#eventual johnny x reader

[zeppeli-reelstallbun]

A Jury of One

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[PAIRING] Gyro Zeppeli x Reader (She/Her AFAB)

[SUMMARY] The conversation shifts as you pass secrets—and vices—back and forth. Cigar in hand, you realize this might be the most personal exchange you’ve had with the Italian. (Chapter 2/?)

[WC] 4k

[!!!] Same as previous installments, smoking, drinking, language + light descriptions of a murder aftermath, but this is a jojos fic, so I feel like I literally can’t be more brutal or gruesome than the source material even if I tried… araki would be able to write this fanfic ez but I could NOT create the rat cube, yk?

[AN] Learned my lesson. No more blinkers for likes. Thought I would get like, 8 at most. Im really enjoying writing this one, thinking about a tag list if that would be wanted at all, read more after the fic if this is something you’d be interested in!! Also, Im trying to follow back everyone who follows me (small blog things) and If I miss you it was 100% an accident. Yell at me in dm’s and I’ll make sure we’re mutuals :)

“That’s not my name.” He’d said, gaze filled with satisfaction.

You tried to tone down your reaction, but found yourself speechless instead, eyes widening as you scoffed at his admission.

“Oh come on, hit me with one of your clever little comebacks, regazza.” He teased as you sat, mouth agape.

You paused for a moment, recalling everything you knew—no, thought you knew— about Gyro Zeppeli. “So wait everything you said about-”

He cut you off, seemingly knowing where the natural train of thought would land. “No, I didn’t tell you any mistruths about that… just my given name. Still a Zeppeli.” He flashed a smile, as if to express pride in this little falsehood.

“Well then what is it?” You asked, sitting up with a newfound sense of excitement.

Gyro chuckled, eyeing your change in posture, “A secret for a secret. My turns over,” he stated matter of factly.

“Oh come on,” you let out, “that’s unfair. I'm just supposed to go on pretending like I haven’t been calling you the wrong thing this whole time?”

He just cleared his throat, taking a sip from his glass instead of answering.

You scoffed, “Fine fine, can’t make that comparison, I get it.”

“No, I just figured you wouldn’t want to owe me two,” he smirked, “You could of course just tell me yours and we can cut through the red tape.”

You sat there, puzzled. For a moment you thought he might have been speaking a different language entirely, you had no idea what he was trying to communicate. You didn’t hide the expression well either, apparently, because he instantly picked up on the nonsensical reaction.

“It’s an expression.” He explained.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah I got that much, meaning what?”

“You know,” he gestured awkwardly, “like on the King's documents.”

You just looked at him, why would you know that?

“You know, you cut the red tape.” He continued, pantomiming scissors in his hand.

You couldn’t help but put your head in your hands as you responded, “You stupid Europeans and your customs, I thought you guys used seals for-”

“You’re getting off topic,” he cut you off.

You sighed, picking up the drink you’d neglected up until this point. Lord knows you’d need a sip, he was expecting a return on his investment, after all. “Maybe,” you answered.

“You know,” he started, waiting for you to finish sipping your drink before continuing, “I think this might be the longest exchange of words we’ve had.”

You looked away from him, playing off the awkwardness of his observation. “What a way to break the ice, right?”

He leaned forward, bringing the bottle to refill your cup. “Let’s break it some more,” he challenged, eyes glistening with something you’d never seen from him, “stop sidestepping what you owe me.”

“I’m in hiding,” you blurted out, despite yourself.

Gyro titled his head forward. “I’d assumed, based on everything you mentioned.”

You stayed silent however, if he was going low, you were going lower.

“Well?” He asked, urging you to continue.

“Oh no, a secret for a secret, Gyro. Or… not Gyro.” You teased, taking a drink of the whiskey.

He squinted at you, expression unamused.

“My turn is over.” You echoed his words smugly, gulping the liquid down.

His body language folded in on itself as if it were an unintentional side effect of being bested at his own game.

“Fine,” he snapped, taking a moment to compose himself, “I'm assuming this is something intriguing so I’ll bite; I still sleep with a teddy bear. Tell me something good and you might get my name quid pro quo. I’ll be nice.”

You couldn’t help the tone that emerged from your throat. This was a golden opportunity, after all. “Oh what a secret Gyro. I didn’t realize you were that interested in me, Zeppeli. What, does it have a name? Awww do you cradle it in your arms when you fall asleep?”

“I let you ride my horse,” he bolted upright ignoring you, dumbfounded at the realization. “I don’t let any girls ride with me, you-”

You honestly couldn’t tell if his expression of disgust was being played up or not, head slowly swiveling to gawk at you.

“You monster.” He hissed.

“Do you want me to tell you the story or not.” You glared at him, furrowing your brows with mock frustration.

He put his hands up in a ‘surrender’ position, pursing his lips while leaning back in his chair, signaling you to continue.

You took a deep breath, trying to come up with the words to breach the topic. Your eyes wandered down to the glass in front of you on the table.

“If the liquor would help you bella, by all means, don’t let me stop you.” He jabbed, eliciting another nervous laugh from your system as you indulged in the suggestion. “Though if you want something stronger…” he trailed off, head turning to the flask he’d tossed on the bed earlier.

You flicked your head in the direction of the vial, wordlessly telling him to grab the damn thing and open it while you finished the cup in front of you.

“Two years ago,” you started, wiping your mouth with your sleeve, “I woke up in the school that was giving me room and board for work. I know the concept might be too American for your spoiled foreign brain to comprehend.”

He laughed, truly laughed, before adding “Eh don’t worry about it, it’s red tape under the bridge.”

You let him chuckle at his own joke for a moment before he cut himself off, tossing you the flask. “I couldn’t help myself, continue.”

The ridges around the cap dug into your fingers as you twisted the container open, idly running your fingers over the intricate engravings on the silver metal face as you moved on with the story. “It was a home for girls,” you explained, recalling how much joy the place had given you, “I was there for about ten months at the time.”

You took a swig before continuing, only to be completely caught off guard by the burning sensation pooling at the bottom of your throat. “What the fuck is this?”

“Moonshine. You were saying?” Had he been letting it ferment since he left Italy? Whatever-

You gulped, suppressing the uncomfortable feeling that was quickly overpowered by the rush to your head.

“Warning would have been nice,” you squinted in his direction, passing the flask back to him. “I'm not suffering through a hangover alone though. Drink up while you listen.”

“I have every intention to,” he smiled, leaning in to snatch it from you. “You have me on the edge of my seat, I must say. Ever thought about professional storytelling?” He spoke with a sarcastic dryness that made you genuinely thankful for the lighthearted banter he’d allowed to calm your nerves.

“Oh shut it, I'll get to the point soon enough,” you rolled your eyes, “besides-”

You cut the thought short. How would the man even react if you’d finished that sentence? ‘You’re the first person I’ve ever told.’

“Besides?” He questioned, snapping your mind away from the thought.

“I’m trying to remember what’s important.” You covered the slip-up well, all things considered. It was normal for someone to be skittish in this type of situation, you told yourself. You didn’t need to give him the ego boost of knowing he was the first—only—person to hear this secret.

“What, am I distracting you?” He said sarcastically, bringing the flask to his lips.

You rolled your eyes, moving on. “One of the girls in my care,” you paused, choosing instead to explain the setting further, “I gave grammar lessons to all the students but had a group under my guidance for housing, as did the other instructors who handled different subjects. That's the way the structure worked.”

“I think I get it,” he acknowledged with another sip of his drink, allowing you to continue.

“I woke up one morning and,” you took a deep breath, this was it, “one of my students had been killed in the night and-”

The water was back in your eyes, you’d noticed, and you’d opted to end your sentence early to avoid choking back embarrassing tears. You held your hand out, asking for another drink.

He couldn’t deny your request, eyes locked with yours as he studied your expression.

“And you found her?” He asked gently, not trying to put the words in your mouth, instead attempting to lead you back to a semblance of normal conversation. It was asked with a hint of kindness and understanding, something you rarely heard out of Gyro.

You nodded slowly, unattached, with a single pathetic sniffle as you recalled the lifeless expression on one of your most outspoken students; she had been mangled in a pool of her own blood, the thick smell of death overwhelming every other aspect of the memory.

It seemed trivial, crying to an executioner of all people about the misfortune of death, but it was about to become unavoidable, it seemed.

“She couldn’t have been older than twelve,” you admitted, “and I knew it was my fault to some degree, I know I should have seen something or locked a door better or,”

He cut you off, grabbing the hand you’d let rest on the table. He held it with both of his own, seriousness washing over him as he forced you to look him in the eye at the new sensation. “I don’t think a bad person would worry about what they could have done.” He started, tilting his head toward you. “And good people often find themselves picking up the slack for what bad people invoke.”

You nodded sheepishly, thanking him as you wiped the tear from your cheek. “What is that, some old proverb?” You joked, voice still fragile with emotion.

“No,” he smiled, “Proverbs are typically shorter.”

You scoffed at him, taking the chance to compose yourself and try again. “I guess what I was trying to say,” you continued with a small roll of your eyes, “I would have completely understood my termination.”

He nodded, encouraging you to continue.

You looked him in the eye once more, the story finally reaching its conclusion. After a heavy moment of silence, you spoke of its ending. “The murder weapon was found in my sleeping quarters.”

