time. Denji kicks his feet merrily, but stops when his shoe almost hits you in the nose, and you send a piercing glare towards him. Holding his calf with both hands, you bring his shin towards your face, the warm breaths from your nose fanning over his skin.

When you finally, for the first time, press a kiss into Denji's wound, he giggles like a schoolgirl, and you feel a wave of heat rush from your ears to your cheeks.

"If I see you pick the sutures out again like last time, you're never getting another one, you hear me?" You pull the mask that has been sitting on your chin up to your nose, pinching it tight against your nose bridge. The mask conceals half of your face, and Denji sniffs in annoyance when he loses sight of your lips. What neither of you notice is the elastic of the mask pushing your hair behind your ears, and exposing the hot pink tips of them.

"It'll heal twice as quickly now, thanks to that."

"That's not how it works, but sure. Whatever keeps you happy, Denji."

The ambulance comes to a sudden stop, and everything inside jolts forward. You sling Denji's arm around your shoulder, holding him up as he limps off the vehicle and towards the hospital entrance. The wound barely feels like anything. In fact, he could probably walk like normal.

Someday, maybe Denji won't have to ask you to kiss his wounds better. Someday, Denji might even get a kiss without having to get hurt. But for now, Denji thinks that he'll keep pretending that the stitches hurt, so long as it gets you to kiss him.

author's note:

I am acc so ASS at writing full fluff scenarios bc tell me why this was only 1.1k words... I HOPE YOU LIKED IT THO POOKIE!!! i made sure to make denji extra whiny and extra annoying just for u <3 i love him your honour even though he's a little bitch sometimes he's my baby

anyways tags!!

@chuuya-brainrot @staraxiaa @catsoupki @akaakeis @anqelfries @wishi-selfships @fiannee @bailey-reeds @kuroppiii @wyrcan @hiraethwa @stars-tonight

anyways love u guys bye bye see u soon…

[whisperingthorns]

(Yandere Ticci Toby x Reader)

Charmed by Shadows:

Chapter 2: Threads of Fate

(Y/n) (L/n) was a quiet girl. For the most part anyway. She had learned every early on that people in general preferred her that way. Watered down so they wouldn't choke too easily. In the woods though, that was her escape, she didn’t have to water herself down for the animals and the trees, they just let her do whatever. She could sit and stare at nothing and they wouldn’t even mind. Today had been a rough day, and even though she really shouldn’t go when the sun was beginning to set, she just needed that breath of fresh air to make sense of her head.

So off she went, but something had been bothering her increasingly that even the birds and the trees weren’t helping. She felt watched. By something by someone? She desperately just wanted to brush it off like the first couple of times.

She always had a sense of paranoia she never shared with anyone. How she was convinced that there was a shadow man who followed her ever since she was 10 years old, and when she moved to a new house it took him a minute to find her, but when he did he was in the crevices. Peeking at her between the furniture, the cracks of the closet. Those were just crazy thoughts she had! She didn’t believe them. This felt different than the shadow man though. This felt *physical*, it felt *real*.

At first, she thought it was a bear, then a fox maybe? The bear was more concerning she did live in Maine after all with the largest black bear population in the United States. Having said that she avoided her little spot for a couple of days until she felt it in public too. This was crazy though right? However (Y/n) (L/n) was a fan of horror movies and true crime, and every victim of a stalked case real or fictional started with ‘*Maybe I’m just crazy!*’ She so didn’t wanna be that person.

Her gut was telling her something was wrong, and (Y/n), knew better than to doubt herself. For now, though she just needed some peace. Her finger brushed the weathered wood of the bench she sat down on, she closed her eyes and tilted her head up, letting the cool breeze and the scent of dirt calm her. No. The hairs on her arm stood. No. She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t crazy! There it was the feeling again! There was- *CRRRRRRRAAAACK*. What was that noise? She looked around a bit alarmed at such a loud sound. When she saw it was nothing she relaxed slightly. It happened again. *CRRRRRRAAAACK*. Like wood grinding on wood.

A few feet away, Toby gripped the tree bark, his knuckle white. He had been observing her for weeks and finally reached a conclusion: She was the girl from his dreams. She had to be. It felt almost unreal, seeing her so close after all those weeks of silent observation.

Whatever sick god above was maybe offering something and sending those dreams as a message. Maybe he was being given a gift for all the pain he had been through. A pretty Angel to protect and love. His little angel~ ‘*Don’t worry.*’ He thought. ‘*I’ll take such good care of you,* *promise*.’

This wasn’t like the dreams. She was real, sitting there in the fading light, and for a moment, everything seemed frozen in time. *CRRRRRAAAAACK*! Then, suddenly, she stood up, hearing a distant rumble. Her eyes widened as a loose tree branch, weakened by the wind, cracked and snapped, falling directly toward her.

Toby’s body reacted before his mind did. He lurched from the shadows, darting out just in time to shove her out of the way, the branch crashing down where she had been only moments before. She gasped, her body hitting the ground with a soft thud, startled by the impact.

Her eyes found him—wild, disheveled, and breathing hard. The adrenaline coursing through his veins made his expression even more intense, a stark contrast to the fleeting sense of safety she'd felt a second ago.

‘*Fuckfuckfuckfuckdfuckfuck*!’ Toby thanked whatever twisted god was above that he had gone into town, so he wasn’t wearing his goggles and mask, he was wearing his bandage and his clean sweater, oh god did he even remember to brush his hair?! Whatever he looked like, he knew it wasn’t a proxy and for that, he was grateful.

"Are y-you oh-okay?" Toby asked, voice low and uneven. His words felt almost foreign to him like he hadn't spoken to anyone in years. He kept his gaze on her, lingering a little too long. He hated the way his voice cracked.

She nodded slowly, her heart still racing, but there was something about him—a roughness, an edge—that made her wary. He had saved her, but there was something... unsettling. His eyes never quite met hers for long, and yet they never left her either. What was haunting those amber eyes?

"Thank you... for saving me," she whispered. They were still for a second, Toby on top of her in the middle of the woods. He had underestimated how good those beautiful (e/c) looked up close. He had never been close enough to *smell* her. *‘Like vanilla and strawberries.*’ He thought. Classic some might even consider it basic, but Toby found it enchanting. Simple. Just like her.

“Ah, you can…get off me now.” She said quietly as if scared of being rude. “Oh! Ri-right!” He scrambled off and helped her up, she brushed dirt off her dress when she stood. Toby stepped back slightly, hands clenched at his sides. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. For him, this moment wasn’t about her gratitude; it was about the fact that he’d finally broken the barrier between them. Now, she knew him. She’d remember this meeting, this fateful encounter. And so would he.

“…Hello?” She looked a little concerned. “Huh?” He blinked stupidly. “Your name, I was asking your name.” Toby had a tic, and his neck gave a gross cracking noise, but he remained unfazed, the girl, however, widened her eyes slightly and seemed a bit taken aback, before realizing she was being rude and gave a smile, putting her hands together to hold her bag instead.

“T-Toby.” “Toby.” She repeated. If Toby could have melted into the earth and stayed in a blissful stupor right then and there he would’ve. He never really liked his name. Not for any particular reason it was just…him. His name. He didn’t even like that his proxy name was still his name. Not that ‘Masky’ or ‘Hoodie’ was any better, but it still separated Tim and Brian from what they did. For Toby, it was always just that: Toby. No separation. No escape from the guilt that came with it. (In his opinion he rather be called Toby than something stupid like ‘Jeff the killer’…. no offense Jeff. Actually, all offense. All offense meant.)

But when (Y/n) said it, it sounded wonderful. He wanted her to say it again and again and again. While she cried, while she was happy, when she was nervous and looking for comfort, while he was pleasing her, while in passing. Toby sounded wonderful in that voice.

“Hello?” He spaced out again. “Oh I’m s-sorry, I’m t-tired.” She nodded in understanding. “What's your name?” He asked since it would be rude not to. “(Y/n)” Toby and (Y/n) it sounded right. Sounded good.

“I didn’t realize someone came this deep into the path…since it's overgrown and all, what are you doing here Toby?” Mmmmmmmm say his name again. *Please*. “I live down th-there.” He waved off down the path in a vague direction. “J-just bought the pl-place.” (Y/n) nodded to show she was listening, that polite smile on her face.

“*Oooh*! I think that makes us neighbors! As close as can be anyway. There is no one nearby the house. It's been through some reworking but it is quite old…it’s a bit of a walk to town. Occasionally we get joggers and stuff because of the nature trail but they don’t go in this far and it seems every once in a while maybe we could-”

Toby wasn’t listening, just watching the way the gold of the sunset reflected in her face and eyes. The way she animated herself when she spoke. The way her voice rang in his ears. God, when did he get so mushy? It's okay because it's her, the princess from his dreams, and she never cared about what he did in the dreams so that must be true in real life too right? Toby felt himself relax…he felt his mind…calm to the sound of her voice.

Her phone went off and she pulled it out. “oh gosh that’s my mom, she probably like needs help with something so I have to go but oh! Since we are technically neighbors now, let's give you my number!” She grabbed his hand and quickly scribbled it down without asking, she paused after realizing what she had done. Her face darkening. “Oh gosh I’m sorry I wasn’t-” Toby grabbed her hand. “T-tis’ fine.” He smiled slightly. She smiled back for a second. Was that smile just for him? Or did she give it to everyone she met? “See you around Toby!”

As she walked away, Toby remained rooted in place, eyes fixed on the spot where she had stood. His breathing came in uneven gasps, his mind swirling with thoughts that tangled together like a knot tightening in his chest.

‘*She wasn’t afraid of me.*’

For the first time in as long as he could remember, someone had looked at him—spoken to him—as if he was human. He wasn’t the freak. He wasn’t the monster people whispered about online, the “broken” boy who would forever be a shadow in the woods. No, to her, he had been something else.

*Her protector.*

His heart raced at the thought, and he felt something twist inside him—something dark, but deeply satisfying. She was different from everyone else. She smiled at him and spoke to him like he mattered. No one had done that for years. Maybe ever.

‘*She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.*’

He clenched his fists as his mind spiraled deeper, convincing himself of this new truth. All those nights he’d watched her from afar, listened to her sing, followed her through the woods—this was meant to happen. The princess from his dreams was real, and now, she was tied to him in ways she couldn’t even imagine. He saved her for a reason. She *needed* him, even if she didn’t realize it yet.

‘*She’s destined for me.*’

In his mind, he could still see the way her hand reached out to him, that simple gesture burning into his thoughts. She had touched the darkness and wasn’t afraid. That meant something. It had to.

Toby’s breath quickened as his feelings and curiosity morphed into something more. No longer was he just an invisible watcher. No longer was she some distant fantasy. She was real now, and she belonged to him. His princess. His light in the dark.

And if she ever tried to walk away? **Well, he wouldn’t let her.**

⦻

Tobias Rogers was late. Late late late. After maintaining his mission, he threw on his shoes, hopped on one foot, and headed out the door, quickly making his way into town. After searching the area he knew she would be he breathed a sigh of relief, seeing her sip a coffee, and look around for someone. Perhaps she wanted to see him?

She was looking especially cute today, with her phone held loosely in her hand. She was humming a tune as she walked. Toby paused when she did, he already knew her routine pretty well even if this wasn’t the forest path she liked so much but instead the pavements of the small town of Ravenwood. Knew exactly when she would stop, when she would pause, and where she would sit. She seemed to get distracted by some chalk art on the sidewalk.

She examined it, and once she was satisfied Tobias watched as she moved along. She liked to see the drawings the local children seemed to leave around on the dry sunny days. Until the rain washed it away and she could see a new one. This one was of a big pine tree, and a couple stick figures holding hands. One is much taller than the other.

Toby heard a slight clatter of plastic against concrete. He whipped his head over to his darling and noticed she dropped her phone, but she kept walking, not noticing. Oh dear. His Angel did need his help to keep a watchful eye on her. Tsk tsk. Well, he would just have to return it to her and strike up more conversation. It was only right. He could just text her but Toby had spent all night typing and retyping his message on the phone he had. (The one he would destroy after the mission.) But he added her contact to it, as a little treat to himself. He never did send that message…never mind that now. Toby took a step forward towards the phone and suddenly a figure passed his vision, scooping it up. “Hey (Y/n)!” A voice called out. “You dropped this!”

***Who the fuck was this guy?!***

A tall man, with skin that was almost a golden brown, and a more muscular build passed Toby. He had dark curly brown hair, and Toby couldn’t quite see his face. Toby put his head down and walked a little closer, thankful that the parks had tall bushes and fences as he pretended to check a text on his phone, Toby peeked.

*‘Please be ugly. Please be ugly. Please be ugly’*

The man was not by any means ugly. ‘*FUCK!’* Toby cursed in his head. He had a sculpted face, with intense gray eyes and just a bit of stubble. His eyebrows hung heavy, giving his eyes a more serious look, but when he smiled the man radiated warmth. He was the kind of guy you saw on the cover of romance novels.

“Oh gosh! Thanks, Kai! I didn’t even notice!” You plucked the phone from your friend. You gave him a warm smile. “Haven’t seen you in a while!” Kai’s eyes shifted away playfully. “Ah you know, been busy.”

Toby was grinding his teeth not even minding that the taste of blood flooded his mouth. His pulse picked up. He wanted to leap over the fence and shrubbery rip the phone away and shove ‘Kai’ into the street in hopes he’d get hit by a bus. Kai shoved into your shoulder gently, in a playful way. “You! Missy! Should be more careful! What if I wasn’t around to save your phone huh?”

(Y/n) laughs lightly, the sound like a knife in Toby’s ears. He can’t stand it—this boy, trying to get close to *his princess.*

From the shadows, Toby’s fingers twitch. His thoughts swirl with a sudden violent urge. 'He doesn't belong here. He shouldn’t be near her. ‘*She’s mine’*

This ‘Kai’ wasn’t in any of Toby’s dreams about (Y/n) therefore he was an anomaly. ‘*What do we do with anomalies?*’ He practically heard Masky whispering in his ear, shoving his hatchet in his hands. But Toby’s hatchets were miles away, and it was broad daylight and Masky was states away (Thankfully. Toby hated the guy even if he was helpful) He would just have to settle for sulking as Kai grabbed (Y/n)’s hand and playfully led her away somewhere to ‘hang out’. Toby knew he should follow, but the timer on his phone went off. He had something else he needed to take care of.

⦻

Toby slammed his hatchet into the body, blood spattering his face. His victim screamed, but he quickly shut them up with another blow, using his foot to dislodge the weapon.

*‘Who does he think he is’*

He landed another blow, blood spattering over the fresh clothes he had so carefully washed the precious blood out of just to run into (Y/n).

‘*Touching her*’

He thought back to Kai’s stupid smile standing too close to her, touching her phone. His mind swirled with a flood of emotions he couldn’t quite name, but they burned like fire in his chest. Tobias Rogers couldn’t feel pain but *this*! *THIS HE COULD FUCKING FEEL*!

He hadn’t anticipated this. He had watched (Y/n) for weeks now, carefully planning every moment he'd interact with her. *She was his.* Every breath she took, every step she made, Toby had been there. *Watching. Protecting.* Not this idiot, not Kai.

Toby’s breath hitched. He didn’t want to hear her laugh at something *he* said. She shouldn’t be looking at anyone else like that. His stomach twisted, and in the deep part of his brain, the voices whispered *she wasn’t meant for Kai.*

*No.*

The thought was like a sharp blade cutting through his mind. She was his princess, not Kai’s, not anyone’s. Toby had already decided—she belonged to him. The dreams told him so. *Fate* told him so. And he’d saved her once already. He was her protector, her savior.

But now? This boy was trying to get between them.

Toby could feel himself twitching uncontrollably, his hatchet frozen in hand staring at his work. Their face was unrecognizable. Completely mutilated by Toby’s hands. (And hatchets)

He imagined Kai that way now.

*I could kill him. Go there. Find where he lives. Right here. Right now. Snap his neck and leave him in the dirt. It would be so easy...*

His breath quickened. The image of Kai’s body crumpled at (Y/n)’s feet danced in his head, and for a moment, a cold, twisted smile flickered across his lips. He could almost hear her crying out, could almost picture the fear in her eyes. And after...after she’d see him. She’d know what he did. She’d know how far he’d go for her.

*Would she hate me?*

That thought broke through the haze, piercing the dark fantasies brewing in his mind. No. He couldn’t scare her away. Not yet. Not until she understood—*they* were meant to be together. He had to be smart. Patient. She just didn’t know the truth yet.

But soon enough, she would.

He slammed the hatchet over and over. Pretending it was Kai he was chopping up, pretending that every splash of warm blood now drying to his skin was him reclaiming his angel's heart. Picturing her smiling face as she saved her from that *monster*. ‘*He just wants to use you*’ he’d say to her in their little spot.

***SLAM***.

‘*But I won’t! I love you just the way you are Princess!*’

***SLAM.***

‘*I know, Toby.*’ She kissed his cheek. ‘*Thank you for reminding me.*’ She giggled. ‘*And for rescuing me. What would I do without you?*’

***SLAM.***

He could practically see her, in her golden light, holding onto him. Her savior. Looking up with those big beautiful gorgeous (e/c) eyes. That was

**Pouring blood?**

*Huh?*

“Toby” You rasped to him. Your skin, no longer beautiful and (s/c) now rotting, your thin dangly arms reaching for his face, blood poured from your mouth. Your eyes are the black pits of hell. “Toby I’m rotting.” You croaked. “WHAT THE HELL?!” He kicked away but you gripped onto his ankle. “Why did you do this to me, Toby…” You practically sobbed. “Stop…no...DONT LEAVE ME HERE!” You screeched. Your bones cracked as you crawled towards him.

Toby backed up against a tree, shaking his head frantically and hyperventilating. You were contorting in horrific ways, the pretty dress you wore was nothing but rags. Toby buried his face in his sleeves and he felt you come closer. “TOBY!” He started to sob. Feeling you come even closer and crack as you move unnaturally. Suddenly he heard you stop, but he remained in the fetal position. Sobbing into his sleeves that were covered in blood. Praying it would end.

⦻

It must have been hours before Toby even moved. He had stopped crying long ago but that didn’t stop the fear. The sickening fear crawled up his throat. When it finally faded he looked around, realizing the episode was over. The dead, mangled body of one of his targets lay a could feet away. Already rotting as flies and bugs came to investigate. He saw his hatchets dropped by them. He shakily stood and grabbed them, hooking them onto his hips and looking down at the body. He sniffled and wiped his nose with his thumb.

He gave a slight hiccup from crying and began to drag the body off…

🌹: Hi Hi! Hope you enjoyed reading. Be sure to let me know what you think it really helps motivate me to write more.

Next chapter will be released: Friday October 4th!

Let me know how you feel about asking questions or doing asks I would love to know if that’s a thing you guys would like. I’m thinking it would be more of a ‘Ask Toby’ kinda thing where you guys non canonically (if that’s how you spell it) ask him questions as just something funny to do in between chapters or if you just want one shots or something that’s fine too <3

Also let me know if you guys would be into ‘previews’ like getting just a little peek at the next chapter, but if not and you wanna be surprised by everything let me know!