That was it, you remembered, that was all it took for the chaos to ensue. The initial moments following your indictment were still a blur, even after two years now, but you remembered the feeling of unadulterated terror all too well. It was beginning to creep up on you again now, sitting in an inn in the middle of nowhere, miles away from where the story even took place.

As your breathing accelerated, Gyro said nothing. His expression revealed nothing. You silently made a note to yourself not to gable with the man in front of you, that was a poker face if you’d ever seen one. After taking another glance at the table, you pulled your hand back, acutely aware of the fact that he hadn’t let go of you since that moment of reassurance.

“And then?” He asked, expression unchanged.

“I think you’re smart enough to work out the rest, Gyro.” You said, finally taking another swig from the flask.

He let you sit for a moment, allowing the uncomfortable silence in the room to linger for a couple seconds too long.

“Fuck,” He said, leaning back in the chair, “I don’t-”

You cut him off, still too uncomfortable with conversations on the topic to hear what he had to say. “Don’t say anything then.”

He looked you in the eyes with a disappointed sigh, and once again reached his hand out to ask for the flask. You swished the liquid around before handing it back, estimating that it was a little more than half full now. “What I was going to say,” he muttered, “Is that I don’t need to tell anyone. It’s not my—I guess what I mean to say is that it doesn't affect me. I mean, it does affect me but not-”

“Thank you, Gyro.” You said, voice more worn down than expected. You had the feeling he would have awkwardly rambled for minutes if you didnt stop him.

“‘Anything else I tell you is sworn to secrecy,’ after all.” He said with a deep breath, “I understand. Why you did it. The disguise, I mean.”

“Might as well get the benefits of being a man if I have to conceal myself anyway.” You shrugged, it was the best you could do to turn the odds in your favor, and you had little to no regrets on that aspect of the lie.

He laughed, bringing his fingers to his lips in an imitation locking motion, “Secrets safe with me… at least for the next two checkpoints that is.” He grinned.

You felt the pit return to your stomach as the realization dawned on you; this was far from over. The initial annoyance you felt from Gyros confrontation immediately turned to gratitude, now you would have to initiate the revelation of the truth. How would you even begin? How could you break the news to Johnny, especially now, knowing he wouldn’t be the first to find out? A lingering thought in the back of your head had been craving letting him in for a while now… but once again, Gyro had to be there to ruin it. Should you tell Johnny about his confrontation? How he had to practically beg you to tell the kid? Or worse, would Gyro decide to tell him that little detail? Would he hold this secret over your friendship with the American, as if to say ‘how much of a friend can she really be if I'm the only reason you know this?’

“You don't need to figure out how to do it today,” the man across from you said after studying your face. How he managed to be so accurate with your internal dialogue, you had no idea. Had he already become so familiar with your expressions that the guesswork was eliminated completely? Surely not, he’d only seen your face in its entirety for the better part of an hour. Maybe you really were just an open book with your heart on your sleeve. Then again, maybe the situation was simply that predictable. Perhaps you were reading too far into the implications of things.

09”v (a/n: cat decided he wanted to contribute to the fic, maybe he knows something we don't. not deleting.)

“I know,” you replied, “just can’t even begin to think about…” you let your voice trail off as the room began to feel heavy, but maybe the alcohol was at fault for that sensation.

“Would you like me to do it for you?” He suggested after a moment. Though this was the furthest thing you wanted from him, you picked up on the genuine nature of its proposition. He wasn’t snarky about it, it seemed as if he truly were offering to take some of the weight of your shoulders.

But you knew this was your burden to bear.

That’s why you didn’t hesitate to shake your head, “He deserves to hear it from me.”

Gyro nodded, satisfied with your answer. “He does.” He replied shortly, and you swallowed your pride at his tone. Thankfully, he decided to return the flask to your hands as soon as the feeling settled.

You didn’t know what else to say to him, silence hanging over the room once again as you drank until you could feel your stomach ignite. The Italian relit the half burnt cigar, though it had been sitting long enough to make you question his standards—you would have given him another had he just asked.

The quiet became comforting after its initial introduction, the two of you simply let the conversation settle as you fiddled with your travel bag, sorting through your trail resources. After a few turns of swapping vices back and forth, it had begun to feel as though the evening reached its natural conclusion. Gyro even seemed to be getting ready to check out entirely, based on the way he usually acted before falling victim to slumber.

That's when you remembered something else about the man.

“Gyro?” You asked, breaking the longest stretch of silence of the night.

He hummed, looking up as if you broke him from deep thought.

You smiled softly, smugly, even. “I recall you saying something about quid pro quo?”

He returned the grin in an instant, “Well that depends.”

You swished the flask in your hand once again, nearly empty. “On what?”

“Do you think you’ve given me a secret of equal value?” The teasing look was back on his face, one that knew he was pushing the line… as if you hadn’t just admitted to pedicide allegations.

“I think we both know the answer to that.” You laughed, taking one final sip. “Rest is yours.”

“Oh come on,” he pleaded one last time as he passed your cigar back in exchange, “let's make it a name for a name?”

“You aren’t on the run, last I checked,” you said almost patronizingly, “your name doesn't have the same power as mine.”

He finished what remained of the liquor, setting the container down aggressively on the table without slamming it. “You’re a fool if you think there’s no power in my name.” He said smoothly. “Besides, it's about the principal.”

The swiftness in his response combined with the implication of the words sent a shiver down your spine, but you threw the feeling under the rug as soon as you felt it start. It was enough to get you to drop it, however.

“Then I guess that concludes a secret for a secret.” You shrugged, satisfied with the sense of anonymity you still maintained, despite the alcohol inside you.

He cocked his head, “Unless you’d be open to sharing something else, it would seem so.”

“There’s not enough liquid in the flask to tempt me that far, Gyro.” You teased, brushing your hair away from your face.

The silence was back, awkward as always, and you noticed a new—more skittish—personality start to emerge from Gyro as he looked around the room.

“I’m um,” he started, clearing his throat, “I think I’m gonna tell Johnny we got into a fight.”

The intoxication wasn’t helping, you looked at him with confusion for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

“So uh,” he gestured vaguely around the room, towards the single bed you sat on, “you know.”

What? He didn't have the balls to say ‘so you don't have to share a room with me?’ Surprising.

“Thank you,” you said regardless, grateful that you wouldn’t be forced into his proximity after everything. It was an unspoken understanding, you unfortunately realized. You both were proceeding knowing this would be too intimate, especially now.

He stood up, and you followed as a form of courtesy. The least you could do was walk him out, it beat awkwardly laying in the bed as he made his departure, after all.

Gyro had one foot out of the door when you called his name once again, grabbing his attention back towards the cozy room as you closed the distance, metal cooling your fingertips.

“Don’t forget this,” you said, passing him the flask he’d almost left behind. Bag in hand, he let the door close as he moved back into the space, grumbling his thanks and setting his belongings down to put the item away.

As he stood in front of you, carefully arranging the possessions in the pack, you had an intrusive thought. More dangerous than that though, it was one with enough leeway to make it seem like a smart thing to say out loud. “My name,” you started, causing his head to snap up. “I might not be ready to tell you that yet. However-” you let the last word stretch for emphasis as he leaned against the doorframe, intrigued.

His head tilted forward, listening for more. “The month the crime took place… it was August.” You admitted, indulging him in one final detail.

The look of amusement on his face did not go unnoticed as he pieced the information together. “I bet you think you’re clever for that.” He laughed, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

“Insulant ass namesake,” He continued, allowing himself to chuckle again, “And I suppose you’re expecting mine in return for that sliver of knowledge?”

“Oh, I'm not interested in your name.” You said immediately, a smug smile returning as you mirrored his body language, leaning on the canopy style bedpost just a few feet in front of him.

At first he just sat there, face showing that he hadn’t picked up on the meaning of your words. Then, piece by piece, you watched as the realization dawned on him, and the smile instantly dropped to an expression of complete apathy.

Another sigh. A look of pure defeat. Two or three audible groans of annoyance.

A heavy ‘thud’ reverberated in the air as his knapsack landed on the table, and Gyro wasted no time rustling through it once again. “She doesn't have a name,” he started.

“She?” You teased, interjecting.

“Shut it.” He grumbled, cutting off his train of thought. His hands dug through his belongings, taking the occasional item out of the bag as he finished the sentence. “I’ll prove I wasn’t lying about it, though. If that’ll satisfy your insatiable greed.”

You scoffed, “Insatiable? Huh? Four syllabus, thats a big word for you.”

He said nothing.

“I'll take it.” You finished.

“You tell no one.” He continued insistently, voice more tight than you’d expected.

When you neglected to acknowledge him, his arm halted in the bag as he locked eyes with you, “I'm gonna need verbal confirmation on that one, stronza*.”

“Secret’s safe with me,” you promised dryly, ‘locking your lips’ in the same way he had earlier.

He huffed again, defeated, as he pulled the small bundle of fur out of his bag. He looked away from you as he tossed the object in your general direction.

The smile that found itself on your face was overwhelming. “You didn't mention she was pink!” You exclaimed, enjoying the embarrassment you had complete control over as you examined the teddy bear resting in your hands.

“You didn't mention a lot of things,” he snapped before stopping, “Sorry.”