I hope you have a nice day darlings.

⚠️You might be wondering why I’m posting this two days early and that is because a bad bad hurricane is coming :( idk if I’ll have power so I wanted to make sure you guys got your chapter two! Thanks for all the love on the first one it means alot! So enjoy the early upload!

[ruewrote]

𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑖 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒.

PAIRING: josh washington x fem!reader WARNINGS: breaking down, no use of y/n GENRE: angst SONG INSPIRATION: the beach by the neighbourhood WORD COUNT: 733 NOTE: he never did the pranks in this

navigation | ask | josh washington masterlist

the lake is still, the surface like glass, reflecting the muted gray of the overcast sky. you and josh sit on an old wooden dock, your legs dangling over the edge, the water lapping quietly beneath you.

the lodge is far behind, the distance giving you both a sense of isolation, a place where the weight of everything can’t press down quite as hard. but here, surrounded by the stillness, you could feel josh’s pain radiating off him, even though he hasn’t said a word.

his hands were clenched into fists in his lap, knuckles white, you could see the tension in his body, the way he’s holding himself together by a thread. you’ve been sitting here for a while, letting the silence stretch out, waiting for him to speak.

finally, he exhales, his breath shaky. “this was one of their favorite places, you know?” his voice is soft, almost fragile, like he was afraid of breaking the quiet around you.

you turn to look at him, your heart aching at the vulnerability in his expression. his eyes were fixed on the water, but you can tell he’s not really looking at it. he’s somewhere else, somewhere in the past.

“beth and hannah,” he continues, his voice growing quieter. “we used to come here all the time when we were kids. they loved it… i used to bring them down here to get away from everything, you know? away from the stress, the bullshit… i thought this place would have kept us safe.”

the weight of his words settles heavily between you. you reach out, placing your hand gently on his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles. “josh… you couldn’t have known.”

he flinched slightly at your touch, but he didn't pull away. instead, he shakes his head, letting out a bitter, broken laugh. “i should’ve. i should’ve done something. i should’ve been there for them, but i wasn’t. i… i didn’t protect them.”

his voice cracks on the last word, you can feel the flood of emotions he’s been holding back threatening to break through. his hands tremble, he clenches them tighter, as if trying to keep himself from falling apart.

“i still hear them sometimes,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “when i close my eyes… i can hear them calling out for me. asking why i didn’t help them. why i let them die.”

you tighten your grip on his arm, your heart breaking at the pain in his voice. “josh, it wasn’t your fault. you couldn’t have known what was going to happen to them.”

he shakes his head again, more forcefully this time, tears welling up in his eyes. “but i should’ve been there! i should’ve stopped them from going out that night. i should’ve… i should’ve been a better brother.”

his voice cracks again, and the tears spill over, sliding down his cheeks. he quickly wipes them away, almost like he’s ashamed to let you see him like this. but you don’t let go. you move closer, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“it’s not your fault,” you whisper against his shoulder, your own voice thick with emotion. “you loved them. you did everything you could.”

for a moment, he’s still, like he’s not sure whether to let himself break. but then, slowly, he leans into you, his body trembling as the sobs finally break free. he cries into your shoulder, his grief raw and unrestrained, years of guilt and pain pouring out of him.

you hold him tight, whispering soft reassurances as he lets it all out, the weight of his loss finally too much to bear alone.

“i miss them so much,” he chokes out between sobs. “i’d do anything to bring them back.”

your heart aches for him, and you tighten your arms around him, holding him as close as you can. “i know,” you whisper. “i know. but you’re not alone. i’m here, and i’m not going anywhere.”

for the first time in a long while, you feel him relax into your arms, the tension in his body slowly releasing as he lets himself grieve. you stay there for a long time, sitting on the dock, the stillness of the lake surrounding you both. and though the pain of his loss will never truly go away, tonight, at least, 

he doesn’t have to carry it alone anymore.

comments and reblogs are appreciated ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

© ruewrote 2024.

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

Chill - Felix

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❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆

The evening sky had settled into deep hues of lilac and orange as it snowed, the colors spilling through the large windows of your new boyfriend's apartment, painting the room with a quiet sparkle that felt like tangible magic.

You sat curled up on the couch, your knees tucked close to your chest as you held onto a well-worn book, though the words on the page blurred and melted together. Your mind wasn’t on the story at all - it wandered back to a time when you thought love was something to be feared, something fleeting that left more scars than joy.

The weight of that past, that heartbreak, still lingered in the quiet spaces of your mind. It wasn't always easy to shake, especially when you had given so much of yourself to someone who had carelessly discarded your heart. Something that needed to end. A horrendous love that you thought would be the end of everything. The catalyst to your hope of a future with a happy family and kids.

But that was before Felix - before the golden warmth of his presence gently and patiently coaxed you out of the coldness you had wrapped around yourself for protection.

You shifted slightly as you heard the soft padding of his footsteps behind you.

Felix.

He always moved like that, as if afraid to disrupt the peace he so carefully cultivated around you. It was one of the countless things you cherished about him - his gentleness, the way he made you feel seen and understood without having to explain every inch of the pain you carried.

"Hey," his voice was low, laced with that comforting Australian drawl that never failed to make you feel safe. He came over and sat beside you, close but not too close, giving you the space you needed, but letting you know he was there. Always there.

You set the book down, turning to face him, meeting his gaze. His brown eyes, deep and full of understanding, searched yours. You didn’t need to say anything for him to know what you were feeling. Felix had a way of reading your silences, of catching the unsaid things and holding them with the same tenderness he held you.

It's as if he knew you better than those who had known you their entire life. As if he had already spent an eternity with you.

"Rough day?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the stillness of the moment.

You nodded, swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat. It had been one of those days where the weight of your past heartbreak pressed down on you harder than usual, making it difficult to breathe, to think. Even though you were here, with Felix, in a relationship that was steady, beautiful, and safe, some part of you still clung to the pain of what had been.

Sometimes quiet moments like this sparked you thinking of what you had once believed to be forever. And it filled you with a gnawing guilt - as if you were betraying the boy who had recently confessed his love.

Deep down you knew you weren't- you loved Felix.

It was just the fear of losing that loved that continuously brought up the scenario that showed you losing a love like this was possible.

"It’s hard sometimes," you finally whispered, your voice cracking just a little. "To forget. To let it go."

Felix’s expression softened, and without a word, he reached out and took your hand, his fingers weaving through yours, warm and steady. It was such a simple gesture, yet it grounded you, reminded you of where you were - of who you were with.

"I know," he murmured, bringing your intertwined hands up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. "But you don’t have to let it go all at once. It’s okay to feel this way. Healing takes time."

His thumb gently brushed over the back of your hand, soothing, reassuring. You could feel the tension that had been coiling inside you slowly begin to unravel like thread. Felix had that effect on you - he never pushed, never demanded more than you were ready to give. He simply loved you as you were, with all your flaws, scars, and fragile moments.

"Felix…" your voice trailed off, unsure of what you wanted to say. How could you explain the overwhelming gratitude you felt for him? For the way he had become your safe haven, your place of healing, after you had convinced yourself that love wasn’t meant for you? How could you put into words the way his love had seeped into the cracks of your broken heart, mending them with quiet patience?

"I’m here," he said softly, as if he understood everything without you having to say it. "I’m not going anywhere."

You smiled, a small but genuine one, and without a second thought, you scooted closer to him. He met your gaze, a soft question in his eyes, and you nodded.

Felix hesitated for only a second before shifting and curling up into your lap, his movements gentle as he rested his head against your thigh. His hair, soft and dyed golden, brushed against your skin as he nuzzled into you, finding the perfect spot where he could feel both comforted and comforting. He sighed quietly, the sound full of contentment, and it filled your chest with warmth.

You instinctively ran your fingers through his hair, combing through the silky strands as you marveled at how natural it felt to have him here like this. The intimacy of the moment, the way Felix tucked himself into you like he belonged there, eased the ache that had been lingering in your heart all day. With each soft stroke of your fingers through his hair, you could feel the weight of your past lifting, even if only a little.

"I love you." Felix murmured against your thigh; his voice muffled but full of sincerity. His fingers gently wrapped around your free hand, tracing small, absentminded patterns on your palm.

Tears stung your eyes at the tenderness of his words, at the quiet love he gave so effortlessly. It had been so long since you had felt this kind of love - a love that was gentle and patient, a love that didn’t demand anything of you but your presence. And with Felix, you had found it again.

In his presence, you found out that even a heart once broken could find its way to healing, and with him, you found the strength to believe in love again.

"I love you too," you whispered, your voice cracking just a little from the emotion swelling inside you. "I’m so lucky to have you."

Felix tilted his head up slightly, his cheek resting against your thigh as he smiled, a soft, boyish grin that made your heart flutter. "I’m the lucky one," he said, his voice quiet but firm, as if he truly believed it. "You’ve been through so much, but you still chose to let me in. Thank you."

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, and Felix noticed immediately, his expression softening. He reached up, brushing it away with the pad of his thumb before leaning up to press a gentle kiss to your hand. His lips lingered there for a moment, warm and comforting, before he settled back down, his head resting on your lap once more.

"You don’t have to be afraid anymore," he said softly, his words melting into the quiet of the room. "I’ll be here, every step of the way. We’ll heal together."

His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, and you believed them.

Felix’s love was soft, unwavering, and exactly what you needed to start mending the pieces of yourself that had been shattered by your past.

You rested your hand on his cheek, gently stroking the soft skin there as he curled deeper into your lap. In the stillness of the moment, with Felix’s steady presence grounding you, you allowed yourself to breathe, to let go just a little more.

And as the evening light faded into the soft glow of twilight, you realized that in Felix’s arms, you had found something you hadn’t thought possible - the strength to believe in love once more.

❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆

@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha

@iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric

@panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee

@shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin

@whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun

@ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael

@skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads

@jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld

@kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9

@minsungsthirdwheel @everlastingspring143 @joyofbebbanburg

@leezanetheofficial @tr-mha-fan @bubbly-moon

@night-storm7 @missmajdastark @axel-skz

[thirtysomethingloser92]

Chapter 5: If It's All In My Head, Tell Me Now. Tell Me I've Got It Wrong Somehow.

Prequel to The Last Great American Dynasty.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+.

Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you saw coming.

Anna had been everything to Remy once. She wasn’t just his wife; she was the anchor that had kept him grounded in a world that seemed determined to pull him under. When they met, Remy had been younger, wilder—the charming thief with a devil-may-care attitude. But Anna had seen something in him that no one else had. She saw beyond the bravado, beyond the criminal lifestyle, and found the man underneath. She loved him for who he truly was, not who the world thought he was. And in return, Remy had given her his heart.

Their love had been intense, passionate, but also tender and steady. Anna had been his safe place, the one person who could calm the storm that always seemed to rage inside him. She had this way of making him feel like he was enough, like he didn’t have to prove anything to anyone. With her, he could just be.

But then she was gone.

A drunk driver had taken her from him in an instant, and with her, she’d taken a piece of Remy’s soul. After her death, Remy had been lost, adrift in a sea of guilt and pain. He’d buried himself in his work, in his schemes, in his life, trying to forget. Trying to outrun the grief that clung to him like a shadow.

But he never really let her go. He never could.

That photo album was a testament to that. It was filled with pictures of their life together, from their first date to their wedding day. It held snapshots of the moments that had defined them, the quiet mornings spent in bed, the laughter shared over shared meals, the way she used to look at him like he was her whole world. Remy sat in the car, his fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. The rain falling outside blurred the world into a haze, but all he could focus on was the knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. He knew he shouldn’t be here. Every part of his mind screamed at him to leave—turn the key, drive away, and forget about this. He’d done it before. Sent flowers, a note, maybe a gift wrapped in pretty paper. It was a playbook he knew well. It always worked. It kept things simple, kept people at arm’s length.

But with you, it wasn’t simple. It never had been.

He glanced down at the worn leather album in his lap, his hands trembling as they hovered over it. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. Showing you this—showing you her—wasn't just a risk, it was terrifying. Because you weren't like anyone else. You saw through the charm, through the slick words and the easy smiles.

You didn’t look at him the way others did—with fear, with caution, with that wary glint in their eyes, like they were always waiting for the other shoe to drop. You didn’t see the dangerous man who had built his life on lies and half-truths. You didn’t see the thief, the Cajun rogue with a past he tried to bury. You saw him. The real Remy. The one he didn’t show anyone.

And you hadn’t flinched.

Not once.

He could still remember the first time he realized you were different. It wasn’t anything grand, nothing that should’ve knocked him off balance the way it had. You had just looked at him—really looked at him—and it was like you saw all the cracks in his armor, all the pieces of him he kept hidden. And instead of pulling back, instead of retreating like most people did when they got too close, you had stayed. You had smiled, laughed, as if what you saw wasn’t something to be afraid of. You were sitting on that crate talking like you had known him your whole life.

That was the thing about you. You made him feel seen in a way no one else ever had. And that scared him more than any risk he’d ever taken.

Remy leaned back in the seat, the rain beating against the windshield like a relentless drum, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel as his mind replayed the moment over and over again. His heart gave a painful twist as he thought about how badly he had messed things up—how, in that split second, he had done what he always did. He’d used you. And now, as the realization settled in, it cut him deeper than any wound he’d ever taken in a fight.

That kiss—it haunted him.

At first, it had been instinct. The second he spotted the police closing in, his mind had gone into overdrive, calculating, strategizing, looking for an out. And then he’d turned to you, and everything changed. The plan was simple, something he’d done a hundred times before, a quick kiss to cover his tracks, to slip the drugs to you without a second thought. You were an opportunity. A convenient shield. And in that brief moment, that’s what he had reduced you to.

But now? Now he wished more than anything that he could take it back.

Because the kiss—the feel of your lips against his, the way your breath had hitched in surprise—had stirred something in him he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t supposed to matter. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But it did. The second his lips touched yours, something inside him shifted, and for the briefest moment, all of the noise, all of the chaos around him had faded away, leaving only you.

And that’s when the guilt hit him like a punch to the gut.

He had kissed you, not because he wanted to, not because he couldn’t resist the pull he always felt when he was near you, but because he was thinking of himself. He was thinking of how to keep himself out of trouble, of how to use you to slip away unnoticed, just another move in a game he had been playing his whole life. And it made him sick.

Because you weren’t some pawn. You weren’t some piece on his chessboard, some convenient cover he could use and discard when it suited him. You were you. And you deserved more than that.

But in that moment, he hadn’t considered any of that. He hadn’t thought about how it would make you feel, how much it would hurt you when you realized what he had done. He had only seen you as someone who would always be there, someone who would cover for him, who would take the hit, even though he knew deep down it would cost you. And while he was thinking only of himself, of his escape, he had pushed you away.

He could still see the look in your eyes afterward—the confusion, the hurt, the betrayal.

And now, sitting here in the car, the album in his lap, the rain pouring down outside, he realized just how much he had lost in that moment. Because the truth was, that kiss had meant something. It had meant everything. And he had ruined it.

His mind flashed back to the warmth of your lips, the way your body had instinctively leaned into his, just for a second, before the reality of what he’d done had hit you. He had felt the connection between you, the spark he had always tried to ignore, to push away, because it scared him. Because you scared him. You made him feel things he wasn’t used to feeling—things he didn’t know how to handle. And instead of facing that, instead of being honest with himself and with you, he had taken the easy way out. He had used you.

And now, he wasn’t sure if he could ever make it right.

His heart clenched painfully as he thought about the last time he had seen you. The hurt in your eyes when he had pulled away, when he had shut you out. The way you had looked at him, waiting for him to say something, to do something—anything—that would prove he wasn’t the man you feared he was becoming. But he hadn’t. He had let you walk away because it was easier than facing the truth. Easier than admitting that you had gotten under his skin in a way no one else ever had.

And now, sitting here in the car, staring at the rain-soaked streets outside your small house, he realized that this might be his last chance. His last chance to fix what he had broken. His usual tricks, his charm, his smooth words—they wouldn’t work on you. They never had. You’d see right through them. You’d see right through him.

He glanced down at the album again, his fingers tracing the worn leather cover. Inside were pieces of his life he had never shared with anyone. Memories, photographs, moments that had shaped him into the man he was today. And maybe, just maybe, if he showed you this—if he let you see the things he kept hidden—it would be enough to show you that he cared. That you weren’t just another person in his life.

His heart pounded in his chest as he finally made the decision, his body moving on autopilot as he grabbed the album and forced himself out of the car. The rain hit him immediately, cold and relentless, but he barely felt it. His mind was too focused, too consumed with the thought of you—of what he needed to say, of what he needed to show you. As Remy stood in front of your door, his hand hovering over the wood, the mental anguish clawed at him. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, to walk away before he made a fool of himself, before he bared parts of himself he wasn’t sure you wanted to see. But his heart—his heart wouldn’t let him leave. His heart was telling him that you were worth the risk. That you were worth the fear, the vulnerability, the potential for rejection.

His hand knocked, the sound barely audible over the rain, but loud enough to send a jolt of dread through him. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The rain was a dull roar in the background as he waited, his heart thundering in his chest, the weight of his mistakes pressing down on him like a physical thing.

Then, the door opened.

There you were, standing in the doorway, your eyes widening slightly in surprise. He must’ve looked like a mess—soaked through, clutching an old album like it was the only thing keeping him grounded—but you didn’t laugh. You didn’t scoff or turn away. You just looked at him, your gaze soft, confused, but not unkind.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said quietly, your voice full of questions, but also something else—something that made his heart ache even more.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his mind racing. He had spent hours trying to figure out what to say, how to explain himself, but now that he was here, standing in front of you, every word seemed to crumble before it could leave his mouth. He forced himself to speak, his voice rough, thick with the weight of everything he hadn’t said. “I know I messed up,” he started, his accent thicker than usual, his words almost slurring together in his rush to get them out. “I know I pushed ya away when I shoulda le’ ya in. I know I made ya think I didn’ care.”

The words hung between you, heavy with regret. He looked down at the album in his hands, his fingers trembling as he held it out toward you. “But I do care. More than I know how t’ say.”

He hesitated, glancing between the album and your eyes, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might break. “This…” His voice faltered for a moment, the vulnerability in his chest squeezing tight. “This is me, chère. The real me. The parts I don’t show anyone. The parts I’ve been too scared to let anyone see.” He licked his lips, his throat feeling dry despite the rain soaking him to his skin. “This album, it’s… it’s everything I am. It’s the one thing that means more to me than anything.”

His breath shook as he held it out farther, urging you to take it. “I don’t know if it’s enough. But it’s all I got. An’ I need ya t’ see it.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and full of unspoken words, unasked questions. Remy’s heart pounded in his chest, fear clawing at him, but he didn’t look away from your face, didn’t let himself retreat. Everything was riding on this moment. If you turned him away now, if you rejected him, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to come back from it.

You stared at the album for what felt like an eternity, your eyes flicking between it and him. Searching his face for something—truth, maybe. Or sincerity. Or the kind of vulnerability he so rarely let anyone see. Whatever it was, you must’ve found it, because after what seemed like forever, you stepped aside, your voice soft but steady.

“Come in.”

And just like that, the tightness in his chest loosened, just a little. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet—but it was a chance. And for a man like Remy, who had spent his whole life running from the things that scared him, that was more than he deserved. But he was going to take it. He had to.

This was the moment. The one he had been too scared to face for so long. The moment where he had to stop hiding, stop running, and show you who he really was. The man behind the charm, the smooth words, the reputation. The man he wasn’t sure you’d still want once you saw all the cracks, all the broken pieces he kept hidden.

But you had opened the door. You had given him a chance. And for the first time in his life, Remy was choosing to fight for something real. For something that terrified him more than anything else ever had.

Because for the first time in a long time, he had something to fight for.  And that something was you. <><><><><><><><> Remy lingered between your two armchairs, the weight of the album in his hands grounding him as he took in your living room in silence. It was a space that shouldn’t have worked—the mismatched furniture, the clutter, the lived-in feel of it all—but somehow, it did. The green armchair with its weathered fabric and the burgundy one with its sagging cushions were like two old friends that didn’t quite belong together but had found a way to coexist. The soft blanket tossed over the back of one chair, the pillows strewn across the couch, even the uneven stack of magazines on the coffee table—it was messy, but it was home.

The room had a heartbeat, a warmth that made Remy feel both out of place and strangely drawn in. He wasn’t used to this kind of space. Everything in his world had a temporary feel to it, like he was always one step away from leaving. But here… here it felt like things were meant to stay. The mismatched furniture, the little signs of life scattered around the room, the warmth of the space—it all spoke of permanence, of a life that had roots. And that unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected.

He glanced over at the coffee table, where a plate of microwaved food sat next to a half-empty glass of water. The remnants of your dinner. He could still smell the faint aroma of reheated pasta and tomato sauce, and it reminded him how human this moment was. There was no pretense here, no attempt to clean up or make things look perfect before he arrived. You hadn’t been expecting him, and you weren’t trying to impress him. And for some reason, that made him feel more exposed than anything else.

You muted the television and turned toward him, the soft glow of the screen casting a muted light across the room. Your expression was careful, guarded, like you weren’t quite sure why he was here, standing in the middle of your living room, soaked to the bone, clutching an old album like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“You can sit if you want,” you said, your voice gentle but cautious, like you were still trying to make sense of the situation.

He hesitated for a moment, his fingers tightening around the album as his eyes flicked between you and the empty armchair. The invitation was simple, but it felt like so much more than that. Sitting down meant staying. It meant acknowledging that he was here for a reason, that he wasn’t just passing through. And that terrified him. But you were giving him a chance—one he didn’t deserve, but one he was desperate not to waste.

He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and lowered himself into the burgundy armchair. The springs creaked under his weight, but it didn’t bother him. There was something comforting about the worn-out chair, something that made the room feel lived-in and real. He leaned back slightly, trying to settle the nervous energy buzzing through him, but it was hard to relax when everything inside him felt like it was teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t control.

You pulled your feet up onto the couch, sitting cross-legged, watching him carefully. Your eyes followed his every move, not in a hostile way, but in a way that told him you were still trying to figure him out. You didn’t trust him fully—not after what he’d done. And he didn’t blame you. He didn’t trust himself most of the time.

His heart raced as he leaned forward and gently placed the worn leather album on the coffee table, the weight of it leaving his hands but not his heart. His fingers lingered on the edges of the cover, tracing the familiar creases in the leather, as if letting go of it was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It was, in a way. This album was more than just a collection of memories; it was a piece of him, a part of his life that he had never shown anyone.

“This…” He hesitated, his voice quieter now, thick with emotion that he wasn’t used to showing. “This is me, chère. The real me. The parts I don’t show nobody.”

The words felt heavy in the air between you, like they carried the weight of years of secrets, of a life built on half-truths and misdirection. He glanced up at you, his red-on-black eyes soft, full of uncertainty. He wasn’t sure how to explain it, how to tell you that this album wasn’t just a collection of old photographs or memories—it was the one thing in his life that grounded him. The one thing that hadn’t slipped through his fingers the way everything else always did.

He took a deep breath, his chest tightening as he tried to find the right words. “This album, it’s… it’s everythin’ I am. It’s the one thing that means more t’ me than anythin’ else. An’ I know I ain’t been good about lettin’ people in, about showin’ ‘em the real side of me, but…” He paused, his throat tightening as he looked down at the album again. “I need you t’ see it. I need you to know what’s in here.”

The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken questions and the weight of everything he hadn’t said. He wasn’t used to this kind of vulnerability, wasn’t used to laying himself bare like this. His whole life, he had built walls—walls of charm, of wit, of bravado—to keep people from getting too close. But with you, those walls had crumbled, and he wasn’t sure how to protect himself anymore.

He could feel your eyes on him, studying him, searching for something. He didn’t know if you were ready to forgive him, or if you even wanted to. All he knew was that he had to try—because for the first time in his life, he wasn’t running. He wasn’t hiding behind his usual tricks. He was sitting here, in your mismatched living room, offering you the one thing that meant more to him than anything else.

Your living room felt like the opposite of his life. Where you had things that didn’t quite fit together but still worked, his life had always been about carefully curated moments, about making sure everything stayed in place just long enough for him to slip away before anyone could see the cracks. But here, surrounded by mismatched furniture and the warmth of a space that you had made your own, he felt something unfamiliar—he felt like maybe, just maybe, he could belong.

You sat on the couch, your feet tucked up under you, watching him. Watching Remy. It was hard to put into words how you felt in that moment—tired, frustrated, and yet still, somehow, a little hopeful. You scanned his face, searching for some kind of clue, some indication of why the hell he was sitting in your living room at this hour, soaked through, clutching that old, weathered album like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His red-on-black eyes flicked nervously between you and the album, and you could see his fingers tightening around it, like he wasn’t sure he could let it go.

You let out a small sigh, the weight of the day—and the weeks, months even—pressing down on you.

“I have nothing more to give you,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t trying to hurt him, but the exhaustion in your words was undeniable. “You showed me today that whatever you do—it’s always more important than the people around you.”

Your tone wasn’t sharp, but it was raw, honest. You weren’t yelling. You didn’t have it in you to yell anymore. God, you were just tired. Tired of feeling like you were constantly fighting an uphill battle with him. Tired of giving and giving and getting nothing in return except half-truths and evasions. You watched him, carefully weighing your words.

He swallowed hard and looked down at the floor, his jaw tightening as he absorbed what you were saying. You could see the guilt in his posture, the way his shoulders slumped slightly, as though the weight of his mistakes was finally crashing down on him.

“I…” You paused, biting your lip, trying to find the strength to keep going. “I give a shit about you. Believe it or not. All I wanted—all I’ve ever wanted—was for you to show me that this isn’t just in my head. That whatever the hell this is between us isn’t just me overanalyzing things, isn’t just me holding on to something that doesn’t exist.”

You were laying it all out now, the hurt, the confusion, the feeling of being strung along, unsure if you were the one imagining things, unsure if you were reading too much into stolen glances, lingering touches, and moments that felt like they meant something, only for him to pull away.

“It’s not,” Remy interrupted softly. His voice was rough, thick with emotion, and when you looked up, you saw that his gaze had shifted back to you. There was something raw in his eyes, something that made your heart clench in your chest.

He took a breath, his hands still trembling slightly as he kept his grip on the album, like it was anchoring him to this moment. “From the first day I met ya… you did somethin’ t’ me, chère. I don’t know how t’ explain it.” He stopped, running a hand through his hair, his movements restless, as though he couldn’t stay still under the weight of what he was about to say. “Ya saw me. Not what everyone else sees. Not th’ smooth talker, not the guy everyone’s scared of, not the guy who always knows how t’ get outta trouble. You saw me. An’ that scared the hell outta me.”

His voice softened, his accent thickening as he spoke, the vulnerability in his tone cutting through the usual bravado he wore like a second skin. “I ain’t used t’ that. I ain’t used t’ someone actually givin’ a damn about me. Not the real me. I’ve spent my whole life runnin’, keepin’ people at arm’s length ‘cause it’s easier that way. It’s safer. But you…” He shook his head, his eyes locking onto yours. “Ya made it impossible to run.”

You sat there, staring at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The room felt suddenly too small, too quiet, the weight of his words hanging heavy between you.

“I’m here because I can’t let ya walk away without tryin’ t’ make this right,” he continued, his voice breaking slightly. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt ya. But I can’t jus’ le’ ya think that all of this—” he gestured between the two of you, “—that all of this don’t mean nothin’. ‘Cause it does. It means more t’ me than I know how t’ say. An’ I’m done runnin’ from it.”

He stood up and stepped forward, closing the distance between you, holding out the album. You glanced down at it, your brow furrowing in confusion. Why was he giving this to you? What could possibly be in that old, worn book that would make any of this make sense?

“In here…” His voice faltered for a moment, and he swallowed hard. You could see the struggle on his face, the way he was fighting with himself to get the words out. “In here is Anna.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t heard that name before. You looked up at him, searching his face for answers, but he couldn’t quite meet your eyes.

“She was my wife,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “She died in a car accident. Drunk driver hit her. I didn’t even get t’ say goodbye.”

The room seemed to go still, the air thick with the weight of his confession. You felt the tightness in your chest, the ache of hearing something so deeply personal, something that clearly haunted him.

You reached out slowly, your fingers brushing against the leather cover of the album as you took it from his hands. “Remy…” you began softly, your voice gentle, unsure. You didn’t want him to feel like he had to do this, like he had to bare himself completely just to prove something to you. “You don’t have to—”

He cut you off, his voice firm but raw. “I do. I ain’t never shown anyone what’s in there, chère. Not a soul. ‘Cause it’s the one thing in my life that’s mine, the one thing I’ve been too scared t’ share with anyone.” His eyes were intense as they finally met yours fully, the vulnerability in his gaze almost too much to bear. “But ya need t’ know. You need t’ know how much I care about ya. An’ I don’t know how else t’ show ya that unless I show ya this.”

You held the album in your lap, your fingers tracing the worn edges of the leather, your heart racing as you looked back up at him. This wasn’t just about him telling you something painful from his past. This was about trust. About Remy giving you something that no one else had—a part of himself that he had kept locked away because it was too painful, too personal, too real.

“I’ve been scared, chère,” he admitted, his voice low and full of regret. “Scared t’ let ya in. Scared t’ let anyone in. ‘Cause I don’t know what happens when I let someone get close. I don’t know how to stop pushin’ them away. But I can’t keep doin’ that with ya. I can’t keep hurtin’ ya like that.”

He knelt down in front of you, his eyes level with yours, his expression open, raw. “I’m showin’ ya this ‘cause ya need t’ understand that ya ain’t imaginin’ things. This thing between us? It’s real. An’ I’m done pretendin’ like it ain’t.”

You looked down at the album in your hands, feeling the weight of it, not just physically, but emotionally. It was a piece of his life, a part of him that he had never shared with anyone. And he was giving it to you. Trusting you with it. Trusting you with her.

You hesitated for a moment, your fingers hovering over the edge of the album’s cover, feeling the worn, soft leather beneath your fingertips. The weight of it in your lap was more than just physical—it carried the weight of Remy’s past, of his pain, of everything he’d been too afraid to share until now. You glanced over at him, sitting next to you on the couch, his body tense, his eyes trained on the album like it held both his salvation and his undoing. His hands rested on his knees, fingers twitching ever so slightly, betraying the calm he was trying so hard to maintain.

He hadn’t said a word since you took the album from him, and you hadn’t pushed. Something about the silence felt sacred, like this moment needed to breathe on its own.

With a deep breath, you opened the cover.

The first thing you saw was a photograph, carefully placed but slightly faded with age. A woman smiled up at you—young, vibrant, with vibrant red hair and eyes that seemed to sparkle even from the stillness of the picture. Her smile was warm, genuine, and there was something about her that made your chest tighten, like you could feel the love and life that radiated from her even through the years that separated her from this moment. You knew, without needing to ask, that this was Anna.

Remy’s Anna.

You turned the page slowly, afraid that moving too quickly would somehow break the fragile air between you and him. The next page held more photos—candid shots of a life you hadn’t known Remy had lived. Him and Anna, laughing together, holding hands, walking along a street in some city you didn’t recognize. They both looked so happy, so carefree. You couldn’t remember ever seeing Remy look that way—fully at ease, fully present, without the weight of the world constantly dragging him down.

As you flipped through the pages—each one revealing pieces of a life he’d kept hidden, snapshots of love and pain—you began to feel a knot forming in your chest. Picture after picture, you saw them together in moments you could tell had meant everything to him. Anna leaning into his side, her head resting on his shoulder. Remy with his arm wrapped around her, his face soft and unguarded in a way you’d never seen before. They looked like they belonged to each other in a way that was so natural, so effortless. You could see how much he had loved her. It was in every picture, in every smile, in the way he looked at her like she was his whole world.

You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, though he hadn’t moved. You didn’t need to look at him to know how hard this was for him—to sit here, to show you this, to open up the most painful part of his life and let you in. It wasn’t just about Anna. It wasn’t just about his past. It was about trust. It was about letting you see the part of him that had been broken, the part of him that he had buried so deep that no one else had ever found it.

And in doing that, in showing you this, he was giving you the only way he knew how to tell you that you mattered. That you weren’t imagining this—whatever this was between the two of you. That it was real. That you were real to him. This was his way of saying that he cared—deeply, maybe more deeply than he even knew how to articulate with words. This was his way of saying that he didn’t want to run anymore. That he was trying, even if he didn’t know how to do it perfectly.

You swallowed, your throat tight, and turned another page.

There was a photo of them at what looked like a wedding. Anna was in a simple white dress, her eyes glowing as she looked up at him, her smile wide and full of joy. Remy stood next to her, looking impossibly young and happy, his hand resting on her waist, his expression softer than you had ever seen it. There was a light in his eyes in that picture, a light that hadn’t fully returned since you’d known him.

Your heart ached for him—ached for the love he had lost, for the pain he had carried with him for so long. You could feel the enormity of it, the weight of a life that had been stolen from him in an instant. And yet, here he was. Here, with you, offering you this piece of himself that he had never let anyone else see.

The album wasn’t just a collection of memories—it was Remy’s heart, laid bare. It was everything he had been too scared to show you, too scared to say. And as you sat there, flipping through the pages, you realized that this was his way of telling you that he cared about you. That he trusted you. That he was willing to let you in in a way he hadn’t let anyone in since Anna.

Your fingers stilled on a page, and you let out a soft breath.

“Remy…” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly.

He didn’t say anything, but you felt the shift in the air between you. He was waiting. Waiting for you to understand what this meant. Waiting for you to see that this was the only way he knew how to show you how much he cared. That he wasn’t just showing you his past—he was showing you her. The person he had loved most in the world. And that meant something.

You looked over at him, and for the first time, you really saw him. Not just the man who had hurt you, who had pushed you away when you had tried to get close. Not just the charming, infuriating, complicated man who had made your heart race and your head ache in equal measure. But the man who had been broken by loss, who had spent years running from his pain, and who was now, finally, trying to stop running. Trying to let you in.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He met your gaze, his eyes intense but vulnerable, his expression open in a way it almost never was. “Ya don’t gotta say nothin’, chère,” he murmured.  “I’m showin’ ya this ‘cause I can’t let you think that this—us—that it don’t mean nothin’. ‘Cause it does. It means more t’ me than I know how t’ say.”

Your heart clenched, the weight of his words sinking in. He wasn’t just telling you he cared—he was telling you that you mattered enough for him to open up the most painful part of his life. He was telling you that you weren’t just in his head. You were in his heart.

You looked down at the album in your lap, the photos of Anna smiling up at you, and you felt the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Slowly, carefully, you closed the album and placed it gently on the coffee table in front of you.

Then, you turned to Remy, your voice quiet but steady. “Thank you for showing me this. I know how much it means to you.”

He nodded, his throat working as he swallowed hard, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Ya needed t’ see it,” he said softly.

And in that moment, you knew. You knew that this was the closest Remy had come to saying I love you since Anna. And maybe he couldn’t say the words yet, maybe he wasn’t ready to put it all into neat little phrases, but this—this was enough. This was real. This was him, opening up and showing you that he wasn’t just running anymore.

You reached out and took his hand, your fingers lacing through his. He squeezed your hand gently, his touch warm and steady, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t fighting this battle alone anymore. Remy couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this exposed.

Sitting beside you on the couch, the album resting on the coffee table like a piece of his past he had never meant to share, he felt the weight of his whole life pressing down on him. His heart was beating so hard against his chest, he was sure you could hear it. He’d spent years perfecting the art of hiding—hiding behind charm, behind quick smiles, behind walls so thick and so high that no one ever got close. No one ever made it past that carefully constructed exterior.

But you had.

And now, with you sitting so close to him, the warmth of your body just inches away, the album open on your lap, he felt like he was standing on the edge of something he wasn’t sure he knew how to handle. The pictures of Anna, his memories of her—the life he had lost—were all there, laid bare in front of you. He had never shown anyone this. Not a soul. Because letting people in had always been too dangerous. It had always meant giving up some piece of himself that he couldn’t afford to lose.

But with you… something was different. He wasn’t sure when it had started, wasn’t sure when you had begun to slip past his defenses, but now that you were here—now that he had let you see the most fragile, broken parts of himself—he couldn’t imagine going back to the way things had been. He couldn’t imagine pretending that this didn’t mean something. That you didn’t mean something.

So when you leaned toward him, when you closed the distance between you with that look in your eyes—soft, searching, like you were trying to figure out if this was real—his breath caught in his throat. His instinct, for just a split second, was to pull away. To protect himself. To run.

But he didn’t.

Because for the first time, he didn’t want to run.

Your lips touched his, soft and tentative at first, and he could feel the world tilt beneath him. It wasn’t like any kiss he’d had before—no heat of the moment, no rush to get to the next thing. This was different. This was slow, deliberate, like you were both testing the waters of something that had been building for so long, something that had been threatening to break through the surface and overwhelm you both.

And it did.

The kiss deepened, your lips pressing more firmly against his, and Remy felt everything inside him unravel. His hand moved almost without thinking, slipping from his lap to your waist, pulling you closer with a soft, barely-there tug. He felt your fingers slide into his hair, gentle but insistent, and the warmth of your touch sent a shiver down his spine. It was like you were grounding him, anchoring him to this moment, to you. His other hand came up to cradle your neck, his thumb brushing against your jaw as he kissed you deeper, slower, like he was afraid to let go.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t running. He wasn’t thinking about what came next, wasn’t thinking about the walls he had carefully constructed over the years. He wasn’t thinking about Anna, or the guilt that had lingered in the back of his mind for so long. He was just… here. With you.

And the feeling of it hit him like a freight train.