You just snorted, handing the bear back to him after a few moments of looking it over and giggling uncontrollably. It was old, you’d realized, the stitching showing significant signs of wear. As you turned it over in your hands, you’d felt something come to the forefront of your mind: This was an incredibly personal part of Gyro, despite how much he might be acting otherwise. After all, he wouldn’t have lugged it this far if that weren't the case. Despite how nonchalantly he had thrown it, despite how embarrassed of its existence he was, this was something close to Gyro Zeppeli’s heart. And he had let you hold it in your hands, even if just for a second.

He snapped you out of the thought, picking his back back up and slinging it over his shoulder. “You feel better?” He asked, hand on the doorknob.

You nodded, “Worse, in a lot of ways, but yeah, I do.”

“Figured I could at least ease your nerves about the pseudonym,” He said, turning on his heels to exit before looking over his shoulder and adding, “Goodnight, not August.”

You grinned as he began to close the door, ready to pass out. “Goodnight, not Gyro.”

The door announced his departure with a heavy ‘click,’ and your eyes were closed as soon as your head hit the pillow.

——————

*google translate turns stranza into ‘bitch’ (cagna) even though stranza is just the feminine form of ‘asshole’ (stronzo) and I just needed to address that asshole is the correct translation here. bbg gyro would never call you the b word in this scenario, homie might be a misogynist but he IS a gentleman first. As always, I do NOT know Italian, monolinguistic spoiled American here.

!! Idk if anyone would be interested in a tag list for my fics but im not opposed to it, even if its just one person lol. just comment or dm me!

——————

AN: That's the end of the first thematic part of this story, I guess! I’ve got a few thoughts for moving things forward, esp some johnny and diego self indulgence, so I don't have any plans on stopping just yet. Any ideas/comments/critiques are more than welcome!!

Didn't expect the last part to get as many likes as it did (kept up with my end of the bargain though, woof) so uhhh hey if you’re rocking with this one, thanks! Was fully prepared just to let this be an echo chamber fic.

also, I haven’t forgotten bbg bucciarati, working on continuing the goodfellas fic tonight, if you happen to have read that one

also also, go take this tumblr poll for me please, I’m trying to decide which nail set to get and i’m indecisive as hell. Plus, if you’re reading a jojos x reader all the way to the bottom of the authors notes, you definitely have enough insight for me to trust your opinion <3

also also also, I love learning random etymology when writing. I literally just wrote the ‘red tape’ expression out of habit, questioning if the phrase had even taken off by 1890, only to find out that it's been around since old Spain! So yeah, it makes perfect sense to be used in this way, I loved getting to write around that discovery!

[lushrue]

hockeyteam!141 x figureskater!reader pt 2!

part 2 of this au finally! i'm so glad people like it! comment if you wanna be added to the taglist, already planning pt 3 so there will be more where this came from 💗

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9

your name was announced through the loudspeaker as you skated onto the ice, all covered in sequins and polyester. you’d always thought it was a little bit silly, the conventions around figure skating costumes. that fit that Margot Robbie threw in I, Tonya about the ridiculousness of it? yeah, you’d had a moment like that once or twice. the rough fabric scratched your arms, the glint of the sequins drew focus away from your expressions. but you still felt elegant as you set your mark at center ice, hitting your starting pose in the silence before the music began.

breathe in, breathe out. focus. momentum is everything, remember your character, focus going into your jumps.

in the moment before your routine started, you flicked your eyes up and scanned the crowd. it was something that you’d done ever since your first routine that you took to competition. usually, you were looking for your parents, their smiling faces and the flash of your mom’s digital camera. now, though, it became more curiosity, finding a spot to let your eyes settle when you weren’t looking at the judges’ table. it was then that you saw them. four big, brutish hockey players sat shoulder to shoulder in the stands. the one with the mohawk (soap, you remembered) lifted his hand to wave at you, only for the man beside him (kyle, you guessed from this distance) to swat it down.

the shock must have played out on your face, because you saw price smirk as your music began playing. you let the sound seep into your bones and just like that, it all melted away and you skated.

…

the four of them watched pretty intently for the first few seconds of your routine. price was focused on the placement of your body, how you kept your center of gravity in the middle at all times. he had to admire how precise you were in your movements, like you knew the physics behind all of it. for all he knew, you did. he could tell you were skilled and he liked that about you. talent recognizes talent, or however the saying goes.

kyle was simply admiring your choice of music. Moonlight Sonata, though basic, was like black coffee, he thought. a classic choice that never really got old, but so many things could be added to it to make it new and exciting. and watching you skate to it, he felt like he’d never heard it before. he watched your face more than anything else. you were so expressive, a story playing out in your eyes, and he soaked it all up. it was like reading a novel, and this one was a page-turner.

ghost was watching the lines of your body. it was like you were painting the air as you moved, each flick of the wrist and lift of the leg deliberate and purposeful. it all served to make a pretty picture. every now and again, he’d look at the thin lines your skates left on the ice, the swirls and curves detailing everywhere you’d been. much prettier than the harsh notches he left behind when he stepped out of the rink, he thought. just like you, they were delicate.

soap was far less interested in the artistry or skill of it and more focused on you. the way your hair moved as you spun on the ice, the way your costume clung to your skin. he couldn’t even act as if he wasn’t watching disrespectfully, thinking of what your body might look like under the spandex and sparkles. you lifted your leg and began spinning, and soap thought he might keel over right then and there. ghost nudged him as he adjusted himself on the bench, a silent gesture that told him to behave.

johnny gestured to price behind kyle’s back, getting his attention. “didn’t i tell ya, cap? a right beaut, that one,” he said, earning himself a flick to the head from ghost. price chuckled, turning his attention back to where you were winding up for a jump. two turns in the air and you landed perfectly. he knew you would, you talented thing. “yeah. a beaut,” price responded, a small smile curving his lips.

...

you skated remarkably, in your opinion. it was a relatively simple routine, but with every completed skate, regardless of skill level, came a sense of accomplishment. as you hit your ending pose, you made eye contact with your hockey players in the stands again. ghost’s face was unreadable from this distance, but you caught the pleased expressions of the other three as they clapped for you. soap had a glint in his eyes that spelled mischief and made something in your stomach tighten. kyle was looking at you like the artist you perceived yourself to be, almost how you imagined someone would look at their favorite painting. and price’s face had pride written all over it. you caught an almost imperceptible nod from him, as if to say well done.

you bowed to both sides of the rink and skated off the ice, a performer’s smile on your lips. it wasn’t entirely fake, not like it had been at some competitions. this time, it was born of the idea that four of the men you’d been watching, nay, pining after for a month were finally turning their attentions to you. for the first time in a while, you wondered what someone besides the judges thought of your routine. the worst part was, you needed them to like it. you felt the intense need to please them, keep them coming back for more.

the four of them found you in line for the concessions, grabbing a hot chocolate to soothe your cold bones in between programs. your free skate was coming up next and you knew you’d need a little pick-me-up before then. as you thanked the high schooler who’d poured your drink, you turned to walk away and almost collided with a wall of solid muscle. price, you’d realize as you looked up. “told ya we wanted to see ya, bonnie!” soap’s voice chirped from behind the broad shoulders of the team captain.

you glanced around him, noticing kyle and ghost stood off to the side. kyle was all polite smiles and ghost looked as though he was aware of how much space he was taking up, supremely uncomfortable as people brushed past him. soap was stood off to the other side of price, arms crossed over his chest. then your eyes turned up to the captain himself, feeling a sense of pride radiating off of him. you weren’t sure why; this was a man who barely knew you. but it made your stomach flutter all the same. “good performance you put on out there, love,” he said, the rumble of his baritone voice more compelling when it was directed at you. you’d seen the boys scramble to follow his orders before during a game, but you’d thought it was just his rank on the team. no, you realized, it was definitely the voice.

“thank you,” you replied sheepishly, clutching the warm styrofoam cup in your icy fingers. “i’m glad you all liked it.” kyle spoke up, stepping a bit closer to where you stood. “liked it? i loved it! you’ll have to tell me more about how you choreographed it, the musicality was insane!” “easy, garrick,” ghost’s voice rumbled from where he stood, a bit muffled by the black surgical mask. “don’t wan’ to scare off our pretty bird.” oh, you could get used to that. you spoke up, your eyes flicking between the four of them. “actually, i still have another program to skate.” you hesitated, almost worried you were being too forward. but then you continued. why not live a little, take some risks? “if you all wanted to stay, that is.”

you didn’t have to tell them twice.

taglist: @cadotoast

[stellewriites]

trans!soap who buys one of those dick molding kits and drops it in ghost’s lap, asks him to do it so he can have a braw cock to fuck his new girlfriend with.

“need something that’ll leave her weak-kneed, ya ken? an’ i know from personal experience that yers’ll do the job, lt.”

[sinsofbeauty]

Red Stained Sunflower

Fandom: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre Game

Pairing: Johnny Slaughter x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Use of Pet Names, suggestive nsfw content, Johnny being “nice”, minor kidnapping mention

Requested?: Nah

Overview: The only car breaks down and your father can’t afford to fix it. He doesn’t have many options, but when you suggest a certain someone to take a look at, he can't help but feel uneasy. Little did you know that decision will lead to a whirlwind of trouble.

A/n: Thinking about making it into a series, so let me know what you guys think! Enjoy!