Because this wasn’t just a kiss. It was everything he hadn’t been able to say. Everything he had felt for you but had been too scared to admit. Every glance, every touch, every moment between the two of you that had been filled with tension, with unspoken words, with what ifs—it was all pouring into this one kiss. And for the first time, he allowed himself to feel it.

He allowed himself to feel you.

His lips moved slowly, almost reverently against yours, and he could feel the pull in his chest—the quiet, persistent ache he had been trying to ignore for so long. His hand slid to the small of your back, pressing you even closer, and he could feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his chest. It was calming, soothing, and for the first time in a long time, Remy felt like he could breathe.

When you pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, your breath warm and shaky against his lips, he kept his eyes closed, savoring the closeness. He could still feel the ghost of your kiss lingering on his lips, and part of him didn’t want to open his eyes, didn’t want to break the moment. Because this—this—was something he hadn’t let himself hope for.

But when he did open his eyes, and saw you looking at him—really looking at him, like you saw all of him—he felt his heart stutter in his chest. Your eyes were soft, full of something that made his throat tighten, and he realized then that this wasn’t just about him anymore. This was about you, too. About the way you had been standing there, waiting for him to let you in. Waiting for him to stop pushing you away. To stop running.

You smiled softly, your thumb brushing against his cheek, and Remy felt something inside him shift. It was subtle, quiet, but it was there. The fear that had always been lurking just beneath the surface—the fear of losing someone again, of letting someone in only to have them slip through his fingers—it wasn’t gone completely, but it was quieter. Softer. Because in this moment, sitting here with you, feeling the warmth of your hand on his skin, he realized that he wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

When you kissed him again, it was softer this time, slower, like you were both taking your time. Like you were savoring the feel of each other. His hand slid up the curve of your back, resting just beneath your shoulder blade, keeping you close. He could feel your heartbeat, steady and sure, and it grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected. Everything about this moment felt real, and for the first time in years, he wasn’t terrified of that reality.

The kiss deepened, your lips moving in sync with his, and Remy felt the tension in his chest slowly begin to unwind. He wasn’t used to feeling this—this—whatever it was. This softness. This quiet, steady warmth that spread from his chest to the tips of his fingers. He wasn’t used to letting himself need someone like this. But with you, sitting here in the quiet of your mismatched living room, the world outside fading into the background, it felt right.

When the kiss broke again, this time slower, more languid, he kept his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in slow, steady exhales. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break the moment. Because in this moment, everything felt right. Everything felt like it was finally where it was supposed to be.

“I care about ya,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the words felt like they carried the weight of everything he hadn’t been able to say before. “More than I know how t’ say.”

And in that moment, as you looked at him, your eyes full of something soft, something real, Remy knew that this was it. This was the moment he had been running from for so long. The moment he had been too scared to let happen. The air between you and Remy seemed to thrum with an unspoken tension, a kind of magnetic pull that had been simmering just beneath the surface for so long it felt like it had always been there. It was in the way his eyes lingered on you, the way his hand rested on the small of your back, the way your breaths synced, slow and heavy, like you both knew something was about to shift but neither of you was quite ready to say it out loud.

You had kissed him. Properly kissed him. And in those moments, it felt like everything had changed. The weight of the album, of Anna, of Remy’s past, of his title as the King of New Orleans—it was still there, but it didn’t feel like a wall between you anymore. It felt like something you had both acknowledged, something you had both accepted, and now… now it was just you and him. No running. No hiding. Just two people who had been skirting around this moment for what felt like forever.

And now, the moment was here.

Remy’s hand slid from your back to your waist, his touch slow, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath his fingertips. His eyes, those deep, red-on-black eyes that had always been so guarded, so full of mystery, were locked on yours, and for the first time, there was no hesitation in them. No fear. Just hunger. Hunger and something deeper—something raw and fragile and real.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t need to. Because this—whatever this was—was something you both wanted. Needed, maybe. It felt like the natural progression of everything that had been building between you, every charged glance, every stolen touch, every moment where you had both been walking the line between friends and something more. And now, you were both ready to cross that line.

Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded immediately, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was slower, deeper than before. There was no rush, no frantic urgency, just the steady heat of two people who had been waiting for this for longer than they cared to admit. His lips were soft, but the kiss was firm, insistent, like he was pouring every unspoken word, every buried emotion, into it.

You could feel the warmth of his body pressing against yours, his hand sliding up your back, pulling you even closer until there was hardly any space left between you. The couch felt too small, too cramped for the weight of the moment, for the way your bodies seemed to respond to each other, the way your heart was pounding in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears.

When he pulled back, just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours, his hand still resting on your waist, his voice was low and thick with emotion. “You sure about this?” he whispered, his breath warm against your lips, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt, any hesitation.

But there wasn’t any.

You looked at him, really looked at him, and all you saw was the man in front of you—not the thief, not the charming rogue, not the man who had been running from his past for so long—but Remy. Just Remy. The man who had let you in, who had shown you the most vulnerable parts of himself, who had trusted you with his pain, with his heart. And that was enough. More than enough.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure.”

That was all it took.

His hand slid from your waist to your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin before his lips were on yours again, this time with more intensity, more urgency. The kiss deepened, and you could feel the shift in the air between you, the way the tension that had been simmering for so long now threatened to consume you both. His hand slipped to the hem of your shirt, his fingers brushing against the skin of your waist, and the feel of his touch sent a shiver down your spine. It was like every nerve in your body was suddenly alive, every inch of you hyperaware of him, of the way his body pressed against yours, of the heat that was building between you.

As your fingers slid up Remy’s chest, your palms pressed against the firm planes of his body, you felt the smooth, taut skin beneath his shirt, you could feel his muscles ripple under your touch, warm and alive in a way that made your own pulse quicken. His chest was solid, strong, the kind of strength that came from years of living on the edge—running, fighting, always moving. His muscles were defined but not overly so, more lean than bulky, the kind of body that told a story of someone who had always depended on both speed and agility, someone who had learned to survive in a world that constantly tried to take from him.

When he pulled back long enough to strip off his shirt, tossing it aside with an effortless grace, your breath caught at the sight of him. His body was sculpted, lean and powerful, his skin a canvas of sun-kissed bronze, with faint shadows cast by the low light of the room. His shoulders were broad, tapering down to a narrow waist, the muscles in his arms and chest flexing as he moved, as he reached for you again, his hands already pulling you back into him with a kind of quiet desperation.

The bare skin of his chest pressed against you, and the warmth of his body was almost overwhelming, like being enveloped in a heat that both burned and soothed. Every inch of him felt alive, buzzing with energy, with the raw intensity of the moment. His breath hitched when your fingers traced the line of his collarbone, and you could feel the slight tremor in his body as if even the smallest touch was enough to undo him.

His hands were on your waist, firm but not rough, guiding you into his lap as you straddled him, as if every movement had its own rhythm, its own unspoken language. His touch was deliberate, slow, like he was savoring the feel of your body against his, like he was trying to memorize every curve, every sensation. His lips found yours again, more insistent this time, more desperate, and you could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles flexed beneath your hands, the way his breath came in short, sharp bursts as your lips met and parted, again and again.

His mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, then down to the curve of your neck, and the soft press of his lips against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, making your breath catch in your throat. You could feel the steady, deliberate pressure of his mouth as he kissed along the line of your neck, his hands sliding up your back, his fingers tracing patterns that left a trail of heat in their wake.

There was something intoxicating about the way he moved, the way his body felt beneath yours—a combination of strength and vulnerability, of someone who had always fought to keep his distance but now, in this moment, was letting you in, letting you see him, feel him. Every touch, every kiss felt like a revelation, like peeling back the layers of someone who had spent years hiding behind masks and walls, someone who had always kept everyone at arm’s length—until now.

And now, as his lips found yours again, as his hands roamed over your body with a slow, deliberate intensity, you could feel it—the weight of everything he wasn’t saying, the emotions he didn’t know how to express. But he didn’t need to say it. You could feel it in the way his body responded to yours, in the way his breath hitched when your fingers traced the curve of his spine, in the way his hands gripped your waist like he was afraid to let go.

Remy’s fingers, warm and sure, slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch sending sparks across your skin as he gently tugged upwards. There was no rush in his movements, no frantic need, just the slow, deliberate pull of fabric as he lifted your shirt over your head. You raised your arms, letting him undress you, and in that brief moment before the shirt joined his on the floor, you caught the look in his eyes.

He was watching you, really watching, like he was trying to imprint the image of you into his memory, to burn it into his mind. His eyes roamed over you, taking in every detail—the way your cheeks were flushed with heat and anticipation, the way your lips were slightly swollen from the intensity of the kiss, the way your chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. There was something reverent in the way he looked at you, something almost tender, as though this moment—you—were more precious than anything he had ever held before.

His breath hitched, just barely, and you could see the way his chest expanded as he took in a slow, deliberate breath, like he was trying to steady himself, to ground himself in the moment. His eyes darkened with a mix of desire and something softer, something deeper, and it made your heart race even faster. You could feel the heat building between you, the air thick with the weight of everything neither of you had said but both of you understood.

For a few heartbeats, neither of you moved. His hands, now resting on your waist, gripped you with a kind of gentle possessiveness, like he wasn’t sure if this was real, like he was afraid that if he let go, you’d disappear. You could feel the warmth of his skin against yours, the steady rise and fall of his breath, and it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you—your bodies, your breaths, your heartbeats, all in sync, all connected by this invisible thread that had been pulling you together for so long.

Then, in that low, gravelly voice that always seemed to send shivers down your spine, he asked, “Ya got a bedroom, chère?”

His tone was soft, almost hesitant, but there was an edge of heat to it, a quiet urgency that echoed in the space between you. His accent, that lazy Cajun drawl, wrapped around you, making your skin tingle, making your breath catch. And in that moment, you knew that this wasn’t just about the physical. This was about more. This was about trust. About the walls that had come down between you, about the vulnerability you were both offering each other.

You nodded, unable to trust your voice, your heart pounding in your chest. Without breaking eye contact, your fingers slipped into his hand, guiding him as you stood, pulling him up from the couch. The air between you felt electric, charged, as his hand slid down to intertwine with yours, his grip firm and steady, but his thumb rubbing soft, soothing circles against the back of your hand. It was such a simple gesture, but it made your heart swell, made you realize how much care, how much tenderness, was wrapped up in this moment.

With a soft tug, you led him toward the bedroom, the weight of his presence behind you both grounding and intoxicating. Every step felt heavy with anticipation, every beat of your heart loud in your ears, each breath shallow and quick. You could feel his gaze on you the entire time, his eyes dark and hungry but patient, like he was letting you set the pace, like he was waiting for you to make the final call.

When you reached the bedroom, you pushed the door open, the soft creak of the hinges the only sound that broke the quiet tension between you. The room, dimly lit by the soft glow of a bedside lamp, felt intimate, like it had been waiting for this moment. The bed, with its rumpled sheets, suddenly seemed like the center of the universe, a quiet invitation to let go, to give in.

Remy stepped in behind you, his body close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, but he didn’t touch you just yet. Instead, he stood there, his breath warm against the back of your neck, his presence a steady, grounding force that made your pulse quicken. His hands hovered just above your hips, like he was waiting for permission, waiting for you to make the next move.

You turned to face him, your chest brushing against his as you looked up into his eyes. His gaze was intense, filled with a hunger that matched your own, but there was something else there too—something softer, something that spoke of more than just desire. His fingers found your waist again, slow and deliberate, and he pulled you closer, the fabric of his jeans rough against your bare skin, the heat between you almost unbearable now.

His lips found yours once more, but this kiss was different from the others. It was softer, slower, filled with a kind of quiet reverence, like he was savoring the taste of you, like he was trying to commit every second to memory. His hands roamed your back, tracing lazy circles on your skin, and you could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself back, waiting for you, giving you the space to lead.

You pulled him closer, your fingers threading through his hair, your body pressing against his as the kiss deepened, your tongues tangling in a slow, deliberate dance. You could feel the heat building between you again, the soft friction of skin on skin, the way his breath hitched when your hands slipped down to the waistband of his jeans, teasing the line of flesh just above.

“Remy…” you whispered against his lips, your voice barely more than a breath, but it was enough to make him groan softly, his hands tightening on your waist, pulling you even closer, his body firm and solid against yours.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes searched yours, dark and full of something raw, something that made your chest ache with how much he was holding back.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his voice low and rough, full of need but also… something more. Something that told you he was waiting for you, that he’d follow your lead, that this wasn’t just about what he wanted.

And in that moment, you knew what you wanted. You wanted him. All of him. Not just his body, not just the heat and the passion, but everything—the vulnerability, the trust, the connection that had been growing between you for so long.

You pulled him toward the bed, your steps slow, deliberate, your heart pounding as you whispered, “I want you, Remy.”

His eyes darkened at your words, a soft groan escaping his lips as he followed your lead, his hands never leaving your body as you both moved toward the bed. When the back of your knees hit the edge, you sank down onto the mattress, pulling him with you, his body pressing down against yours, warm and solid and real.

He hovered over you for a moment, his gaze locked on yours, his breath shaky, his hands framing your face as if you were something fragile, something precious. And then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss so soft, so full of emotion, that it made your heart ache.

This was it. This was the moment when everything else fell away—the past, the walls, the fears. It was just the two of you, together, in this moment. No running. No hiding. Just you and him, giving in to the connection that had always been there, waiting for you both to finally let it happen.

And as his body moved over yours, as your hands explored the expanse of his skin, as your breaths mingled and your heartbeats synced, you knew that this wasn’t just a physical act. This was the start of something deeper, something so much more. Remy’s body pressed down against yours, his weight grounding you in a way that made everything feel more real, more intense. His lips moved against yours with a slow, deliberate hunger, like he wasn’t just kissing you—he was claiming you, savoring every second of contact, every taste of your skin. But there was a tenderness in the way he touched you, a carefulness that made your heart ache with the realization of how much he was holding back, how much he was afraid to break this fragile moment.

His hands slid down your sides, his touch featherlight but firm, as if he was learning your body, mapping each curve, each dip, committing it all to memory. When his fingers brushed the waistband of your pants, he paused, his breath hitching, his forehead resting against yours as he tried to steady himself. There was a tension in him, a restraint, as if he was waiting for a sign from you, waiting for you to tell him it was okay to keep going.

You tilted your head up and kissed him again, soft and slow, your hands tracing the muscles of his back, feeling the way they rippled beneath your touch. His skin was warm, almost hot, the heat between your bodies growing with every second, with every soft press of his lips against yours.

“Remy…” you whispered his name, and the sound of it seemed to break something in him. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you flush against him, his body hard and unyielding against yours. You could feel the tension in every inch of him, the way his muscles coiled with barely restrained need, but still, he waited, his lips hovering just above yours.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely more than a breath. His accent, thick and languid, wrapped around you, making your skin tingle. “Tell me ya want me.”

The raw vulnerability in his words made your heart skip a beat. You could hear the hesitation, the unspoken fear that maybe this was too much, that maybe you’d change your mind, that maybe you didn’t want him as much as he wanted you. But you did. God, you did.

You reached up, your hand cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing over the rough stubble of his jaw. His eyes closed at the contact, a soft sound escaping from the back of his throat, like even the smallest touch from you was enough to undo him.

“I want you,” you whispered, your voice steady, full of certainty. “I’ve always wanted you.”

The moment the words left your lips, something shifted in him. His eyes snapped open, dark and intense, and the look he gave you was full of so much heat, so much raw need, that it made your breath catch in your throat.

Without another word, his lips crashed against yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was hungry, desperate, a release of all the tension that had been building between you for so long. His hands moved to your pants, fingers deft as he unbuttoned them, pulling them down your hips with a kind of quiet urgency that made your pulse race.

You kicked them off, your heart pounding in your chest as you felt the cool air of the room against your bare skin. Every nerve in your body was alive, buzzing with anticipation, with the weight of what was about to happen.

Remy pulled back just long enough to look at you, his eyes raking over your body with a gaze so intense, so full of desire, that it made your breath hitch. His hand came up, fingers brushing lightly over the curve of your breast, down the line of your stomach, his touch so gentle, so reverent, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“You’re beautiful, chère,” he whispered, his voice rough, full of awe. “So damn beautiful…”

The words made your chest tighten with emotion, with the realization that this wasn’t just about lust for him. There was something deeper here, something raw and unspoken that neither of you had fully acknowledged until now. But it was there, simmering beneath the surface, in every touch, every kiss, every breathless moment between you.

You reached for him, your hands slipping to the waistband of his jeans, your fingers fumbling slightly as you unbuttoned them, the anticipation making your hands tremble. Remy let out a low groan, his hands tightening on your hips as you pushed the fabric down, revealing more of him, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your palms.

When his jeans finally hit the floor, and he stood before you, bare and vulnerable, it felt like the air between you shifted. The weight of the moment hit you both, the realization that there was no going back from this. This was it. This was the moment when everything would change.

And yet, when he lowered himself over you again, his body pressing against yours, his skin warm and slick and solid, it didn’t feel like a decision. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

His lips found yours, softer this time, slower, and you could feel the way his body trembled slightly against yours, the way his breath shuddered as he kissed you. His hands slid down your sides, fingers tracing the curve of your hips, before he finally found the last barrier of fabric between you. He hesitated for just a second, his eyes searching yours, asking for permission, waiting for you to give him the final signal.

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat as he slowly peeled away the last of your clothing, leaving you bare beneath him. The cool air hit your skin, but the warmth of his body was enough to keep you grounded, to keep you tethered to the moment.

For a few heartbeats, the world seemed to hold its breath. Remy’s eyes roamed over your face, dark and intense, but filled with something deeper than just desire—something vulnerable, something that made your chest tighten because you could see it all, the unspoken emotions swirling behind those crimson-black irises. He wasn’t just looking at your body; he was seeing you, all of you, every layer you’d let him peel back, every scar, every secret.

His hands moved slowly, sliding back up your sides, his touch feather-light as though he was afraid to break the moment, like he was memorizing every curve, every inch of skin. His fingers traced a delicate path from your waist to your ribs, then higher, brushing along your collarbone, before settling just below your throat, where your pulse raced wildly beneath his fingertips. The rhythm of your heartbeat, fast and erratic, seemed to draw him closer, his breath warm and unsteady as he hovered just inches above you.

His forehead rested against yours, the intimacy of the gesture making your head spin. You could feel his breath, hot and shallow, mixing with your own, and the closeness of it all—the rawness of being this open, this exposed—made the moment feel more real, more significant, than anything you had ever experienced before.

His voice, when it came, was a low rasp, barely more than a whisper. “You’re sure?” There was a crack in it, a kind of quiet, desperate plea hiding beneath the words. It wasn’t just about asking for consent; it was about asking for reassurance, about making sure this was real, that you truly wanted him in the same way he wanted you. You could feel the weight of what he was really asking—his need for confirmation that he wasn’t alone in this, that you were with him, not just physically, but emotionally, in every way that mattered.

The tenderness in his question made your throat tighten. You could feel the vulnerability radiating off him, the way his body trembled ever so slightly, the way his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as he waited for your answer. It wasn’t just about sex. It wasn’t just about the heat between you. This was about trust—about breaking down the walls you’d both kept up for so long, about letting each other in, completely, without reservation.

You reached up slowly, your hand shaking just a little as your fingers brushed against the rough stubble of his jaw. His skin was warm beneath your palm, and you could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles coiled as though he was trying to hold himself back, trying to give you space, to let you decide what came next. Your thumb brushed over his lips, soft and full, and his eyes fluttered closed for a moment, a quiet, shuddering breath escaping him as he leaned into your touch.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, your voice steady, unwavering, even though your heart was pounding in your chest. “I want this. I want you.”

The moment the words left your lips, something shifted in him. His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours with an intensity that stole your breath. His pupils dilated, darkening the crimson in his gaze, and his breath hitched, his chest rising sharply as if your words had punched the air out of him. The vulnerability in his expression melted into something deeper, something raw and urgent, but still laced with so much care, so much tenderness.

“Tha’s all I needed to hear,” he murmured, his voice rough, thick with emotion.

And then, his lips were on yours again—no more hesitation, no more holding back. The kiss was deep and consuming, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger that spoke of all the unspoken things between you. His hands, which had been so careful, so tentative, now gripped your waist with a new sense of purpose, pulling you closer, aligning your bodies until there was no space left between you. The heat of his skin against yours was almost overwhelming, but in the best possible way, like being consumed by a fire that didn’t burn but instead made you feel alive.

His mouth left yours only briefly, trailing down your jaw, pressing soft kisses along the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. Each kiss sent a wave of heat rushing through you, making your body arch into his, seeking more contact, more of him. His hands moved over you, slow and deliberate, tracing the lines of your body with a kind of reverence that made your heart ache, made you feel like you were something precious, something sacred.

When his lips found yours again, he shifted, his body moving over yours with a slow, deliberate grace, his weight pressing down on you in a way that felt grounding, reassuring. His hands slipped to your hips, guiding you, holding you steady as he positioned himself between your legs. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles flexed and tightened as he held himself back, waiting for the final moment, the final signal.

As he finally entered you, the world seemed to stop for a moment, a breathless pause where nothing else mattered but the feeling of him, the connection between you. Your body tensed at first, not from discomfort but from the overwhelming rush of sensation that swept through you, making your breath hitch, your heart race. It was as though every nerve in your body had come alive all at once, heightened to the point of being almost unbearable, but in the best possible way.

The slow, deliberate way he moved, the care he took, made it feel so much more than just a physical act. There was an intimacy in it, a kind of quiet reverence that made your chest ache with emotion. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tightened and flexed as he held himself above you, his forehead resting against yours, his breath shaky, uneven. His hands were firm yet tender on your hips, holding you steady, guiding you into him as though he didn’t want to rush a single moment, as though he wanted to savor every second, every inch of you.

And as he filled you, slowly, completely, it was like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place. Not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, in every way that had been building between you. A connection that went beyond touch, beyond words. It was something deeper, something that had been growing for so long, waiting for this moment to be fully realized.

Your breath caught in your throat as he moved, your body instinctively responding to his, meeting him, matching the slow rhythm he set. There was no urgency, no frantic pace. Just the steady, deliberate movement of your bodies, each thrust a gentle push and pull, like a dance you had always known the steps to but had never truly danced until now.

The way your bodies fit together felt effortless, natural, like you were made for each other. Each movement sent a ripple of pleasure through you, but it wasn’t just the physical sensation that made you gasp, that made your fingers tighten in his hair, your nails dig into his skin. It was the emotional weight of the moment, the way he looked at you—his eyes dark and filled with something so raw, so vulnerable, that it made your chest tighten with everything you felt for him.

Every soft sound he made, every groan, every whispered breath of your name, sent a shiver down your spine, made your body tremble beneath his. You could feel the need in him, the way his body tensed, the way his breath hitched each time your hands roamed over his back, down his sides, pulling him closer, deeper. But more than that, you could feel the care, the tenderness in every touch, in the way his thumb brushed over your skin, the way he kissed you softly in between ragged breaths.

It was as though time had slowed, and each second stretched out, adding weight to every movement, every touch. The intensity of it all wrapped around you both like a cocoon, insulating you from the rest of the world. There was no past, no future—only this moment, only the feel of his body against yours, inside yours, the rhythm of your heartbeats syncing as you moved together, as you breathed together.

And it was more than just the pleasure, more than just the physical connection. It was the release of everything that had been building between you for so long—the tension, the longing, the unspoken words, the walls you had both kept up for so long. They were gone now, crumbled away in the quiet intensity of this moment, leaving nothing but the raw, honest truth of how you felt for each other.

You whispered his name, barely more than a breath, and the way he responded, the soft groan that escaped his lips, the way his body trembled against yours, made your heart swell with emotion. His hands gripped your hips a little tighter, his movements becoming just a fraction more deliberate, more focused, and you could feel the way he was struggling to hold back, to keep himself in check, to make sure that this was perfect for you.

And it was. It was perfect in a way you hadn’t expected—perfect not because of the pleasure, though that was undeniable, but because of the connection. Because in this moment, it wasn’t just about the physical act. It was about trust, about letting each other in, about breaking down the walls and allowing yourselves to be vulnerable, to be seen, to be loved in a way that went beyond words.

Your hands slid up to his face, your fingers brushing over his jaw, his cheeks, as you pulled him down to kiss you, slow and sweet. His breath shuddered against your lips as he kissed you back, his body moving with yours in perfect harmony, the pace never quickening, never rushing. The slow, steady rhythm between you felt like a promise, like a vow that this wasn’t just a fleeting moment, that this was something real, something deeper than either of you had ever let yourselves acknowledge before.

And as you moved together, as your bodies found their perfect rhythm, you knew that this was the culmination of everything you’d been feeling for so long. It was the release of all the tension, all the unspoken desires, all the walls that had kept you apart. It was the quiet, profound acknowledgment that there was more between you than just desire, more than just physical attraction.

It was love.

Pure, unspoken, undeniable love.

And when you finally reached that peak together, when your body trembled beneath his and his breath hitched in his throat, it wasn’t just the physical release that overwhelmed you. It was the emotional release, the sense of finally letting go, of finally allowing yourself to feel everything, to be completely open, completely vulnerable, and knowing that he was there with you, feeling the same way.

He shuddered against you, his body tense, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as he held you close, his forehead resting against yours, his lips brushing against your skin in soft, reverent kisses. And in that moment, as you lay there together, your bodies still tangled, your heartbeats slowly returning to normal, you knew that everything had changed.

You knew that this was more than just a connection of bodies.

This was a connection of souls. <><<><><><><><><> As the night deepened and sleep began to pull you under, Remy's arms wrapped around you with a protective, almost possessive tenderness. His body molded perfectly against yours, fitting like a puzzle piece. His chest was pressed against your back, his heartbeat a steady, soothing rhythm that lulled you further into the quiet peace of the moment. His breath, soft and slow, caressed the back of your neck, each exhale a reminder that he was still there, holding you, grounding you in the present.

You shifted slightly in his arms, a soft murmur escaping your lips as you nestled closer to him, your body instinctively seeking his warmth. His grip tightened just a little, his hand sliding over your hip to rest against your stomach, holding you close, as if he was afraid that if he let go, even for a second, you might slip away. His fingers spread out across your skin, firm but gentle, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles over your skin.

For a while, he just watched you. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of the sheets and the faint sound of your breathing, now deep and even as you drifted into sleep. The moonlight filtering through the curtains cast a soft glow over your face, illuminating the peaceful expression you wore, the slight curve of your lips that made it seem like you were smiling in your dreams. And as he looked at you, something inside him tightened—a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite name, but knew with certainty that he had never felt anything like this before.

There was a softness to the way you slept, a vulnerability that made his chest ache. You had let him in, trusted him in ways that no one else had. And in return, you had made yourself a part of him—woven yourself into the very fabric of his being without even realizing it. And that scared him in a way he hadn’t expected. Because for the first time in a long time, he had something—someone—to lose.

As he held you, his mind began to wander, thoughts creeping in despite the quiet peace of the moment. Remy had always been careful, always lived with the knowledge that his life came with risks. The shadows he walked in weren’t just metaphors—they were real, dangerous, and constant. His world was one of deception, of danger lurking around every corner, of enemies who wouldn’t hesitate to use the people he cared about to get to him. He knew how easily things could change, how quickly that darkness could spread and consume everything in its path.

And that was why, as he looked down at you, so peaceful, so safe in his arms, he made a silent vow to himself.

He would keep you safe. No matter what it took. No matter how hard it became. He would protect you from the world he lived in, from the dangers that followed him like shadows. You were too precious, too important. He couldn’t let you be pulled into that darkness, into the chaos that constantly threatened to swallow him whole. You deserved better than that. You deserved peace. And this place—this bed, these moments with you—would be your sanctuary.

He would make sure of it.

His hand tightened slightly on your stomach, as if reinforcing that silent promise. He would never let anything touch you. Not here. Not in the space you had created together. He couldn’t change who he was, couldn’t erase the past that haunted him, or the enemies that would always be out there, waiting for a moment of weakness. But he could draw a line. He could make sure that his world stayed separate from yours.

You could know of his life, of the things he did, the people he dealt with. He wouldn’t hide the truth from you. But you would never be a part of it. He would never let you get too close to the danger. There would always be a boundary, always that invisible wall between you and the darkness he carried with him. He had never been good at protecting himself—had always accepted the risks, the wounds, the scars that came with his life. But you? You were different. He couldn’t bear the thought of you being hurt, of his world touching you in any way.

The thought of it made his chest tighten, a sharp stab of fear that he hadn’t expected. He had never been afraid of much in his life, had always faced danger head-on, unflinching. But now, lying there with you in his arms, the stakes felt higher. The thought of you being pulled into his world, of you being hurt because of him, was the one thing that truly terrified him.

He pressed a soft kiss to the back of your neck, his lips lingering for just a moment as he breathed you in, trying to ground himself in the warmth of your skin, in the sound of your steady breathing.

This place—here—would always be your sanctuary. He would make sure of that. No matter what happened, no matter what danger came knocking on his door, he would keep it away from you. You had given him something he hadn’t even realized he needed—peace, comfort, a place where he could just be without the weight of the world on his shoulders. And he would protect that with everything he had.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy. His life wasn’t one that allowed for simple happiness, for quiet moments like this. But for you—for what you had given him—he would fight to keep it. He would keep the darkness at bay, even if it meant keeping parts of himself hidden from you, even if it meant sacrificing the parts of him that longed to let you in fully.

Because in the end, keeping you safe was more important than anything else. It was the only thing that mattered.

With that silent promise heavy in his chest, Remy closed his eyes, his arms still wrapped securely around you. He allowed himself to breathe in the moment, to let the softness of your body against his, the warmth of your skin, anchor him. And as sleep began to pull him under, his grip on you never loosened, his body instinctively curling around yours as if to shield you, to protect you even in sleep.

This place, this bed, this night—it was yours. It was his. It was safe.

And he would make sure it stayed that way. <><><><>><><>< You awoke with a groan, the shrill sound of your phone’s ringtone dragging you from the warm cocoon of sleep. Without opening your eyes, your hand fumbled across the nightstand, searching blindly for the device. Finally, your fingers found it, and you slid your thumb across the screen to answer, your voice still thick with sleep.

“Hello?” you mumbled, your head sinking back into the pillow, your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to cling to the remnants of your dreams.

“You’re late,” came Abigail’s sharp voice, cutting through the grogginess like a knife. “I’m giving you twenty minutes to get here before I fire you myself.”

You winced, pulling the phone away from your ear long enough to squint at the screen. Your eyes widened when you saw the time—thirty minutes past the start of your shift. Shit.

“I—uh, sorry, I’ll be right there,” you stammered, your heart kicking into high gear as reality started to sink in.

“Good,” Abigail replied, her tone as icy as ever. “Because James is an idiot without you there managing him.”

Before you could respond, the line went dead, leaving you holding your phone to your ear with a growing sense of panic. You groaned again, louder this time, the sound muffled by your pillow as you flopped back down onto the mattress. Great. Just great.

But as your mind cleared and your heart stopped racing, you became aware of something else—someone else.

You turned your head slowly, the events of the night before flooding back into your consciousness as you gazed at the figure lying next to you. Remy. His bare chest rose and fell with the slow, steady rhythm of sleep, his arm slung lazily over his eyes, blocking out the morning light that filtered in through the curtains. The sheet had slipped down to his waist, leaving his torso exposed, the faint scars on his skin a quiet reminder of the life he lived beyond the sanctuary of this room.

A soft smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you watched him, your heart swelling with a mixture of affection and wonder. He looked so peaceful, so different from the guarded man he usually was. The lines of worry and tension that normally creased his brow were gone, replaced by the calm serenity of sleep. And for a moment, you let yourself just look at him, drinking in the sight of him lying there beside you, so open, so vulnerable in a way you had never seen him before.

You didn’t want to wake him. God, you really didn’t want to wake him. Especially after last night—after that quiet, intense connection you had shared. You wanted to stay in this moment, to curl back into him and let the outside world disappear for just a little longer.

But you didn’t have a choice.

With a frustrated sigh, you pushed yourself up into a sitting position, the cool air hitting your skin as you slipped out from under the covers. The bed shifted slightly beneath you, and you glanced over your shoulder to see if the movement had disturbed him. But Remy didn’t stir. His arm remained draped over his eyes, his breathing deep and even. You hesitated for just a second, your gaze lingering on the curve of his lips, the soft rise and fall of his chest.

As you leaned down to press a soft kiss to Remy's cheek, you felt him stir beneath you. His breath hitched slightly, and before you could pull away, his arm shifted, falling from his eyes to rest lazily across his chest. He blinked up at you, his eyes still heavy with sleep, a small, sleepy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Mm, mornin’, cher,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. His hand reached for you, his fingers brushing lightly against your side, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let you go just yet. His touch was soft, warm, and for a moment, you were tempted to crawl back into bed with him, to let the rest of the world wait.

But then you remembered the phone call.

You let out a soft sigh, brushing your fingers lightly through his tangled hair as you whispered, “I’m late for work.”

Remy’s eyes flickered with amusement, but there was something warmer behind it, too—something softer, more tender. He shifted onto his elbow, leaning up slightly as his gaze roamed over your face, taking you in as if he was trying to memorize every detail before you slipped away from him again.

“Work, huh?” he teased, his voice still thick with sleep. “Was hopin’ I could convince ya t’ stay a little longer.”

You laughed softly, but the sound was tinged with regret. “Believe me, I’d love to, but Abigail’s already threatening to fire me.”

He winced slightly at that, a sympathetic smile crossing his face. His hand slipped from your side, trailing down your arm before resting on the bed beside him, his fingers brushing against the sheets where your body had been just moments ago. “Guess I can’t be the reason ya lose your job.”

You shook your head, smiling as you leaned in to kiss him again—this time, a little more firmly, savoring the feel of his lips against yours, the warmth of him, before you pulled away. “Not today, at least.”

As you stood up, reaching for your clothes scattered around the room, a thought crept into your mind, one that you couldn’t quite shake. You glanced back at him as you pulled your shirt over your head, your movements slowing as you watched him stretch out lazily on the bed, his bare chest rising and falling with each steady breath. His eyes were on you, dark and intense, full of something that made your heart skip a beat.

“Will I see you later?” you asked, trying to sound casual, even though the question carried more weight than you intended. It felt strange, waking up like this—so close, so connected—and not knowing when you’d see him again.

Remy’s smile faded slightly as he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, his body still half-covered by the sheets. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, his expression softening, though there was something guarded in his eyes now—something distant.

“I don’t think so, cher,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Got some things I need to take care of today. Business.”

You tried to hide your disappointment, but he saw it, his gaze flickering over your face as if he could read every thought, every feeling. He sighed softly, reaching for your hand and pulling you gently toward him. You stepped closer, letting him tug you between his legs as he sat on the edge of the bed, his hands resting lightly on your hips.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and gentle. “Ya know I’d rather be here wit’ ya, right?”

You nodded, biting your lip as you looked down at him. His thumb brushed softly over your skin, a silent reassurance, but the distance in his eyes remained, like there was something unspoken between you—something he wasn’t letting you see.

“I get it,” you said softly, though the words felt heavier than you wanted them to. “You’ve got your life, I’ve got mine.”

Remy’s grip on your hips tightened slightly, just for a moment, as if he didn’t like the sound of those words. But then he let out a quiet breath, his lips quirking into a faint smile as he looked up at you.

“Don’t worry, cher,” he said. “I’ll find ya soon enough.”

You smiled, but there was still a lingering sense of uncertainty as you pulled away from him, stepping back to gather the rest of your things. You couldn’t help but feel like there was more to his words, more to the way he was pulling away from you. But you didn’t press him. Not now.

As you finished pulling on your shoes, you glanced back at Remy, still sitting on the edge of the bed, his bare chest catching the soft morning light that filtered through the curtains. He was watching you, his expression unreadable but his eyes warm, following your every move. You hesitated for a moment, not wanting to leave him alone in the quiet of your apartment, but work was calling, and you were already late.

“Hey,” you said softly, breaking the comfortable silence. “You can stay as long as you need to. Feel free to use the shower, grab something to eat.” You paused, offering him a small smile. “Just remember to pull the deadlock when you leave, okay?”

A grin tugged at the corner of his lips, and he leaned back slightly, resting his hands on the bed behind him as he looked up at you. “You're t’ good t’ me, cher.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but the way he was looking at you made your stomach flutter. “It’s no big deal. I trust you.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes—something deeper, unspoken—but before you could dwell on it, he stood up, moving with that easy grace that always seemed to follow him. He reached down to where his jeans lay crumpled on the floor, fishing around in the pocket until he pulled out his phone.

“How abo’ I make it up to ya?” he said, glancing at you with a playful glint in his eyes. “Lemme take ya out tonight. Just you and me.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the offer. “Tonight?”

He nodded, already scrolling through his phone, his fingers moving deftly over the screen. “Yeah. After ya done wit’ work, I’ll text ya. We can meet somewhere. No distractions, no interruptions. Just us.”

You bit your lip, feeling a surge of excitement rise in your chest despite the lingering haze of your morning rush. The way he said it—just us—felt like a promise, something more than just a casual night out. It felt like he was offering you a piece of himself, something you hadn’t quite seen before. And despite everything, despite the uncertainty that sometimes clouded your connection, you wanted that. You wanted him.

“Okay,” you said, your smile growing as you slung your bag over your shoulder. “Text me, and I’ll meet you.”

Remy’s grin widened, a rare, genuine smile that softened the edges of his normally guarded demeanor. “I’s a date, then.”

He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, and leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his lips against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you forgot all about the ticking clock, about Abigail, about how late you were for work. All you could think about was him—the way he smelled, the way his body radiated heat, and the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of the room.

When he pulled back, his hand lingered on your arm for just a second longer before he let go, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I’ll see yalater, cher.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest as you turned toward the door. “Yeah. See you.”