Your father was very upset this morning, and you couldn’t quite figure out why. He was stomping around the house huffing and puffing, mumbling to himself as you fixed up some breakfast. Up the stairs, down the stairs, back into the work shed. It made you furrow your brows, bewildered by his behavior. You set the table and sat down hoping to find out the cause as he made his way into the room. You haven’t really seen him this irritated in a long time, and he moved around restlessly despite him taking a seat for the first time this morning… still quite agitated.

"The car is acting up again," he complained, shoving a forkful of egg and toast into his mouth.

“Again?” You ask, spreading butter on a piece of warm toast. “Daddy I told you it was bound to break. Why don’t you take it to the shop?”

Your father looked up, annoyed, and shook his head. "It's too expensive," he explained after swallowing a bite. "The fence is falling apart and the shed needs repairs. I can't afford to manage all that work on my own, and it would cost an arm just to get in there."

“You could always have Johnny take a look at it.”

Your suggestion made him pause, his gaze incredulous as you shrugged. "Johnny Slaughter?"

“Yes Daddy, Johnny Slaughter.” You replied.

His eyes dropped into something more serious than before, and you could notice the changes in his facial expressions. If he didn't appear to be worried about it, that is. "What's going on between you and that boy Y/n? People in the community are always talking about that family, you know.” This was his technique of lecturing you, making you look at him with utter boredom. "He and his family are equally dangerous! What happens if the rumors are true?” Indeed. Rumors. The ones where members of the Slaughter family kept individuals in a cellar to later consume them? Or the ones that they were ferocious and would try to eat anyone who approached their house? Yeah, those.

“What if they aren't though?” You retorted while arching your brow. “Given how much time I've spent with Johnny, I figure something would have happened by now.”

"You're still spending time with him?!"

Oops. Yeah, that wasn’t supposed to come out like that. As your father flailed his arms around, you were slumped in your chair, picking at your food. So, as he lectured you about your decisions, you carried on eating your meal silently. He mentioned the potential damage to your reputation and the possible consequences for your family. Although he had legitimate worries, you also knew that he had a history with them, which probably contributed to his strong opinions.

“Relax,” You said, waving a hand. “It’s been a little bit since I’ve seen him anyway. If he really wanted to eat me he probably would’ve come by the house.” Your father gave you a disgusted look, making you smile nervously before setting your fork down on your empty plate. "On a… serious note, just this once," you attempted to negotiate. "Let Johnny take a look at the car; maybe he won't charge much."

“Johnny Slaughter is nothing but trouble.” Your father mumbled.

"You already mentioned that," you retorted, raising your brows. "Daddy it could save us money if we give it a shot." You stood up from your chair taking your dirty dishes and shrugging your shoulders. By the look on his face, you could tell your father was debating long and hard about it.

Letting out a sigh, your father rubbed his temples. He shook his head once more in thought before lightly thumping the table. "Just this one time," he asserted. “I’ll check with them after breakfast.”

“I can always go now while you fix the fence.“

“I don’t want you standing mere feet in front of the Slaughter boy,” Your father said standing with his empty plate in hand.

“You really think he’s gonna do something?” You say, raising a brow at him before transitioning into the kitchen. The long pause caught you off guard, considering that you expected your father to say something snarky or a short insult about Johnny. Though nothing came.

Your father had made his way into the kitchen, dumping his plate into the sink with his utensils. He gave you a firm look, his jaw clenched together tightly. "Check with him after the dishes while I try to fix the fence. If you're not back by lunch, I'm calling the sheriff."

You smiled and nodded while placing your own dishes in the sink. You hadn't seen Johnny in some time, primarily because your father didn't approve. Though he undoubtedly had little choice given the circumstances, you knew he would keep his word.

——

You arrived at the Slaughter House after what seemed like a never-ending trip. Having taken the back way since it was a little faster, it led you to the backyard which seemed for the most part unoccupied. You peered across to check if anyone was working yet as you leaned on the wooden fence. If it wasn’t Johnny it was most certainly Sissy prancing around here, roaming the sunflower fields in her bare feet. You briefly blinked, but you couldn't make out a single individual anywhere. It could have been simpler to go the long way to the front. However, just as you were ready to walk away, Sissy appeared from one of the back sheds. She doesn’t notice you right away, but when she does she approaches the fence, face once stoic turning into something… unusual. Almost like a fake smile, nothing enthusiastic whatsoever.

“Oh that’s who it is,” She said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Lookin’ for Johnny?”

Your eyes swept the surroundings as you furrowed your brows and nodded. “Uhm yeah… I wanted to talk to him. Is he here?”

“Of course ya’ do,” She said, looking at you up and down. The woman had turned her back to you before calling out his name, walking away completely as she made her way towards the shed she was just in.

Your eyes avert back to the shed, seconds later seeing Johnny peek his head out. Sissy gestures behind her and says something that you couldn’t quite hear, but it prompts Johnny to tuck something away and head over. Never have you seen a man jog so fast in his life.

“Hey sunshine!” As a silly grin developed on his face, his voice resonated in your ears. He walked up to you with his head tilted to the side and his thumbs in his belt loops. “Finally came ta’ see me hm? I thought I’d have to kidnap you from yer old man.”

You smile softly, watching as you take a step away from the fence. “The old man is the reason why I didn’t come.” You spoke to him. “I thought you’d be mad about it.”

“Mad?” Johnny chuckled as he leaned his arms on the fence. “Bein’ honest? I knew ya’d come crawlin’ back, ya’ can’t resist me~.”

You rolled your eyes at him with a smirk, making him cackle in response. Johnny had a tendency to be quite… charming. Flirtatious if you might say. He was a very attractive man and he knew that, with a simple snap of a finger he could probably get a dozen women on their knees. Maybe it was one of the reasons why he would get so many lingering stares when he’s in town. It’s not like you haven’t seen him there getting stuff like tools or groceries. The man could be persuasive as well. If it wasn’t for his good looks and deadly charm, your intentions would probably be… elsewhere.

“I suppose the reason you’re here isn’t jus’ ta’ see me, is it?”

You suddenly look up at Johnny, who is grinning slyly with his thin lips. Before shrugging your shoulders, your nose lets out an amused huff. “You can say that’s part of it,” You reply, making his grin widen. “Though I needed to ask a favor.”

“Anythin’ for you doll,” Johnny said to you. “What is it ya’ need?”

“Well the car is out of commission, not sure why. Was wondering if you could take a look at it?”

Johnny nodded his head and looked over his shoulder, gazing at Sissy who had just walked into the house. “Oh sure, it shouldn't be too hard now should it?” He said looking back at you with a raised brow. “Did ya’ tell yer old man?”

“I made the suggestion.”

“How’d ‘e take it?”

“You know daddy doesn’t like you all that much.”

Your sentence caused Johnny's eyes to flinch suddenly, and his jaw to clench slightly before briefly relaxing. “I could really care less ‘bout what ‘e thinks.” He replied with the small shrug of his shoulders. “But ‘e agreed did ‘e?”

“With a little convincing yes,” You replied with the nod of your head. “I was hoping you could possibly stop by today?”

“I can go righ’ now if ya’ want to.”

“That would be great.”

Johnny nodded his head and pushed himself off the fence. “Alright, I’ll go get the truck. Comin’ inside?”

You shook your head no. You expected yourself to be swarmed with his family. They did ask a lot of questions and you didn’t want to be bombarded to answer. Which honestly made you curious, considering what they ask is quite… strange. “No but thanks, I'll start heading home. I’ll meet you there.”

——

The lemonade you had prepared hadn’t been long. It was sweet, and tasted amazing. You hummed taking a sip from your own cup, setting it down on the counter before pouring another glass. Transitioning to the back door you take a glimpse through the window, which made you stop completely in your tracks.

There he was, the Slaughter boy working on the car out back. His slicked back hair came undone while little strands stuck to his forehead, the one he wiped sweat off from due to the heat from the Texas sun. Gloved hand reaching down to the hem of his shirt, lifting it up to wipe his drenched face. Those muscles, his toned frame as he turned slightly, all so shaped with scars of an unknown origin. It made your face heat up, cheeks dusted with a bright blush that only darkened when you stepped away from the window. Johnny was a fine looking man, and there was no doubt in his mind that you had some hidden feelings for him.

You opened the door to the back porch, a glass of cold lemonade in hand. Your thin flats make way to Johnny, strolling in your shirt and shorts. Jeez it's hot out. The closer you got to Johnny just showed how drenched he was in sweat.

“How’s it going?” You ask, finally approaching Johnny with the glass. “I got you this, you look like you need it.”

Johnny’s brown orbs flicked over to you, his brows raising in an instant. “You’re a sweetheart ya’ know that,” A smile spreads across his cheeks. Taking the glass from you he sighs, putting it up to his lips and taking large gulps from the beverage. You couldn’t help but stare, and when he was done he licked his lips before looking at you. Look at him all smug, the man chuckling as he took the hood of the car and slammed it shut. “Like whatcha see darlin’?”

You pucker your lips and blinked in shame, realizing you had been staring at him intently. Then you grunted and crossed your arms as the person in front of you laughed. Such a confident smile on a man. It surprised you that you didn't seem to care about it as much as you implied. “I’d like to see if the car is fixed,” You replied with the simple roll of your eyes, making Johnny take the keys from his pocket and wave them in your face. With that, you went to grab them but he pulled his hand back.