As you stepped out of the room, you glanced back one last time, catching one more glimpse of him standing there, his phone still in hand, his gaze following you like a quiet promise. You didn’t want to leave, not really, but the thought of seeing him later—just the two of you—gave you something to look forward to, something to hold onto through the chaos of the day ahead.

“Don’t forget the deadlock,” you called over your shoulder with a teasing grin.

Remy chuckled softly, his voice warm and familiar as it trailed after you. “I got it, darlin’. Don’t worry.”

And with that, you slipped out the door, a smile still lingering on your lips as you headed down the hallway, already counting the hours until you could see him again.

[elvisgasm]

May we PLEASE have more like “and devour”??? I am in love with the way you write for him 😍

He watches you from the velour blue couch. A thick cigar threaded between two ringed fingers.

You're rolling about the floor and giggling in a blurry haze.

"I don't feel anything." You hold up a hand, turning it back and forth and back again to inspect the delicate veins and trickling fingerprints that decorate your fingers. "I feel the same."

Elvis chuckles lightly from above you, leaning down to run the tips of his fingers up and down your back gently.

You shiver and shuffle away to sit on your knees. Turning to him, your face falls flat in an unimpressed look – disappointed in the lack of "high" Elvis had promised you.

He smiles at your expression, scoffing lightly before cupping your jaw in a rough hand.

"Lemme look at ya' eyes," he turns you from side to side, letting out a small laugh when the light exposes the heavy black of your pupils.

He leans back with a smile, petting your chin softly before releasing you.

"Let's wait a bit."

Frustrated, you throw your hands up dramatically and fall back onto the carpet with a huff.

"Oh, I know." The sound of his lighter echoes throughout the TV room, "it's just the end of the world, isn't it."

The buzz of the TV tickles you in a gentle hum that echoes off the walls of the room.

Crawling over to the older man, you rest your arms on one of his knees, peering up at him under your dark lashes.

Elvis meets your eyes with a smile, pulling a drag from his cigar before turning his head away from you to exhale the billowing smoke.

"Y'need to go to bed soon." He chides, stroking the backs of his knuckles over your cheek.

A simmering heat floods your chest, and you pout.

Elvis laughs at your blown out eyes pulled down in furrow – you're so high you haven't even realized you've been swaying from side to side at his feet.

"Elvis?" Your voice cracks through a yawn.

"Hm?" He takes another drag.

"When was the first time you got high?"

He looks at you from behind his tinted glasses, thinking over the question.

"Think I mighta' been twenty-one or twenty-two." His knee bounces. "Why'da ask, hon?" He drops his hand down to stroke your jaw to your chin.

You shrug. "I don't think it works on me."

"Oh, trust me, it's workin'." Elvis shakes his head some.

"Elvis?"

"What, honey?"

"If I get taller, will you let me have your clothes and your shoes and all of your pretty jewelry?" You begin to pick at the vanilla carpet.

"You plannin' on havin' a second growth spurt soon or somethin'?" He leans back into the couch cushion.

"I don't know!" You meet his eyes. "M'not tryin' to be funny, Elvis."

"You're not gonna get another growth spurt in your twenties, thirties, forties–"

"Okay, I get it!" You pinch his thigh and he jolts with a faux cry of pain, pushing your hand away.

Elvis soothes out the front of his dress shirt, "but, if some magical unicorn comes down and gives you a second growth spurt – hey, don't pick at the carpet." He leans over to pull your hand away from the floor with a sigh.

"You smell good," you nuzzle into his forearm.

He lets you hold his arm, laughing softly at your inebriated behavior.

"It's bedtime."

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Nowhere to Run--Ch. 58

Warning: Description of childbirth to follow. It's a little graphic, but not much.

Chapter 58

            It was a sensation that nearly knocked me to my knees. The only way to describe it was a pulling pressure that came in waves like the worst period cramps I’d ever had. I let out a moan of discomfort that reverberated in my bones. For a moment I thought I was going to pass out.

            There was a flurry of attention and movement as a crowd of people settled around me. Faces blurred together. I heard Tony’s voice calling for medical. I felt hands on my wrist, something cold against my chest.

            “Ms. Prince,” came a voice. Distant. Calm. Clinical. “Are you injured? Are you experiencing contractions? How far apart are they?”

            I couldn’t catch a breath long enough to reply. Yes, oh God, yes I was having contractions. How far apart? They weren’t.

            “Focus, Kat,” Jack’s voice came from nowhere. “C’mon, Kit Kat. Focus.”

            Fingers threaded through mine, squeezing gently. Someone lifted my shirt. I snapped back to reality as a stethoscope pressed against my belly. I caught a glimpse of Santana running toward the tunnel. Tay pushed people back down the hallway. Jack held my hand in both of his. I could feel his mass of curls against my cheek.

            An ache ran through me that had nothing to do with the pain lancing through my body. It had been so long since Jack had been kind to me. Truly kind. But just then it was as if nothing had changed. As if that day in my apartment in California had never been. No fighting about me being with Chris. No venom and hurtful words. Just my best friend, the person I’d relied on for so long. The scent of Jack’s shampoo slammed into me, and I couldn’t help but remember sitting in the hospital that final day with him while we waited for the inevitable. Jack and I clinging to one another as we cried quietly, my face buried in his hair.

            “Look at me,” he said firmly. He squeezed my hand hard, snapping me out of the memory. “Look at me, Kat.”

            I blinked as his face came into view. Pain shot through my back and around my belly. I ached. I felt like I needed to go to the bathroom. I felt like I was going to vomit. That sensation inside me shifted lower and settled on my pelvis. It was strange. It was frightening. It hurt.

            “EMS is five minutes out.”

            “Why the fuck aren’t they here?” It was Jack screaming, his voice cracking with rage. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

            The pain crested and slammed into me with enough force to shove the breath out of my lungs. I couldn’t hold back the scream as my body tensed, bearing down of its own accord.

            EMS or not, the baby was coming now.

***

            The crowd of people in the hallway scared the shit out of Jericho as he ran full tilt behind Santana. He heard Kat scream, and he started shoving people out of the way. He didn’t care who it was or where they ended up, only that they were between him and her.

            “Fucking move!” he shouted as he passed by Christopher Daniels. The other man slammed into the wall shoulder first, cursing under his breath as he watched Jericho race past.

            The backstage medical team was there. Tay held people back at the other end of the hallway. He barely recognized the rest of the Inner Circle standing there watching. Kat was on top of a road crate, leaning back against an absolutely terrified looking Tony Khan.

            Jericho wanted to roar at them all to get out of the way. To stop staring. To do something. He wanted them to disappear. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. This wasn’t right.

            “C’mon, Kit Kat,” Jack Perry said from her side. She had his hand in a white-knuckle grip. “Just breathe. Five minutes.”

            “I don’t have five minutes,” she growled back. “This baby is coming now!”

            Jericho barreled through the medical team to her side. Something inside him realized that it was a waste of precious time to try to get rid of Jack Perry. Instead, he took up the place opposite him. Kat’s face was flushed, sweat already beading on her hairline. She had nearly folded herself in half, teeth clenched, fear in her eyes. Oh fuck, he thought, this kid is going to be born in a hallway.

            “Where’s Chris?” she whined as she gasped for air. It seemed like a momentary reprieve from the pain.

            He finally reached her side and took her hand in his. “I’m right here, Kat.”

            His heart thumped against his ribs as he looked over her toward Jack Perry. “What happened?” His worry for Kat far outweighed his hatred for the younger man.

            “I just walked up, and she was leaning against the wall,” he said in a shaking voice. It suddenly dawned on Jericho how much fear clouded Jack’s eyes. “I ran to TK so they could get you. Then I came back here.”

            “Where’s the ambulance?” They almost always had one on standby backstage.

            Jack scowled. “On the way.”

            Before Jericho could say anything, Kat let out a wail of anguish through her clenched teeth.

            “Get ‘em off!” she ordered. It took him a moment to realize she meant her pants. He looked around, acutely aware of the crowd of people watching.

            He glanced between Tony and Jack. “Help me get her to the trainer’s room.”

            Kat thrashed in pain. “Get them off!” The words came out as a roar as she doubled over.

            As uncomfortable as it was, he complied. Between them, he and Jack were able to shield her from most of the prying eyes. Her wet underwear and pants were dropped to the floor. Jericho tried to figure out a way to hide her further but didn’t want to leave her long enough to find something. In a smooth motion that barely jostled Kat, Tony slipped off his jacket and draped it over her the best he could.

            “Towels. Sheets. Gear. I don’t care,” Tay shouted at Ortiz and Sammy, pointing over their shoulders toward the locker rooms. They stared at her in surprise. “Go! And fucking hurry!”

            Kat squeezed his hand so tightly that he lost feeling in his fingers. She gasped for breath and doubled over, drawing her knees up involuntarily. He looked beneath the jacket draped over her legs.

            “Jesus Christ,” he rasped. “I can see… Kat, she’s coming!”

***

            “Help me,” I moaned. I felt it, felt something happening that I knew I couldn’t stop. “Somebody help…”

            The worst pain I’d ever felt tore through me. It felt like my body would split in half. I couldn’t stop the scream that ripped from my throat as the pain and pressure peaked.

            “Catch…” I gasped, unable to control my body. “Catch her.”

            One of them disentangled their hand from mine. I didn’t know what to do but grip the side of the road case so hard that I thought I was going to break my fingers.

            And then, suddenly, the pain and pressure were gone. I gasped and choked for air as I slumped backward. I thumped against something warm. Someone. I tilted my head, blinking through sweat-blurred eyes to see Tony Khan sitting between me and the wall.

            “Hey boss,” I slurred with a faint smile. The relief of the pain seemed to make me drunk.

            “Kat,” Chris said, his awe-filled voice filtering into my brain. I felt his fingers brushing my hair back from my face. His forehead settled against my temple. “You’re amazing, Katarina Prince. Amazing. Look, sweetheart. Look.”

            I heard sirens in the distance. Blinking sweat from my eyes, I finally took stock of everything around me. People were still hovering at either end of the hallway. Sammy looked green as he held an armful of towels. Santana, Ortiz, and Tay worked to push everyone out of the way, shouting that they needed to make room for the EMS.

            My attention wavered for a fraction of a second. The sound of crying drew my attention. Jack stood between my knees with a blood-tinged towel wrapped around a bundle in his arms. A little fist waved in the air. Something caught in my chest.

            After all this time, our daughter was here. There was a new strange sensation of something still inside me—her umbilical cord probably—but I couldn’t make myself think of anything else. Even when a feeling of pressure started low in my stomach again.

            I held out my arms, not willing to delay holding my daughter any longer. Jericho reached up, his deft fingers undoing the buttons at the top of my AEW polo. He held the fabric open as Jack helped settle her against my chest. She was warm and slippery.

            She was perfect.

            The last thing I heard before exhaustion started to turn my senses funny was the sound of squeaking wheels and unfamiliar voices. And the echo of Jack Perry shouting.

            “Took you fucking long enough!”

________________________

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[northern-passage]

thank you @attollogame :-)

my words are: red, touch, weave, & slice

The Northern Passage

Red

You grab the front of his jacket, pinning him beneath you, and he makes a sad attempt at swiping at you with the knife, but you just slap it away, your knuckles cracking against his wrist. You can feel the rain soaking through the back of your cloak, through your hood, rivulets down your hands as you curl them into fists. He's still trying to get away, his legs kicking at the ground behind you, but you hit him before he can get out from under you, hard enough that he slumps back into the muddy snow for a moment, his legs going still. You hit him again, and again, and he makes a strange sound, trying to turn away, blood trickling into his eyes, sticking to his eyelashes. Your next hit catches him in the mouth, and pain explodes in your hand, his teeth breaking over your knuckles, his lip splitting like ripe fruit - the skin peeled back, the pulp thick and red.

Touch

You glare at each other for the briefest moment, before Merry retaliates, lunging back and grabbing the front of your shirt and slamming you against the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of you - and remind you that you have a crossbow bolt in your back. Your boots nearly kick into the fire, the horses on the other side of you huffing and tossing their heads, and you grab at Merry's wrists, but she just slams you back again. "Don't you fucking touch me," she snarls, her hands rough enough that you hear the tearing of fabric as she shoves you one more time, white stars flashing across your vision as the bolt in your shoulder is jarred violently, making you gasp, and when she finally lets you go, you crumple to the floor, breathing hard.

Slice

Harper then finally manages to slice through the rope binding the door of the cage together, and he rips it off, nearly hitting you with it in his haste. You just watch as he rushes in, dropping to the ground in front of Rafe, reaching up to take eyr face in his hands. When they kiss, you quickly look away, feeling like an intruder. You turn to the other cage, but you close your eyes, the image of Lea bleeding out on the cobblestones flashing in your mind for a brief moment. Guilt - and something else - constricts in your chest, and you let out a long, shaky breath, opening your eyes and pulling at your hood, forcing yourself to focus on the collapsed cage in front of you.

Blood Choke

Red

Closing your eyes, you let her wrap her arms around you, holding you against her chest, and you listen to the slow, steady beat of her heart. A familiar sound-- it reminds you of all those knotted threads in your chest, and you imagine the single red string tangled around you and Valentina, frayed and messy and bloody-- but binding. It tightens more and more with each passing beat shared between you.

Touch

You think she likes it this way-- more in control, her hand in your hair to pull you around as she pleases. You blink up at her, your hands resting on her hips, toying with the bottom of her shirt. "Can I touch your stomach?" you ask. She nods.

Bonus ???

Red

You cut from sternum to navel, the rotting flesh easily pulling apart beneath your blade. The smell nearly makes you retch, and Billie coughs, waving her hand in front of her face and stepping back a bit. There's no satisfying spill of red blood, just chunks of flesh tearing and black bile leaking into the dirt, and you turn away for a moment, taking a deep breath, before plunging your hands into its open torso. You groan as you slather yourself in blood and gore, hot and thick as it sticks between your fingers. Billie watches you with a sour expression, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

Touch

"What the fuck, Billie!" you gasp. The lockbox is clutched against your chest again, held so tight that you can feel the sharp edge sinking into the open cut on your palm. Your blood mixes with the undead's, and you just stare down at yourself in disbelief. "No. No, no no no," you mutter, your hand tightening around the lockbox while your other reaches to touch your bloody calf. No. No, no, no.

[eldritchships]

18 and/or 20 with anyone of your choice for the kiss meme :)

Tysm! I ended up doing both! The first one with Jason (883 words), and the second with Dr. Drakken (1042 words).

18 - Fingers/knuckles

“Please, stop squirming."

Nikki’s shoulders hiked, tensing up to stop himself from moving. Despite the polite phrasing of the request, there was an edge to Jason’s soft tone that indicated he was on the brink of frustration. Nikki’s hand shook in Jason’s grasp, and a hiss escaped through his teeth as the layer of thick frost crept further up his wrist.

Having dropped rather gracelessly into Jason’s favourite chair when he’d been brought back here, Nikki tried to keep his focus on the feeling of the fabric underneath him, silent except for the occasional grunt or sharp inhale of pain. It wouldn’t be helpful for his telepathic powers to go haywire right now while Jason was trying to attend to his injury.

Jason’s gaze scrutinised the crystalline ice crawling through Nikki’s flesh. He rummaged through a bag thrown beside his kneeling form, drawing out a bottle of something red and viscous, tied with gilded thread. The substance almost looked like mercury, and Nikki’s mouth twisted into a frown, eyes obscured by his scruffy white hair. A wave of reassurance touched his mind, mixed with barely-restrained impatience and concern. Feelings from Jason. A silent prompt to trust him.

Jason fumbled the bottle open with one hand, and raised it towards Nikki’s freezing one. There was a moment’s pause, but Nikki sucked in a breath, making no attempt to stop him. The bottle tipped, its substance dripping in thick droplets like candle wax onto the back of Nikki’s hand. Jason mumbled words Nikki couldn’t understand, and he watched in awe as the potion absorbed into his skin. A moment passed and then, with a brittle crack, the ice shrank back to fit within Nikki’s palm before disappearing altogether. Warmth flooded Nikki’s previously numb fingers, and he wiggled them gratefully.

“I’d have thought a man who calls himself ‘Brain Freeze’ would have fared better against a frost demon.” Jason muttered, resealing the bottle and placing it back inside the bag. Nikki grimaced, raising a free hand to rub the back of his neck. The annoyance within the joking remark wasn’t lost on him.

“Sorry. I was caught off-guard.” Jason couldn’t see Nikki’s eyes settle on his healed hand, still clutched tightly by Jason’s. The memory was still fresh in his mind of watching Jason get slammed back by that wall of ice, breaking focus to shout out and allowing that crummy demon a free shot. He did regret letting it happen, most of all because Jason hadn’t looked him in the eye since then. A pang of guilt squeezed Nikki’s chest at the thought that he’d disappointed Jason. He couldn’t know for sure, unless…

Nikki slowly extended his mind towards the presence of Jason’s kneeling before him. He prodded at the bubble of consciousness, nudging through the emotions sitting on the surface. A sigh broke his concentration, and Nikki froze again, knowing he’d been caught.

“Nicolas…” Jason said slowly, a frown turning his lips as he tightened the bag’s drawstrings, “If you want to know how I feel, you only have to ask.” Nikki relaxed, smiling apologetically. He pulled his thoughts away from Jason’s and flexed his tongue, consciously changing his method of communication back to spoken words.

“How do you feel?”

Jason sighed again, but this one sounded more like a deep breath. His thumb brushed against the back of Nikki’s hand, over where the frost spell had first hit.

“You shouldn’t be so careless. A mistake like that could have cost you far more than a frozen hand. Only one of us possesses knowledge of the arcane and I won’t always be there to help you - nor will Etrigan.” For the first time in hours, Jason’s gaze rose to Nikki’s. It was sharp and gravely serious, and Nikki shifted uncomfortably in his seat, another wave of guilt tightening his throat. A shadow fell over Jason, nearly imperceptible if not for the tautness in his expression. “I’ve watched many of my compatriots fall in my lifetime…I couldn’t bear to lose you too.” Nikki stared at him. The quiet admission demanded at least a moment of silence, even though Jason had hesitated to say it aloud. Nikki’s head lowered, and he attempted a laugh.

“Hey, I’m not much of a catch.” The joke failed to coax even a smile out of Jason, and Nikki’s laugh died out. He started to avert his gaze, but startled when Jason moved to rise to one knee. His hold strengthened around Nikki’s hand, lifting it to press a soft, reverent kiss to the knuckles. Nikki pulled back ever so slightly and his covered eyes swept over Jason’s form, his skin tingling where lips had pressed. Down on one knee, gazing up at Nikki with sincerity and purpose…it almost felt like a proposal. Or a knight pledging fealty to his lord.

“Promise me you’ll be more careful.” Jason didn’t move an inch, didn’t falter in how he looked at Nikki. Nikki swallowed, unprepared for the sudden weight of the request.

“I…I promise.” He stammered out. He followed the answer with another, much stronger one, directly fed into Jason’s mind and heart without any of his voice’s uncertainty; “I love you.”