“I have a question for ya’.” He blurts, the keys still in his possession. “I remember the las’ time ya’ said somethin’— when ya’ came over. ‘Bout the sunflower fields, yeah?”

You blinked at his question, nodding your head in response. “Oh… yeah, I think I remember.” Raising your brows you thought about it for a moment. “I think it was how pretty they looked in the evening. Though I didn’t get to stay for long.”

You recall it clearly leaving at that time. In your short sundress, you stood next to Johnny as he leaned his back against his truck while you spoke. The man had just finished his cigarette, leaving a difficult day at the back of his boot. Before you arrived, the brunette and a member of his family got into an argument. In any case, that is all he told you. You had just mentioned the sunflower fields and how much you cherished the scene each time you visited. How lovely they appeared in the garden in the waning evening light.

During that time you had caught Johnny staring, his brown orbs gazing from where he leaned at on the side of the car. You had made a comment, making him smirk and push himself off the vehicle. “You’ve got some nerve sunshine,” His voice all teasing as he took your wrist. The man had pulled you close to him, the heat from his body signaling your proximity. “We’re all alone out here. If I wanted ta’ ‘stare at you all night’, I know jus’ the way to do it~.”

The reality that was only intensifying your blush had slowly crept back into your thoughts. Johnny had drawn nearer to you, which you suddenly realized. His face was incredibly close to yours—just inches apart. You raised your head to see him as his eyes played with a sly sparkle.

“Thinkin’ ‘bout it too?” His tone of voice was playful. Given that you didn't react, he laughed. “I know ya’ are darlin’, considerin’ I have it on my mind.”

Your breathing quickened, and it seemed as though a simple step or downward lean would practically close the distance between you. You couldn't speak because your stomach was churning with butterflies.

“I almost had ya’, if it wasn’t for Sissy butting into what didn’t concern her.”

Johnny didn’t have to say much to make you feel flustered, let alone so excited by him. His words had made your thighs press together slightly, in an attempt to hide that feeling which pooled in the pit of your abdomen. Oh and did he notice. He was observant to say the least, so of course he noticed the subtle movement of your thighs just clamping together. Pressing together at his words that you knew in some ways were true.

“How cute,” He teased, making your eyes widen slightly. “And ta’ think— you didn’t want me, but look at cha’. Holding those cute little thighs taa’ hide what I do to ya’.”

“No! That’s not true!” You fought with him, taking the keys from his hands while he was so distracted. Johnny chuckled as you moved quickly to the driver’s side door, opening it and hopping in. Putting the key into the ignition, you look over at the man who was gesturing you to roll the window down. With a loud huff you did. Set his arms on the opening of the window, a shit-eating grin appearing on his face. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason,” He responded. The young man watched as you turned the car on, the engine running to life and your face lighting up in the process. “Good as new. Jus’ a couple loose wires and bolts.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” You thank him, turning the car off. “Now I don’t have to walk miles just for a carton of milk.”

“You’ve been walkin’?”

“It’s been an on and off issue.”

Johnny raised his brows at that, but shrugged his shoulders moments later. “Well if it breaks down again, come by and see me.”

“Why thank you,” You roll your eyes and open the door to the car, making Johnny step away as you pull yourself out. “It’s getting close to lunch time, would you like something to eat while you go home?”

When it was time to close the door, you noticed that Johnny had been creeping up again. When you turned, he was as close as he had been before. It was like a predator stalking his lonesome prey, all alone with nowhere to go. He wrapped his thumbs in his belt loops, eyes glancing at the house before his full attention on you. “Shooin’ me ta’ leave already?” He grinned, making you roll your eyes again.

You cross your arms, this boy had some nerve. Standing so dangerously close and making those remarks. “I was trying to be nice.”

“So sweet,” Sarcasm poured from his lips as a large smile curled. “But sure, as long as it's as sweet as you~.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” You could feel your face start to heat up again, oh did it amuse Johnny. His charm worked without even having to break a sweat.

“Playin’ dumb hm?” He had a cheeky smile on his face. “If ya’ want, I can get inta’ more detail.”

You were hesitant, feeling the raw stare of questioning eyes from afar. The tilt of Johnny’s head fuels your hesitation but only momentarily. “Johnny you shouldn’t be so close,” You say, your eyes wandering to the window who you expected your father to be watching. They widened and went back to Johnny immediately. “Daddy’s watching us.”

Johnny’s eyebrows come close together, making the bridge of his nose scrunch light folds. “And?” His voice lowers an octave, eyelids lowering to a half lidded stare. “Could stare all ‘e wants.” His eyes lower into a half lidded stare, his smile fading away. He looked… dangerous. “Ya’ liked those sunflower fields huh? Why don’t cha’ come by this evenin’ after eatin’?”

“You know I can’t do that…”

A hint of disappointment sparkled in Johnny’s eyes. “Why not?” His voice sounded almost monotone.

“Because—“

You hear the back porch door open, turning your head to see your father walking out of the house. Johnny took the opportunity to step back from you, moving his way to the front hood of the car. Despite your father’s efforts, he still had a suspicious look on his face. He approached the two of you, his hands once shoved in his pockets now out as he moved around to the side of the car where you were.

“Is she fixed?” He asked, Johnny nodding his head.

“Yessir, jus’ a couple wires and bolts.” The Slaughter boy replied. “Shouldn’t be any issue fer now, but yer more than welcome ta’ stop on by if it happens again.”

Your father nodded, inspecting the vehicle and getting the keys from you. “I’mma take her for a drive, see if she’s running properly. I… appreciate your help… Johnny.”

The grin on his face told you plenty. “Anytime.” Johnny said to your father.

The man who raised you had given you a side eye, taking a sigh before going to the car. He had hopped in and both you and Johnny moved away. “Did you want to come?” He had asked you.

“Oh no, I’ll get dinner ready.” You said waving your hand. “You’re just going to town right? It should be almost done by the time you get here.”

Your father had indicated that it wouldn't be long by nodding. He was aware that leaving you with Johnny could lead to problems, but since you were an adult, he couldn't stop you from doing it. After saying that, he drove off the property while you closed the fence in his absence. You watched as he proceeded down the road until, at last, the car was no longer in view.

“So… about the fields.” You turn to Johnny, who you had heard from behind you with his heavy boots. He’d been smoking a cigarette, the bud stuck in his mouth while his hand shoved something in his back pocket. “You said after supper?”

“Ohhh, are ya’ considerin’?”

“Shut up,” You scoff, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes. “Maybe if you say please… I might consider it.”

“You’re kiddin’?” You smile and shrug your shoulders, making Johnny roll his eyes with the click of his tongue. “Please?”

“You could do better.”

It made him laugh, shaking his head with a malicious smile. He had cleared his throat, leaning in close to you before he purred a low, “Please~?”

It made you blush deeply, before coughing softly to look away. “Okay… you’ve convinced me.” Side eyeing him, you smirk. “Could’ve been better.”

“Cheeky lil’ thing aren’t ya’?” He scoffs. “I’ll see ya’ later then, sweet pea.”

Tags: @optimsluv

Part 2 is up! >> RSSF PT.2

[bunnyreaper]

𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖗𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖈𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖘

𝔞 𝔰𝔬𝔞𝔭 𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔵 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰

𝖕𝖙 2 — 𝖕𝖙 1 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊, 𝖕𝖙 3 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊

wc - 5.2k

warnings - 18+/nsfw, dom sub dynamic, smut, phone sex, wee bit of angst, brief mention of the word 'daddy'

notes - vibrating with both excitement and fear, but hoping y'all love this like you loved the last one!! also on ao3! ♥

Johnny was right to send you to bed when he did because you're already struggling to get through the day, and on any less sleep, you might have fallen asleep at your desk. Clearly, you're terrible at making decisions for yourself, if that wasn't already evidenced by the nearly empty fridge accompanied by the pile of empty takeout containers.

It's not even the end of the workday yet, and you're beat—except staying up with Johnny was so worth it, getting to hear his voice and everything he said was complete bliss. You only wish he was here now, whispering in your ear and making your day go by quicker. Unfortunately, the sad reality is that beyond your good morning text, you haven't heard from him since, and you hate that you already feel like you're suffering from withdrawals. 

Again, that could be the lack of sleep, or adequate nutrition, or the fact that lately you haven't exactly been the most social person, and you've definitely been missing social contact. All of that missing need you just want to be filled by Johnny, Johnny, Johnny—his name like a chanted prayer in your mind. 

You at least have the sense of mind to focus when you need to, but at any idle moment, Johnny crawls back into your brain. Your mind drifts to wondering what he's up to, wondering where in the world they've shipped him off to this time—what timezone is he even in? What hemisphere? 

5 p.m. comes round sooner than you expect, and you find yourself logging off from your work laptop with a relieved sigh. You might be exhausted from lack of sleep, but Johnny's arrival in your life left you energised in a way you hadn't felt in so long. Every part of you hums with excitement, thinking about what the future might hold. 

You have to keep snapping yourself out of getting lost in the fantasy, even as you find yourself rereading through texts and committing Johnny's words to memory. The last time you did this still sticks in the back of your mind, still stings—someone who came into your life and was everything until they were nothing. Someone who said they could be trusted as they broke down your barriers. 