Tension unwound from Jason’s back, and his lips finally curled upwards - his version of a wide smile.

“I love you too.”

20 - First Kiss

“Don’t overthink it, Dr D.”

“I am not overthinking it!” Drakken snapped. Without looking up from her copy of Villains Digest, Shego made an unconvinced-sounding hum of agreement. Drakken scowled at the back of her head before looking back to himself in the mirror, his hands wrangling his tie into something presentable.

Drakken swallowed, his mouth feeling unbearably dry. His eyebrows furrowed together as his earlier conversation with Shego resurfaced in his mind, and he quickly tried to dispel it alongside the thudding of his heart in his chest. He prayed that his hand didn’t feel too clammy holding onto Melpomene’s.

Fortunately, Mr Melpomene’s attention seemed elsewhere right now, keeping a slow, easy pace with their hand entwined with Drakken’s as the two walked up the front path. Drakken watched one of their canine ears twitch in the evening’s cool breeze, and he reminded himself to keep it together. He had made it through dinner, all he had to do was escort Melpomene home. For crying out loud, he was going to rule the world someday, he could handle walking his date to their door!

Melpomene’s lair was exactly what you’d expect a music-based supervillain to have. A tad on the small side though; as if a concert hall had decided to pack up and retire to the countryside. There was even an old stereo sitting on a table underneath the shelter of the porch. They crossed the front steps and finally came to a stop within reach of Melpomene’s door, turning to face each other.

“Well…” Drakken started, eyes flicking between the door and Melpomene. He had no idea how to continue his sentence, and eventually settled on an awkward, “This is it.” Melpomene nodded slowly, and a smile exposed their fangs, sending butterflies right to Drakken’s stomach.

“I had a lovely time tonight.” They said warmly. They squeezed Drakken’s hand, still holding theirs, causing his gaze to snap there without much subtlety. He hesitated, mulling over the best response to give. Why was being charming so much easier when he didn’t like the intended receiver? Melpomene always made it look so effortless.

“So did I.” Drakken finally replied quietly. He sunk in on himself, meeting Melpomene’s gaze with a smile that frustratingly lacked confidence. But Melpomene’s smile didn’t waver, and he even spotted their tail wagging behind them. It was admittedly kind of adorable, and Drakken couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I’d love to do this again sometime…?” Melpomene’s head tilted, voice lilting up at the end to turn the statement into a question. Drakken quickly straightened and nodded, trying to regain his usual air of self-assuredness.

“Yes! Yes, of course. That sounds delightful. I, uhm…would love to.”

Melpomene’s smile widened and they chuckled, a melodious sound that Drakken was only able to enjoy for a moment before realising with a start that their hand was slipping from his own.

“Goodnight, Dr. Drakken.” Melpomene was turning away, rifling through the pocket of their striking ensemble for some kind of key. Drakken’s eyes widened and without thinking, he shifted forward and touched their arm, not enough to grab but enough to make them freeze.

“Wait!” They stared at him. Drakken stared back. He fumbled over his words again, stammering out a syllable or two as all his mad genius failed to voice the feelings tangled up inside of him. Alright, maybe Shego had been right…he was overthinking this.

Melpomene continued to stare at him, not moving and expecting an explanation for Drakken’s sudden outburst. Drakken took a breath and swallowed down his nerves, looking Melpomene in the eye.

“I didn’t think the evening would be over so soon.” One side of his mouth pulled up with a weak chuckle, but it trailed off as he started to squirm. “But I was hoping I could…leave you with a kiss goodnight?”

“Really?” Melpomene’s voice was flat, but their ears perked upright. Drakken gave a lopsided grin, unease creeping over him again as his offer hung in the air. Melpomene removed their hand from their pocket, turning back towards him. “I would love to.” Drakken brightened, grin strengthening tenfold and this time he had to tell himself to reign in his enthusiasm. He attempted a cool, collected clear of his throat as he smoothed a hand over his dark hair and stepped forward. Melpomene’s scarlet eyes practically glowed with delight when he placed his other hand on their upper arm to steady himself, and Drakken’s composure started to crumble even as he leant in. He faltered, his face inches away from Melpomene’s own, feeling the sensation of their soft brown fur under his touch...it was overwhelming, but thankfully Melpomene closed the gap for him, pressing their lips to his. Drakken’s gaze warmed before his eyes closed, letting the admittedly chaste kiss last a long, unhurried moment.

Drakken parted and stepped back once he thought it polite to do so; Being a maniacal supervillain didn’t mean he couldn’t also be a gentleman. There was a small tug on his suit jacket, Melpomene having grasped the fabric during the kiss without him noticing. The look on their face was practically starstruck, and Drakken gave a slightly smug smile as he watched them blink to return to Earth.

“Drak…” Unlike Drakken, Melpomene didn’t try in the slightest to hide his fluster, and it was growing on Drakken more and more with every passing minute.

“Goodnight, Mr Melpomene.” Drakken nodded, putting his hands in the pockets of his slacks in lieu of anywhere else to put them. Melpomene cleared their throat and returned the nod, trying to regain their earlier composure. Their tail waved behind them again.

“Goodnight.” They retrieved their keycard and swiped it in the door’s lock; several high-tech security systems beeped and whirred as they retracted inside. Drakken took that as his cue to leave, and started back towards the front steps. He almost tripped on them in an attempt to look back, and the smile that had yet to leave his face widened as he saw Melpomene doing the same, lingering in their own front doorway. A moment of warm silence passed between them before they both finally managed to tear their eyes away, and turned to make their way to their respective lairs.

[radama-zard]

Dungeons & Drabbles 2023

Day 8 - Ignorance

(Oops! Life got a taaaaaad busy there! Between having to finish a heck ton of designs and products for a market, several days of travel, restless sleep and a birthday, there wasn't really any time to write! I'm gonna do my best to get back on track now though~)

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

QueerPlatonic PolyQuad Krook House Crew - ModernHuman AU

“Get FUCKED, scum twatter!”

With a satisfied smirk, Anni watched the scowling little old lady turn with a huff, more than glad to see the back of the nasty ass hag.

“That was a little harsh, don't you think?”

“Letters, you know I love your sunshiny ass, but shut the fuck up.”

Fresh Cut Grass gave a slight huff, staring up at their beloved crusty punk of a partner, watching as she flipped off a gruff looking middle aged man, her glare almost daring him to come say something. And perhaps he would have, if it weren't for Ashton right behind her, cracking his knuckles something fierce, managing to look threatening even with Milo curled up in their lap, nose deep in a textbook thicker than their thighs.

“I just don't- I’m not saying that-” they tried, starting and stopping, failing to get his words out just right. “I know she was- That people tend to be a tad…”

“Ignorant?” Milo interjected with, not even looking up as they let the page flutter over to the next.

“Shitty?” Ashton added, reaching over to thread their fingers through Fresh Cut Grass’ bouncy locks, scratching at their scalp in a way that always had him melting in seconds.

“Deserving of a swift kick to the shins?” Anni finished with little flourish of her combat boots, skidding a foot across the grass before settling back into place, leaning heavily into Fresh Cut Grass’ side.

“Rude! I was gonna say rude!” They cried out, a familiar exasperation dripping from each and every word. Yet there was no bite to it, no true annoyance to be heard, this old song and dance so deeply familiar to them all.

After all, no one really understood them.

Too close to be friends.

But distinctly lacking in romance and lust.

And yet, the love they all shared was undeniable.

No others were allowed to touch Ashton in such a way, their flesh only connecting with most through flurries of blows. Only their crew was allowed the privilege of gentleness, of warm, heavy embraces and ever so gentle hands, as large and powerful as they were, tenderly holding, patting and stroking.

Only they were worth that pain.

Who else could draw Milo from the safety and comfort of their own home? The outside world was so bright and noisy, full of people who always threw funny looks their way. Away from their beloved projects and personal coffee blend that only Ashton, Anni and Letters knew how to make juuust right.

Yet here they were, outside on a sunny day, in the middle of a public park.

Only they were worth the mental energy.

Anni notoriously got along with just about nobody. People were a pain in the ass. They didn't like her crass sense of humor. They only ever tended to like her when she was performing. But her music, her art, was deeply personal to her, and outside of actual gigs, no one got to hear her play.

Nor did they get to see beneath the brashness. The loyal heart that lay beneath.

Only they were worth trying for.

Fresh Cut Grass loved hugs and going out and meeting all kinds of people! By all means they should have been surrounded by a plethora of love!

But they had been burned before, both metaphorically and, well, physically. He had felt loss. Felt abandonment. Felt lost and alone and so so afraid.

It had been Ashton and Anni and Milo who had put him together again, who never gave up on them, who fought against a world so big and cruel, just to keep them safe.

Just to see Fresh Cut Grass smile again.

Only they were worth that fractured trust.

“Rude is fair too,” Milo agreed, finally setting their book down to peer over at their partner, throwing them an understanding smile. “Honestly, all those answers were. People are assholes when they don't understand something. I think we all know that pretty well. I for one, can't really complain about ignorant bastards getting what’s coming for them. Anni and Ashton need some kind of healthy outlet for all that pent up rage.”

“You saying I can punch a mother fucker?”

“Not unless you have bail money ready. I am not spending my afternoon trying to get your ass out of an arrest AGAIN, Anni.”

“Booooo, you whore!”

“Can't get arrested if you punch them hard enough that the fucker can't even remember their own name.”

“Ashton! You promised, no more fights this week!

“Ain’t a fight if they never punch back,” Ashton retorted with a shit eating grin. Fresh Cut Grass crossed their arms in turn, before playfully flicking the very tip of his nose.

“You know what I was meanin’! Only necessary violence allowed, like self defense or wrestlin’ street alligators!”

“... Do I even want to ask where that shit came from?”

“Street alligators? Oh! Well I was watchin’ YouTube late last night…”

“Late night conspiracy vids. Got it.”

Under the shade of an old oak tree, upon a fluffy old blanket, they four of them continued on, voices overlapping, intermingling as their bodies did aa well. Their touches casual, yet still intimate. Lingering without complaint, with familiar comfort.

Like this was all they ever needed.

Like, together, they were home.

And that was something worth the scorn, the cruel whispers and willful ignorance.

After all, nothing else quite mattered outside of them.

[revelisms]

Excerpt: Not Your Child

Silco confronts Vi on her perceptions of Jinx. Vi shoots back.

From a work in progress set after 'heron blue,' an AU where Vi and Jinx reconnect under different terms. Slow, rocky relationship rebuilding, found family messiness, and a dash of hurt/comfort.

"I'd like to ask you something." Silco's eyes do not stray, but Vi catches the way the teal one sharpens; hears the certain edge that deepens the shorn silk of his words. "That girl you're after. The idea you're clinging to. Is she still so far gone, to you?"

He means Powder. Means whether the girl they're both watching, just along the way, is indeed the fractured image Vi has made her out to be: a separation her sister herself has demanded.

Stop calling me that. It's Jinx, now.

Vi doesn't want to have this conversation, stuck on this Piltie cliffside, breathing in this bastard's venomous air, on her sister's damned name-day. 

"I don't follow—"

"You still won't acknowledge her."

Vi clenches her fists. "It's—"

"She's sought your approval for a lifetime, girl—even in your presumed grave." At last, she stares at him. His hawkish profile, his gaunt face, his graying hair swept loose from the gales. "Perhaps you see it as trite, now—but she's waiting for it, still."

Frustration bleeds into her chest. "I can't let her go." Her sister's parcel, yet to be handed off, sits like a coal burning through her waist. "She didn't—she didn't used to be like this."

You made her like this.

Silco crooks his head at her. His mismatched eyes hunt for something in her own. Pick and pull at the threads of it.

"The girl I found in that wreckage," he gravels, sharp as steel, "is still there. Her passion, her life, her wonder. That is who she is. Not whatever image you have in your head, of the thing she made of herself, in your own."

Forced into a misshapen mould.

Vi draws in a silent, simmering breath, rage broiling in it—skewing to old hurt, old cracks, old hate. Brown paper crinkles beneath the tightening of her fist.

"Are you talking about her?" she snaps, icily. "Or about you?"

Something crosses his face. A startle of the dark line of his lashes: a twitch of the fingers at his back.

Slowly, he turns back to the cliffs. For a breath, two, he stands in silence.

"Perhaps," he admits, gruffly, "I see too much of myself, in her." His hands turn white-knuckled at his back. "Too much of Vander, in you."

There's poison in those words. Poison, and pain, and prejudice.

"Vander was a good man," Vi seethes.

Silco tips his head back. Above them, chickadees flutter. "He was."

The revelation throws her from her axis. Ties a strange, uneasy knot in her throat. She scowls at the scuffed edges of her boots, at the whistling dryness of the fields, at the gulls cawing from the waves beyond.

"You hated him." She spits it out, flatly. It's all she knows—all she will let herself believe. To even entertain the opposite cuts her too deep to bear. 

Silco shifts his jaw, eases out a thin breath. There's a gleam in that teal eye, heavy-lidded and pensive, that Vi can't place.

"For years," he hushes, "I'd crafted myself in his likeness. To become what he admired. To be—worth something." He shakes his head, only slightly, as though the recollection still pits something in him, decades later; a story without a clean end. His mouth wrinkles at one corner, shadowing the grayish hollow of his cheek. "But to reflect a beast, so as to win its approval..." He huffs: a hairline reach at a laugh, too wearied and too quiet to be called one. "Well. A man takes no pride in the monster he makes."

He fidgets. Ticks his nail across his thumb, flexes his wrist: glancing down, and away, to study the rusted roll of the plain.

"What he saw in you," he continues, lowly, "feared in you, was not a consequence of your own, girl. You found strength, on your own terms." He looks across the way. "As has your sister."

The implication the words lay upon her makes her sick. That every dredge of pain she had felt before, striving to become everything in Vander that she cherished, that he'd seen and resented and crushed, she had done—is still doing—to Powder. That the snake poised beside her, uncharacteristically unkempt against the wind's pull, looking like a ghost of a man with twenty years shaved off the sallow of his skin, had lived and breathed that pain from Vander's own hand, and walked free from it, himself.

She can't take it.

She can't.

"You took her." The gun at her side burns through her skin. "You took her, you kept her—you think you haven't done the same thing? That she's not—she's not trying to be what you want?" 

A killer. A loose cannon. A monster. A weapon.

"What even is she, to you?" Vi scathes on. "You—you keep her in that bar, like a prisoner; you let her hang over your meetings, like she's a damn bodyguard; you hold her, like—"

His eyes knife into hers, warningly. Ice and fire, blistering and burning: ocean foam and cosmic dust.

She forces her mouth shut. Fumes heat out her nose.

"Like she's my own?" he amends, dangerously quiet.

Vi shakes her head, sharply. "She doesn't belong to you." Every word feels like it's pulling her teeth. "You don't own her."

"Nor did Vander." His eyes stay on hers, unblinking. "Nor do you."

"She's my sister—"

"Not your child." 

Something in her fractures: a years-old crack, splitting through her bones, splintering numbness into her lungs.

She blinks, while the earth swims around her. It opens its gaping jaws, and swallows her whole.

[rogue-centric]

Unhinge Your Jaw and Go For the Throat

Cross-posted to AO3

MATURE/EXPLICIT RATING: graphic descriptions of violence, torture, injury, blood, and gore. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.

This is for @especiallyhaytham because they just so happened to post about corrupt!shay while i was cracking my fanfic knuckles, so i pulled this prompt out of the deep, dark corner and dusted it off. It may be just a little dip-my-toes into this AU, but tonight we eat like kings.

"Alternate timeline Shay, where he lets his sense of justice become infected by vengeance? Shay who buries his conscience and gladly becomes the monster everyone expects him to be? Shay giving in to anger instead of realizing his grief, and ending anyone who ever crossed him with cold callousness? Grand Master Cormac (!!) sitting on his bloody throne like a whore, the man he once was long forgotten as he's transformed into the very thing he sold his soul to destroy?"

Summary:

The Brotherhood decided to take a strike at the Templar manifests, and the Grandmaster has no choice but to send out his war dog to rectify this disaster.

Words: 1,801

        Shay's breath is shallow, sounding ragged as it echoes off the rotting wood of the cabin around him. His arms are shaking where they're braced against the table, and dull pain is beginning to bloom across his raw knuckles. Vibrant scarlet covers his hands, and for a moment he's entranced by the look of it under the faint light being filtered through the cracks of this shit-hole. His attention is returned to reality when he hears a low, pained groan behind him. 

        Standing up straight, Shay turns around to face the bound man lying on the ground. His face is lying in a pool of blood collected on the floorboards beneath his bruised and split face. His eyes are nearly swollen shut as he makes a desperate attempt to reposition his beaten body. The man stills when he hears the dull thuds of approaching footfalls.

        Shay crouches down in front of the man, reaching out to take his bloodied face in his hand. The man flinches. "This is your last chance." Shay's voice is low and hoarse, "You can either tell me where your little friend is, or I can take those papers off his corpse."

        The man doesn't say anything, nor does he move. He remains still underneath Shay's looming form. The Templar sits there for a moment, silently counting down in his mind, giving this Assassin a final chance to say something, point him somewhere, but nothing comes. Shay lowers his head, letting out a disappointed sigh.

"Shame." He mutters, standing up.

He looks at the broken Assassin at his feet before drawing his pistol.

BANG.

        The Assassin goes limp on the floor, a dark outline of crimson covering the floor around his body. Shay turns away without a second thought and steps out of the run-down shack. There is a thin layer of snow beginning to blanket the ground outside, and the Templar's breath fogs gently as he lets out a long exhale. 

"Well, that certainly didn't take you long." The chided remark from Master Jack Weeks broke the silence of the landscape.

Shay turned his head to look at Jack, "It's called being efficient." 

"If you consider murdering our only lead efficient." Jack crossed his arms. 

"He wasn't going to talk, anyway. Just another dead end and loose thread that would have caught on something else." Shay said dismissively.

"That's true." Jack hummed, "It just sounded a little more...how should I say it...imaginative this time 'round."

Shay grunted in reply, crouching down to grab a handful of freshly fallen snow to rub across his hands. The fresh blood ran off his fingers to fall onto the ground below him as the snow soothed the burning feeling under his skin.

Jack eyed him cautiously, "So, considering this was our last option, what do you propose we do now? The Grandmaster will want those documents back."

Shay shook his hands out before standing, "Don't look so out of sorts, Master Weeks, we haven't run out of rats to chase just yet."

Jack's eyebrows lifted above the rims of his spectacles, "What's on your mind?" 

"Whoever has those documents can't be far off from their friend over there, and with this fresh snow, we've got all the advantage." Shay said, glancing around at the landscape, "There's a supply cache about a mile north of here. I say we start heading there and see what we can pick up on the way."

Jack considered the other Templar's words, "You're sure they'd go that way?"

"We've got him on the run now. Even us catching this one was nothing more than a misstep." Shay gestured a thumb to the abandoned shack behind them. "Didn't expect us to catch on so fast."