The aching loneliness was too much, so you'd run from it straight into something worse, not even realising how easily you fell into the trap. 

Your thoughts were spiraling, and you needed a distraction, so you put on the TV in the hopes of getting lost in the shitty reality dating show you've been watching lately. 

A few hours later, the buzz of your phone pulls you from the drama of the screen—your spirits soaring as you see the little icon you're rapidly growing attached to. 

Evening bonnie, hope you're not napping too close to bed time. 

hi!! no... for once, lol. how was your day? 

Long, but thoughts of you got me through ;) how was yours? 

The rapid responses mean your smile never has time to waver, as your eyes are glued to the screen watching as the messages are read, the app tells you he is typing and then another one of his messages appears. 

Your fingers fly across the keyboard as you eagerly respond.

somehow managed to not fall asleep at my desk, i would've napped but... 

But? 

didn't want to risk missing any messages from you. 

Johnny heart reacts to the message immediately. 

Call? 

please!!! 

Mere seconds later, his face fills the screen once more, and your sheer excitement overtakes your nerves by far.

"Hi." You say shyly, as soon as you accept the call.

"Hi bonnie, gotcha on loudspeaker by the way." He greets you, his voice immediately sending warmth through you. 

You were rapidly growing obsessed with his terms of endearment, too. 

"Oh." You pause, suddenly self-conscious and hesitant. "Are you not alone?" Does anyone in his life even know you exist? You know you haven't really mentioned to your friends that you're 'dating' again.

"Definitely am, don't worry. Jus' need ma hands free." 

At that, your brow furrows, your voice filling with both mischief and disbelief. "What are you doing, Johnny?" 

He chuckles, before rustling some papers around. "Paperwork, nothing fun." 

Even hearing the word paperwork right now drains you, and can hear that Johnny isn't exactly pleased with the idea either. 

"Wishing I was under the desk again?" You ask, hoping your playful tone will make him smile. 

"Dinnae start." He groans. "What are you doing? Have you eaten?" 

"Not yet, I need to check my milk is still in date." You throw yourself off the sofa and make your way through to the kitchen—it's a good job Johnny actually poked you to eat. 

"Milk?" His voice is filled with confusion.

"For cereal." 

"Ach." 

"I can feel your disapproval from here." You can practically sense him shaking his head disapprovingly too. 

"Good, I see how this gonae be." He sighs, the disappointment evident, along with that sense of control, guidance. 

It just makes you tingle.

"Yes, daddy?" You giggle audaciously like you know exactly what you're doing, and hope it has the effect you want it to.

Johnny chokes, and then growls... and then sighs. "Away n bile yer heid." He whispers, yet he sounds anything but angry, his voice thick with arousal as he undoubtedly fights all kinds of urges. 

You want to take that step with Johnny, to dirty talk with him now that you feel comfortable, but you suppose now isn't the time—after all, he is still working. 

"I'm being mean now, sorry." 

"A right brat." He growls playfully. "Do something for me, lass?" 

The shift in his tone and the previous conversation topic gives you a good guess at what's coming next. "Is it cooking a real meal?" You groan playing into the role.

Well, admittedly committing to self-care tasks like cooking isn't the easiest thing in the world, and having someone to guide you in that is... a turn-on. 

"Knew you were a smart girl." He purrs, and those words turn your brain and your body to mush. 

You have to stifle a whine from leaving you, as your face flushes furiously. Oh, how you wish you could hear that over and over again—in that voice, with that accent, whispered right in your ear as he—

"What you gonna cook?" He asks, interrupting your rapidly spiraling thoughts. 

Staring into the fridge is a depressing experience—the shelves are mostly bare and there's a faint smell of something off. "Ugh, I don't have a lot in, to be honest." 

"Logging onto the Tesco website now, or maybe meal delivery service..." He muses, and you can imagine the smirk on his lips.

"Johnny!" Your protest is weak, as the coddling and infantalisation make you feel something you probably shouldn't. 

He snickers at your tone, but he knows now that if things are to continue, he won't listen to your objections. "Jokin'... for now. Talk me through yer fridge, lass." 

"Do you cook?" You ask, wondering if he's going to magically talk you through a recipe with the condiments in your fridge and the dried pasta in the pantry. 

There's a beat of silence. "Not often." 

You're overcome with a fit of giggles and a wave of faux offense. "Then who are you to lecture me?" 

Johnny meets your exclamation with a series of tuts, which already quiet your discontent, but you find yourself ruined when his voice drops and he delivers his next few words. "What happened to 'Johnny knows best'?" 

Fuck him, using his powers for good—and you can already tell he's getting off on it too. Today, you won't indulge him by submissively repeating it back, since he's making you face the horror that is cooking.

"Fine." You sigh, looking for what items in the fridge that are actually still in date. You pull open a cupboard or two as well. "I have... hummus and celery and uh, supernoodles in the cupboard." 

"Better than cereal." He waits for your response that doesn't come, as you pout on the end of the phone, and then he plays his next move flawlessly.  "For me, bonnie girl?" 

The plea in his voice makes you melt, makes you want to do just about anything for him. 

"For you." You say with a smile, grabbing the packets of noodles and a saucepan. "Have you eaten?" 

"A have, chicken tikka masala." 

You sigh, knowing that if not for Johnny you could've ordered a nice Indian for yourself—you get to work on the noodles anyway. "Kinda jealous now, if I'm honest."

His laugh is short but earnest. "Same, haven't had beefy supernoodles in an age." 

"Yeah, I would hope they're feeding you actually decent, nutritious food over there." 

He huffs. "I would hope you're feeding yerself decent food, but here we are." That playful judgement is back, lacing his words and making you crave his approval. 

It's a startling thought, that here you are, only a few days in and needing his praise, his encouragement—you suppose it comes easy as it plays into both of your natural instincts—his to lead, yours to follow.

"Less sass, more... paperwork." You grumble playfully, trying to cover up the fact that, maybe, you like being teased by him. 

"Aye." He laughs, and you can briefly hear him scribbling in the silence.  

For a few moments, it's just the sound of him writing and you cooking, but the quiet feels comfortable rather than awkward—strangely routine and domestic after such a short space of time. 

Your mind wanders back to what the two of you had discussed last night, about his day later in the week. "Have you thought more about Friday?" 

There's a brief shuffle and the sound of the call changes as Johnny seems to take you off the loudspeaker and moves around. "Meetin' you?" 

"Yeah." There's a sense of nervousness within you, a fear he's going to suddenly decide that he doesn't want to see you after all, that he doesn't see this going anywhere. It's so soon, and yet the thought seems crushing. 

"Haven't thought of much else." His confession seems to settle your rapidly beating heart just a little, the sincerity in his voice making your stomach twist and turn. 

Maybe you shouldn't push it, but you want to meet him more than anything, so you can make the first step toward all of this becoming real. "Would you be up for coffee? I can come to you!" 

"About that..." His sigh is weary, and panic overtakes you as the silence stretches on. "Am leaving for a week or so." 

It's not a total rejection at least, but somehow it still stings, still settles heavy and unpleasant in your gut. "When?" 

"Tomorrow." He falls silent, waiting for you to say something, yet you don't know what words to even summon right now. "'m sorry, lass." 

You take a deep breath for a moment, collecting your thoughts as you stir your noodles and try to put everything you feel into some sort of coherent order. 

There's no logical reason to feel rejected, as it's not that he doesn't want the date, but that he can't. Perhaps it's that lingering thought that this kind of thing will be a frequent occurrence—it's just a small taste of what's to come. But wanting Johnny means handling this, like he deserves. 

You push through the discomfort and force yourself into a more positive mindset.

"But... after that? Or is this just because you hate coffee so much you're fleeing the country?" You laugh softly, hoping the joke will lighten the thick atmosphere. 

"Now, if you'd asked me out for tea..." He laughs in return, before turning serious. "But... when I'm back, I'd love to see you. Have ta, really. " 

"I'm glad." The beaming smile on your face is ridiculous, and you're so thankful he can't see you grinning like an idiot at his words. He has to meet you. 

With your cooking complete, you take the saucepan off the stove and pour the noodles into a bowl, grabbing it before returning to the comfort of the couch. "Okay, noodles done." 

"Wanna call me back once yer done, or?" 

Fuck, he's so considerate. 

You hum negatively as you start to blow on the noodles to cool them. "I'll eat on the phone if you don't mind the sound of me slurping." 

Johnny chuckles, before making a suggestive noise. 

"The noodles, Johnny." 

He coughs, covering more juvenile laughter. "Aye, the noodles, of course." 

"So... going anywhere fun?" You ask, referencing his upcoming deployment. 

"Classified, I'm afraid." He answers curtly, but you know it's nothing more than his duty. 

No questions about that, then, you suppose. It's going to be a strange thing to adjust to, but it's another thing that comes along with accepting Johnny into your life. You change your line of questioning, hopefully to something he can answer. "Are you... scared?" 

"No." He answers quickly and firmly, in a manner that suggests certainty rather than bravado. "Don't worry about me, hen." He rushes to add.

"Kinda hard not to, even if we only just met..." You sigh, but you suppose you have to trust Johnny's skills and training. "I imagine it only gets more intense from here." 

The admission feels like a swift kick to the stomach. 

"Yeah..." You hear a knock on the door from Johnny's end, and he swears colourfully under his breath. "Ach, can I call yer back?" 

It's almost cruel the way such timing drives the point home. 

"Sure, things to attend to?" You ask absentmindedly, not really expecting an answer. 

He sighs, before trying to turn his tone more positive. "Aye, but I'll catch you before bed, yeah?" 

"Yeah. Bye, Johnny." 

"Bye, lass." 

He ends the call, leaving you with your meal and your thoughts. 

Maybe you aren't strong enough to deal with this after all, you think, trying to settle the ugly, gnawing feeling inside you. It already hurts, but maybe that's because you're trying to hold so tight onto something intangible. Maybe if you and Johnny become something, mean something to each other, it'll all be easier to deal with. 

It's an hour or so later when you're tucked up in bed that Johnny's call lights up your phone. You pick it up instantly. 

"Hey, glad you haven't fallen asleep already." He chuckles, his voice softer than before. 

"Mmm, still hanging on." You mumble, cheek pressed into plushness and tiredness lingering at the back of your mind, as well as the mess of feelings that still simmers within you. 

"Cuddled up with the big B?" He asks, voice cheeky and charming. 

You can't help the soft giggle at the ridiculous nickname. "The big B?!"

"Barnaby!" He clarifies with a hearty laugh, not ashamed at all of his goofiness. 

"The big B! That's so silly" 

The laughs quiet, and another silence falls, but this time you feel the discomfort that comes with it. 

Johnny is the first to breach it, his tone tinged with worry. "How are yer?"

"I'm fine." You sigh, not wanting to elaborate and get yourself upset again. It's not far from the truth. Nothing has changed, but this is something you have to learn to sit with, have to make peace with for both of your sake. 

Johnny cuts right through the noise. "Yer seemed a little upset earlier. Wanna talk about it?" 

Communication—the key to any good relationship, an essential to any kinky one, and one thing you think you really kind of suck at. 

It's a simple sentence with a simple answer, and nothing about Johnny suggests that his reaction will be anything other than supportive—but it's not Johnny's voice that whispers cruel things in the back of your head. And for now, Johnny's influence is not enough to quiet the storm. 

The fear grips at your heart, stops your words right in your throat, but your mind wars between the ghosts of your past and the duty of your present and future. 

Johnny waits quietly, not pushing you for an answer or assuming how you feel, and that small act helps pull you out of the fog and helps you force yourself to speak. 

"Reality setting in, I guess." The words don't come easy at first, your throat tight—but once you start, the rest just seems to flow, taking the weight of your burdens with them. "Like, it's not too bad right now, it's just... knowing what's in store? Assuming we keep talking." 

The opportunity to really put your thoughts in order and get them out actually does help, surprisingly.

Johnny goes silent for a moment, considering your words before he speaks. "If you wanna stop—" 

"I don't." You feel bad for interrupting him, but you already know that's not what you want, even if he sees it as a kindness. "Like I said yesterday, I'm not faint-hearted... the intensity just took me by surprise. All of this has, really." 

"I'm with you there. Sat here thinking about how I'm gonna be thinking of anything else when I'm on the mission." He laughs softly, the sound laden with emotion. "Lt's gonna have my head." 

The gravity of his job sinks in now, with the realisation that he will be busy and focused, and rightfully so.

"Will you be able to get in touch while you're gone?" You ask, more for informational purposes, rather than being unable to last a week without hearing his voice. 

"Not a whole lot, no. Sometimes no' at all, but I'll let you know when I can." He states plainly, and the honesty is so refreshing. 

"I'll try not to bother you too much then." You giggle, though you don't really mean your words. He has his mission, and you have yours—stay strong while he's gone. 

He scoffs instantly. "You? A bother? Never." 

You hum, continuing with your playful statements. "You haven't seen me when I'm clingy." 

"A like clingy, am clingy too." 

Ugh, just when you think he can't be more perfect, he comes out with that. The sweet smile on your face is relentless, and you just know the same is true for him too. "Oh yeah? So you won't be complaining when we meet, and I just take a hold of your hand and don't let go." 

His barked laugh is so genuine that it makes your heart sing. "Bold of yer to assume I'd be letting you go, lass." 

The thought of even his hand in yours is enough to send you into a frenzy—a simple, delicate, and chaste act, yet you crave it like nothing else. When your date finally does come around, you'll be able to touch him and see him up close. You'll be able to hear that voice and those words up close and unrestrained by the slightly shitty quality of the phone call—and that is a little terrifying.  

"I guess waiting isn't a bad thing after all, maybe I'll be less nervous by then." Because right now you know you'd hesitate to reach out and touch him, would struggle looking him in the eye for too long. Maybe if you wait, the radiance that is Johnny's warmth will wear off, but somehow you doubt it. 

"Why ya nervous?" 

You almost snort at such an oblivious question from such a seemingly smart man. "Have you seen you?" Have you talked to you? Been on the end of your affections? Your mind pleads. 

"See this ugly mug every day." He grumbles, though you can still hear the smile. 

"You can't see, but I'm rolling my eyes." You giggle. "But what if I just... can't resist you? Jump you right then and there?" Your voice takes on a more teasing tone. 

"In public?" He tuts, slow and sexy, his voice dropping low. "Naughty girl." 

You straight up whimper. "Needy girl, for you." 

A growl leaves his throat, along with a whispered "Fuck." 

Arousal floods through you, overtakes you, as you feel your mind slipping to a space of deep-seated need, all for him. You feel on fire, your skin hypersensitive to the brush of the sheets, as your lower body hums and begs for attention. No longer can you hold yourself back from falling under his sexy spell. "Your groans, your voice, it all drives me crazy." 

The laugh that leaves him is weaker, choked with arousal. "All wet fer me, bonnie?" His voice, now a touched graveled, wraps so wonderfully around every word. 

"Soaked." You squirm in place, not even needing to feel to know just how dripping you are—every time he teases you, you practically gush. Your spare hand dives below the sheets, tracing ever so slightly over your stomach as it crawls lower. "Johnny?" 

"Yes, bonnie?" It sounds like his control is wavering too. 

"Please can I touch? I need it so bad." You whine and plead, surrendering yourself to Johnny's command. 

"You don't—" Another growl leaves his throat, you hear him shuffle and when his voice returns, he sounds even more aroused than before—sweet, gentle domination drips from his tone. "Touch yerself, go on." 

You comply immediately, your hand diving under your waistband and zeroing in on your swollen clit—relief floods you the second you make contact, your fingers rubbing delicate swirls on your soaked nub as gentle moans force themselves free. 

"Oh fuck." Johnny's breathing is ragged between his groans. "Gonna have tae join ya." 

"Fuckfuckfuck." Your eyes slip shut as you imagine him reaching down to free his aching cock, all for you. Your thoughts center on conjuring up an image of how long and thick you imagine him to be. "Is... is your cock as big as the rest of you?" 

You squeak out your words while you still have command over the English language.

"Guess you'll find out soon enough." He chuckles breathlessly, some of the words catching in his throat as he clearly works himself. "But I don't think you'll be disappointed. I know how tae take care of yer, know you're already desperate for me." 

Your circles quicken, his words sending pleasure coursing through you in a way that almost feels better than your touch. You fill the air with breathy moans. "Need you, Johnny." 

"Need you too, pet." He growls his words over the building slick sound.

"Oh fuck." Your reaction is instant, the word sending everything in your brain into overdrive. Pet. Pet. You almost cum right then and there, but his assault on your senses and sensibilities continues. 

"God, thinking about you on the end of a leash for me? So fuckin' hard thinking about it." His voice modulates between and whine and a growl, his need growing furiously. "I'd be so fuckin' lucky." 

You imagine the collar slipping around your neck, imagine Johnny clicking shut a lock and attaching a leash—pulling you to him just as he is now with every word. 

"I'd be the most loyal pet ever, I swear." You start to babble, unable to hold back any longer on the wave of submission that overtakes you. "I'll Wait for you to come home, naked and kneeling with my leash ready." 

"Jesus, fuck." Each grunt that leaves him makes you shiver. Each word like its own bolt of electricity straight from his body to yours. "Yeah, my good girl would be so lost without me." He says it with such certainty, speaking the truth to life. 

"I get separation anxiety like mad. I'll miss your touch, miss your smell, miss your taste—" You cut yourself off with a high-pitched whine, your fingers working you so fucking close to the edge.

"Don't worry, I'd fuck you so good before I go bonnie, fill yer up and leave you dripping with me." His groans are accompanied by more of those slick sounds. "Mark that pretty neck o' yours, too." 

"I'm... I'm not gonna last." You admit, holding back even now from cumming—you crave his permission. 

"Me either. Go on, moan for me, let me hear you." He urges you gently, even if his voice is filled with need. 

You let all your noises flow freely as you teeter toward the edge and desperately try to please him with the sounds you make. It's all too good, too much, too overwhelming. 

"Johnny, can I—" 

His demand is out of his mouth before you can even finish your sentence. "Cum fer me, bonnie. Go on." 

You cum with a strangled cry, flying over the edge right as Johnny demands it. The build-up of the past few days along with Johnny's noises has you shaking in ecstasy—ecstasy that's only prolonged when he cums too with a long, drawn-out groan.

After a moment, the only sound is both of your heavy breathing, as you come down from your high. 