"I do suppose they're not expecting an ex-assassin to be hunting them down, either." Jack smirked.

Shay gave him a wolfish grin, "Exactly."

~~~~

        There is nothing quite like the first snowfall of the winter season. The landscape is always far more quiet than usual, the soft flakes of ice acting as a barrier to stray sounds. The two Templars walk soundlessly through the woods, with nothing more than the beating of their own hearts in their ears. The supply cache Shay knew about wasn't much farther. 

        The snow on the ground was beginning to thicken, and as they continued on their way, small game tracks and prints of bird talons could be seen patterned across the path. Not a hundred yards later, a faint discrepancy in the animal tracks and fallen snow can be found. Shay pauses to examine the track a bit closer and finds the light outline of a boot. They've found the trail.

        Shay begins to follow the tracks with more fervour, he loosely remembered the location of the supply cache, but these footfalls would no doubt reacquaint him with this particular route. A few dozen more yards and the boot prints were more pronounced, but just before they became blatantly visible, they veered off into the brush and foliage along the side of the pathway. 

        Gently moving aside stray branches and drooping pine needles, the pair make their way into the forest. Though the foliage masks much of the trail, there is a clear pathway from where the freshly fallen snow has been recently disturbed. Birds caw in the distance and Shay looks up briefly, straining for any other sounds. They're not far now. 

        A flock of crows erupts from the trees a few dozen yards ahead of them, and Shay's instincts drive him after it. Leaving Jack behind, Shay glides through the trees to the source of the commotion. He approaches a thin area, and across the spindly patch of trees, he spots a figure turning to aim a pistol at him.

        Shay quickly spins to the side as the bullet aimed for his chest ricochets off the bark of the tree beside him. Without a second to lose, he takes off in pursuit of the assassin. Caring not for noise, he bounds through the foliage after the man, and distantly he can hear Jack following some distance behind him. 

        Seeing a thick patch of bramble coming up in front of him, he veers off to the side and his boots connect with the truck of a fallen tree. He follows the trunk up and takes himself into the tree line. He can see the assassin clearly a few yards in front of him, and the sight of his prey fills him with adrenaline. He's almost on top of his target, but the trees are getting thinner and he won't be able to make a killing strike in time. With one last step, he pushes off the branch and sends himself down on top of the assassin, catching the man's legs in his grasp.

        The assassin cries out as the two of them hit the ground with a hard thud. The man kicks out of Shay's grasp and scrambles through the snow manically, clawing to get back on his feet. Shay launches himself forward and wrestles the man back down to the ground, dodging fists as he tries to pin the man down. Shay yells out as he feels the edge of a hidden blade rip through his jacket and dig into his ribs. The assassin's fist connects with Shay's jaw and sends the Templar back enough for the assassin to kick free once more.  

        Almost slipping on the wet snow, the assassin manages to get up on his feet. The man doesn't spare a glance back at Shay as he dashes for the tree line, and almost clears the brush until a sharp, seething pain flares in his leg and sends him back to the ground. The assassin looks down at his leg, finding a bolt wrapped in rope protruding from his thigh. Following the rope, his eyes focus through the blinding pain and see his pursuer holding the other end of it, looking disheveled and bloody. 

        Wrapping the end of the rope around his fist, Shay yanks it back harshly, ripping the bolt from the assassin's leg and spraying blood across the fresh snow. The assassin screams in agony, clutching his leg as the ground under him turns a deep scarlet. The man tries to pull himself away from Shay, but the Templar closes the distance between them and places a heavy foot on top of the assassin's bloodied leg, coaxing another throaty scream from the man. 

"Hand over the documents you stole." Shay demanded, pushing his boot down on the man's leg.

The assassin muffled another cry of pain before glaring up at the Templar, "Va au diable, marcheur des ombres!" he spat. 

"Then I suppose we'll do this the hard way." Shay growled through gritted teeth.

        Shay dropped a knee down on the assassin and connected his fist to the man's cheek. While the assassin was dazed, he ripped open the man's overcoat to search his pockets. He spotted a crumpled corner but as he went to reach for it, he caught the assassin's wrist in his grasp, stopping a hidden blade pointed at his throat.

"Ah, ah." Shay tsked. "Now that just won't do." 

        Shay pinned the man's arm to the ground, pulling his short sword from its sheath and driving the blade through the man's open hand and deep into the ground. The man let out another cry of pain, his hand clenching involuntarily and spurting blood across the ground.

"There. That should keep you still, hm?" Shay looked down at the assassin, who attempted to spit in his face.

Master Weeks appeared beside the other Templar, drawing his pistol and pointing it down at the assassin. "Make another move and I won't hesitate to put a bullet in your head." Jack spat.

        Shay returned to searching through the man's jacket and reaching for the paper he spotted before. Shay pulled out a bundle of parchment, turning the blood-stained paper in his hands to see the broken Templar seal on the underside. Shay looked up to Jack, holding up the bundle for him to see.

"Well, I'll be damned. You were right." Jack said, his spectacles sliding down his nose as he looked at the papers. "We might even make it back before dark. Good work, Master Cormac."

The assassin under him jolted at the name, shooting a look toward Shay and putting the puzzle pieces together. "Dieu ait pitié. You-you're supposed to be dead!"

"As you can see, I'm alive and well." Shay said nonchalantly, tucking the parchment into his own jacket safely. "And unfortunately for you, we can't let you go now. Can't have you going back to the mentor and letting him know I'm alive, can we?"

Fear filled the eyes of the assassin as he looked up at Shay. "Dieu ne t'aura pas, dia-"

BANG.

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.viii // Bitter Mechanics

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After dinner, Conrad watches mutely from the dining table as Renee, after a quick smoke, slouches down on a couch in the living room area with a game console controller in his lap, a drink on the coffee table, and an weary, blank expression on his face. After clearing plates and pans away, Davin fetches a laptop and sits down too. That’s when Conrad snaps out of his dissociated state long enough to excuse himself.

If he’s being honest, he longs to have company, but not here, and not with either of these people. Even if he wasn’t preoccupied with thoughts of breaking free, he would have preferred solidarity.

The handcuffs are still connected to the baluster, although one cuff lays open next to the pillow. They’ll keep him cuffed at night, Davin said, and keep the bedroom door locked as well. It’s only precaution. Conrad can’t fathom the way the man talks about it, as if he expects it to become the new norm. Nothing about this should be normalized.

He crawls onto the bed in the spot he’s been tied to all day, crouching down with his back to the wall, the cold metal of the cuffs brushing against his bare feet. Ears perked for any trace of noise in the hallway, he retrieves the screw from where he hid it in the crack between the mattress and the bedframe. It’s about as long as his index finger, but a third as thick. In the moment, he didn’t know why he even took it, what the hell he was going to use it for, but during dinner, a feeble idea came to mind.

The loose cuff gives several metallic ticks as Conrad locks it around empty air, then runs his finger along the hardened metal to find the small keyhole by touch. Holding the screw like a pencil between his fingers, Conrad tries to pick the lock with it.

Immediately, it becomes apparent that the spiraling threads make it impossible for the screw to fit in the keyhole far enough to reach the pin. Twisting it in helps, but then the screw comes in at an angle and gets blocked by the locks inner walls.

Conrad sniffs.

Stupid idea anyway, wasn’t it?

He palms the screw and gets to his feet, grimacing at the aching in his core and grasping the windowsill to balance on the sinking terrain of the mattress. His tentative hand fumbles briefly with the padlock there, but just from a glance, he can tell that even trying is redundant. The keyhole to the padlock is more complex and much, much narrower than that of the cuffs. There’s no way the screw would fit.

He stands there for a moment, feeling the soft draft that radiates from the window, pleasantly cool against his bruised skin. His eyes make out the unmoving silhouettes of trees in the back yard, mere shadows against the dark sky. The sun sets so early this time of year. Saps the energy right out of him. Makes him long for those moments last year when him and Howard huddled up on their couch along with their cat, watching predictable action flicks until either one of them dozed off, leaning heavier and heavier on the other.

They know he’s missing. Conrad wonders what that’s like, what they think happened. They must have some premonition, right? People always talk about knowing before they really know.

How is he going to explain all of this to them? It doesn’t even feel real half the time.

Careful not to move too quickly, he lets himself slide down the wall, wincing as the surface aggravates the bruises on his back.

He pauses. Runs his hand along the wall, feeling the tiny bumps in the paint, inconsistencies in whatever lies underneath. Knocks on it, and although the sound doesn’t tell him much, the slight pain in his knuckles confirms that at the very least, the wall isn’t made from plywood. It’s more solid than that.

When you sharpen a knife, you use stone to grind away at it, right?

Biting his lip, Conrad holds the screw flat between his fingers and begins rubbing it back and forth across the wall, careful to do it behind the frame of the bed so it only leaves marks that can’t be seen unless you’re standing directly over them. He gives it five minutes of continuous filing, the same repeated motion on the same part of the screw, until he can no longer stand the uncertainty of whether or not he’s making any progress.

Brushing paint dust off with a finger, he holds the screw close to his face, then up in the light, to get a good look at the metal. Maybe he’s imagining it, but the threads seem a tad less sharp in places. The wall itself gets worn down faster than the metal, of course, but with enough time, the metal does wear down.

He tries to curb the small hope rising in his chest. It might not be a stupid idea after all. If he can file the threads down and bend the tip of the screw, he might be able to unlock the cuffs at will. He has no way of opening the lock on the window, but… this is a start, isn’t it?

Heart beating a little bit faster than before, Conrad gets comfortable, fixes his eyes on the door, and files away behind his back.

💵

They’ll expect him to try to escape, so if they don’t see him trying, that in and of itself will raise suspicion.

It’s the first thought that comes to mind when he wakes up that morning. Another kink in his desperate lack-of-a-plan. And he hates that he has to think like them, but they’re fine-tuned to mind games, right? They’ll raise a brow if Conrad doesn’t play.

He's still thinking about it when, not long after sunrise envelops the guest bedroom in cold light, Davin comes in to unlock his restraints.

“Sleep okay?” Davin greets him, evidently an early riser himself – his waist-length hair is damp from a shower, and there’s no trace of morning fatigue on his face.

Thoughts fixed on the screw tucked away in its hiding place, Conrad nods a little too eagerly, catches himself, and suppresses a grimace.

There’s a slight pause in Davin’s demeanor, and Conrad doesn’t miss when the man’s gaze jumps from his face to his hands and back to his face. He snorts as he unlocks the cuff. “Alright.”

Conrad could kick himself. Of course acting nonchalant in a situation like this isn’t the same as acting natural. Naturally, Conrad should still be in a scared, dissociated state – and now they’re mutually hyperaware of each other, although Davin is better at hiding it than Conrad is.

He keeps his eyes downcast and his shoulders hunched as Davin follows him into the kitchen.

He has to have a plan B, and plan B has to be visible. It has to be real, even if it doesn’t serve the purpose they think it serves. He still has to give it a genuine shot.

💵

It happens sooner than he expected it to.

He thought they’d give him another day to recover, but they don’t. The bruises are still deep and dark across his body, but it happens that afternoon.

He hears them in the hallway and barely has enough time to hide the screw a split second before Davin opens the door, his expression blank as ever. And then Renee follows.

All thoughts of acting are gone from Conrad’s mind. They’re here to take him upstairs again. This is real.

He stands up, instinctually backing himself into the corner of the room. A rush of adrenaline surges through his system, as if he’s been doused in cold water.

Renee smiles at the sight of him, nonchalantly adjusting his black leather gloves. “Sir,” he says, “turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Conrad only manages to squeak out a “N—” before his throat closes shut. He swallows, eyes flickering between Renee and Davin. He can’t move.

“C’mon, now. We can’t keep people waiting.”

Conrad nearly retches at the thought of which people Renee is talking about. “I can’t,” he croaks out. “You can’t.”

Renee snickers, stepping closer. “Can’t what?”

Heart beating dizzyingly fast in his ears, Conrad swallows again, hands pressed flat against the wall behind him. “I can’t go back up there.”

“That so?” Renee grins, not halting his slow approach.

 “I c-can’t go back up there,” Conrad says again.

Renee reaches for him then.

Conrad shrinks away, stammering out “Don’t, don’t!” as Renee grabs hold of both of his bruised wrists and tries to pry his hands onto his back, using his stature to push Conrad further back into the corner. Conrad has no room to kick, and no leverage to push Renee away, so he brings his knee up instead, cringing as it lands.

Immediately, Renee lets him go and buckles over himself, falling against the bed as he clutches his groin, his moan of pain stifled by breathlessness. “Motherf—” he hisses through gritted teeth.

Conrad doesn’t wait for him to get back on his feet. Instead he scrambles past him, only to make eye contact with Davin, who watches with a small, amused smirk playing on his face, but doesn’t move a muscle to catch him or even block his way. His nonchalance makes Conrad hesitate, but only for a split second – then he sprints out the bedroom door.

With Renee’s shouts rolling through the hall, Conrad runs as fast as his bruised body will let him, as fast as the smooth floor will permit without him slipping on his face. Rounding the corner from the hallway to the kitchen area, he grabs the wall to slingshot himself towards the entranceway and the front door.

It's locked. His shaking hands fumble with the tumbler as he pants for breath, but when he unlocks it and tries the door again, it doesn’t open more than a fraction before a second lock – a padlock above his eye level – seizes its movement.

Conrad lets out a sound of discontent and spins on his heels, pushing himself off the door. The moment he rounds the corner of the entranceway, he crashes into the figure of a now-recovered Renee and tumbles to the floor, not hard enough to get winded, although the deep bruises on his body rear up with pain.

But although Conrad hectically scurries backwards on all fours, Renee isn’t in a hurry to catch him. His eyes are dark, his jaw set. He’s walking.

The sight is enough to make the dam break for good, and tears well in Conrad’s eyes as he stumbles to his feet and runs past the dining table and the couch group in the living room area.

The sliding glass door sports a padlock as well.

Conrad lets out a cry of despair, slamming a closed fist uselessly against the glass pane. He’s still fruitlessly hitting the glass when a hand grabs him by the collar of his t-shirt and yanks him backwards, after which Renee throws him back-first into the wall and pins him there.

Conrad gasps at the pain in his battered body, clawing at Renee’s arm, vision blurry.

“You picked a fuckin’ interesting time to piss me off,” Renee growls, and before Conrad can even think of responding, a punch lands on his cheekbone, whipping his head sideways. He has no time to recover before Renee’s hands coil around his neck, pushing the back of his head into the wall and cutting off his frantic breathing.

Conrad claws at Renee’s arms, hits the man’s chest, tries to leverage his fingers in between the hands and his own throat, but nothing grants him even a sliver of breath, and soon enough, sparks begin to dance across his vision, and his lungs begin to ache.

Renee’s grip on his throat is vice-like, his eyes are wide and intense, jaw set as he squeezes. Behind him, another figure slowly enters Conrad’s field of view, unfocused and distant.

“Renee,” a voice says sternly, and with a final jerk that pulls him forward and slams his head back into the wall, the pressure lets up, all at once.

Conrad sinks to the floor, coughing and wheezing, trying desperately to blink the stars out of his eyes.  He’s still recovering when a knee in his back presses him flat to the floor, as a solid grasp on one wrist pries his arm onto his back, and a cold band clicks around it. When he tries to resist, tries to squirm away, Renee leans further weight onto the knee, agitating his battered back. Conrad lets out a cry of pain, one that cuts short only because he’s still heaving for breath.

“Yeah, you shoulda fuckin’ thought of that,” Renee sneers.

“Easy.”

“You – why’d you just stand there, huh?!”

A low chuckle. “You seemed to have it under control.”

Renee scowls. “Fuckin’ asshole.”

Once Conrad’s hands are cuffed behind him, Renee removes his knee and gets back to his feet, taking a moment to collect himself. “Get up,” he says then.

Conrad can’t get himself to move. His eyes seek out Davin, but the man has turned, headed back towards the stairs. His cheek hurts. His eyes are burning.

“Get the fuck up, Conrad.”

The name, said as is, sounds ominous in Renee’s mouth. Conrad tries to maneuver himself up, but apparently isn’t moving fast enough to his liking. He has barely gotten his legs curled up under himself before a hand in his hair yanks his head back and up.

“Ow! Renee, please,” Conrad gasps, staggering to his tiptoes to follow along with Renee’s movement, as he is haphazardly directed back towards the stairs. He can barely breathe. He can feel individual strands of hair on the back of his head being pricked loose by Renee’s hand. The tears flow freely now. “Please,” he whispers, “please don’t do it again, Renee, please don’t do it again. Pl—”

Renee suddenly stops in the hallway, pinning Conrad stomach-first to the wall with a shoulder as he fumbles with something in his pocket.

Conrad whines breathlessly. “Renee, please. Renee, please…”

The pressure on his back lets up a tad, and something passes over Conrad’s vision a split second before the cloth hits his mouth. The moment he tries to turn his face away from the gag, Renee presses the side of his face into the wall, closing the distance between them.

“You’re gonna bite it,” Renee gnarls in his ear, “or I swear to fucking god, man…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

The realization that there’s nothing he can do washes over Conrad like a wave of exhaustion. The strange urge to lie down and let whatever happens happen. He breathes out, feeling his shoulders slump.

“Better,” Renee mutters, sounding almost relieved as he guides the cloth gag into Conrad’s mouth, tying it tight on the back of his head. Then he grabs him by the arm and pushes him onward.

This time, Conrad can see the stairs, but the knowledge of what awaits at the end makes them harder to traverse than before. The air gets warmer the further up he goes.

The spotlights are already on, the fan of the server whirring. Behind the desk, resting his chin in one hand, Davin shoots Renee a look as he enters, hauling Conrad along by the arm.

There’s a chair in the middle of the room, facing the camera, and besides it – rope.

Conrad feels the grasp on his arm tighten as he hesitates.

“Try me again,” Renee says lowly.

Conrad swallows. Feels his mind slip as he lets Renee steer him towards the chair and sits him down. He watches, as if from a distance, as Renee crouches beside him and starts to bind his legs to the legs of the chair, muttering under his breath as he goes. Knots are tightened with sharp jerks to the rope, ones that bite at the skin under Conrad’s jeans. Fighting back is no use. He has already lost.

“One-thirty waiting,” Davin says.

“Good for them,” Renee says, sarcastically cheerful.

“I’d rather it didn’t become a habit.”

Renee pauses, half-turning on his haunches, shooting Davin a look that Conrad can’t see. He looks at the cusp of saying something, then hesitates, turning back to his work. “Noted,” is all he says over his shoulder.

Another breadth of rope is tied around Conrad’s waist, looping around the chain between the handcuffs, securing his hands firmly behind the back of the chair. When Renee is finally done, he steps back, briefly checking his work before he turns to prepare himself for the stream.

Conrad’s gaze trails to the floor then, by its own accord drawn to the least nauseating sight in the room – at least, that’s what he thinks, until he spots a few brown stains on the hardwood, not far from where he’s seated, bound. His own blood, now dried, from just a couple days ago.

Soon to be joined by more.

Conrad closes his eyes.  

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