"Oh my god." You sigh, a silly, blissed-out grin overtaking your features.

"You okay, sweet girl?" His voice returns to that sweetness you're coming to know and love.

You nod mindlessly, even though he can't see you. "Better than okay, are you?" 

He hums in affirmation, before his voice turns a touch serious. "You did so good. Just want tae make sure you're good, and a didn't go too far." 

"Hah, I mean, nowhere near too far." You admit shakily. 

"Am glad, it's only early days, though. That trust..." He hesitates. 

"... It takes a while, yeah." The post-orgasmic bliss coupled with the feeling of that trust taking root and growing. "I'm glad you understand." 

And he understands perfectly, as you never feel pushed or rushed, only pampered and adored. 

"Of course... it's special, for both of us." He admits, and you know you're on the same wavelength when it comes to the bond and relationship between dominant and submissive. 

"Mhmm." You hum dreamily, wholeheartedly agreeing and yet not able to summon up something profound. 

"Already sleepy?" His laughter is soft and sincere. 

"I'd get so much rest if every night was like this." 

"Even more so when I finally get to fuck ya, bonnie." He whispers so casually, yet even after your orgasm your clit still thrums with interest—God, he has such a hold on you.

"Yeah?" You sigh, dreaming of the day you'll get to experience it. 

"Yeah." 

The line falls silent, and you feel yourself fading. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so... sleepy." You whisper while you still have the chance. 

"It's okay, sweet girl, close yer eyes. Am right here." Johnny's sweet voice lulls you closer and closer, and your phone falls free from your hand to your pillow, resting there with Johnny just on the end of the line. 

"Goodnight Johnny." You mumble, before sleep finally takes you.

"Goodnight, Bonnie." His reply is soft, carrying you off to unconsciousness as he drifts off too.  

-//-

Johnny practically vibrates where he stands—wired beyond belief. Part of it is his usual pre-mission adrenaline, but the events of the past few days especially almost have him climbing the walls. His energy is frenetic as usual but with so much more—lust, yearning, withdrawal. 

It's only been a few hours since he ended the call after waking up before you, and yet he finds his thoughts unable to leave you, even as he finishes gearing up. You'd love to see him like this, and an idea strikes him.

He pulls out his phone, turns to the man beside him, and hopes he doesn't regret asking. Then again, some ribbing from the masked man would be nothing compared to the floored reaction he'd get from you.

"Ghost?" He asks, piercing the comfortable silence between the two of them. 

"What?" Ghost turns, eyeing Johnny and his hand holding his outstretched phone.

Johnny doesn't waver, sure in his request, and eager to see your response. "Take a picture of me, yeah?" 

"Girl back home?" Ghost asks, cutting straight to the point as he takes the phone. "Is this the first time she's seeing you? Cause you look fuckin' rough." 

"No." Johnny frowns, and worry washes over him. Surely Lt. is just messing him around—he knows she'll be happy to see him either way. 

Ghost pulls off a glove and navigates to the camera before stepping back and holding up the phone in Johnny's direction. He might be giving Johnny shit, but he at least takes the time to angle and position the frame in a way that compliments Johnny's stature. "She like the tac gear?" 

Johnny sighs, wishing this was over already. "Just take the picture, Ghost." 

"Say cheese." Ghost deadpans, and the softest of smiles graces Johnny's features—for her, not for him.

Johnny practically snatches the phone back from Ghost's hands, checking out the photo immediately. "Thanks." 

He pulls up their messages immediately, firing off the picture with a kissing face and a teasing message just for her. 

When he locks the phone and throws it in his bag, Ghost's eyes are fixed on him, his blackened eyes narrowed.

"Mind on the mission, yeah, Johnny?" 

Johnny nods, doing his best to push thoughts of her away for now, and letting his inner soldier take over. He'll be back to her before he knows it. "Aye, Lt." 

Days later, and after a successful first phase of the mission, Johnny stares down at his phone. The signal is nonexistent and won't return for a while, but he misses you, his mind is itching with his need for you. In this shitty safe house in the middle of nowhere, while someone else is on watch, there's very little to do, and truly nothing else he'd rather think about. 

He scrolls to the top of your messages, rereading each message and reliving each conversation, experiencing all over again how each message made him feel. 

Your sweet texts, your copious use of emojis, and your cute little selfies—it was all so intoxicating to him. For a man who was so used to maintaining focus, you were a fucking curveball. Something about you just sends his protective instincts into overdrive, makes unearned possessive tendrils curl up through him and around his heart—calls out to his guiding, dominant, caring side.

He has to constantly stamp down the thoughts inside that called out to him to find you, scoop you up, and take you home with him. Luckily for you both, Johnny is a patient man. He spends time out in the field waiting days for anything interesting to happen, he's spent years waiting for his pet, his girl to come along—and you're right there. He can wait a little longer. 

He holds down the record button, intent on recording a message for you, and begins whispering into the phone.

"Hi, been sat on my arse for far too long with nothing to do but think of you. Dinnae think I'll get signal anytime soon, but I 'spose it'll send at some point." He feels himself relax just a little as he falls into Johnny, the man—rather than Soap, the soldier.

"Been thinking about our first date, since you mentioned coffee. Kinda had a crazy idea actually, but I need your input. What about a cat café? Has to be one in that city o' yours, and I figure you must like kitties."

"Won't be long until you might be one for me... or a bunny... or a puppy." He interrupts himself with a sigh.

"Need tae stop those thoughts and quit while I'm ahead. Let me know, yeah? As soon as I get my leave, we'll set it up."

"Talk soon, bonnie." 

[yeyinde]

infinity in the palm of your hand (eternity in an hour) | reincarnation AU

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (OG) x Reader | Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (Remake) x Reader

You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before.

And then you find him.

MATURE | 18+ —TAGS: AU, canon divergence: reincarnation; fluff; tagging as fem!Reader due to usage of "bonnie" (not a name—Reader is not named), and mentions of a dress but no other descriptive imagery is used —WARNINGS: grief, loss, unhealthy coping mechanisms, existential crisis, allusions to smut; cosmic horror (but??? it's a romance????) —WORD COUNT: 11,9K —NOTES: I like the idea of fated pairs, soul mates, but I can't write this concept without somehow diving into the cosmic horror of something, someone, controlling you from behind the scenes. So. Um. Idk what to call this abomination. It leaks horror but is meant to be quite fluffy. It's romance. It's a love story. But it's also kinda eldritch. Oops.  This was also originally a request I got back in November (I'm so sorry!). I have since lost the request, but Reincarnation Anon, this is for you!!! 🖤

In Greek, there are two words for time: 

Kronos—chronological, the clock: fixed—measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. The world runs on Kronos. On its merciless rigidity, it's apathetic, unending trek forward. It is cruel, sometimes, but it cares little for you, or anyone else who exists inside its unforgiving realm. Time is linear. A steady March. 

And then there is Kairos. In its essence, and in utter simplicity: timelessness. 

It's often found in grief when the world around you shatters and implodes. When it lapses into pain and agony. Into how and why and—

Nothing makes sense. Nothing matters. 

You've never experienced any such loss. Gran, grandad, friends, family—all alive and well. And yet—

You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before. 

And then you find him.

Or, rather, he finds you. 

(Over and over and over again—)

It starts in university. 

Start, of course, is an operative word. It's an incipient event: a slow burn in the back of your head that gets hotter and hotter, but you can't quite discern why. You just feel wrong. Shaken. The foundation in which you walk wobbles. Crumbles. 

There is an unseen precipice under your feet covered by cobblestone. You know it's there—are aware of the yawning chasm that wants to swallow you whole, but you don't know where it is. 

And then—

There is no phone call, no blunt condolences for any particular loss, just—

A knock on your door. It's just your flatmate, but the rhythm cuts through your head, right down the middle. 

Agony. The world around you flips, topples off its axis, and just keeps spinning, spinning, spinning—

It hits you with the force of a tsunami. A deluge of biblical proportions that uprooted everything you'd ever know, casting you out into a frothing abyss, ravaged by mountain-tall waves that left you asunder. Awash in a tumultuous sea.

It would make sense, you suppose, had you lost someone, but you haven't. 

The most you've lost was a pet. 

And yet—

You sob, scream, and claw at your chest until your skin is torn and shredded, trying futilely to get to where it hurts the most. It's agonising. Brutal. They sedate you—no choice is given when you're so frantic, so desperate. The world slips away. The pain abated. 

But it doesn't stop it. 

They call it grief, and you don't know why. You haven't lost anyone. Mum, dad, gran, grandad. All alive and well. All there, standing clustered around your hospital bed (admitted when you wouldn't stop screaming) looking quite bewildered by you. By the things you say—missing something, someone, gone, just gone—and the way you're acting. 

And it scares you just as much as it does them, but you can't just push it aside, let it go. There is a gaping hole in your chest, one punched straight through your sternum. It's gangrenous, and rotting; the stench makes you dizzy, makes your head spin. Your heart is necrotising between your ribs and spine, but no one knows why. No one understands the agony you feel because everyone is alive. 

They all say the same: we don't know. Depression, perhaps. You just need time. 

Time does nothing to heal the wound. You can't run from the hurt—it's never-ending—but you get better at hiding it, at dealing with pulpy remains of your still-beating heart that slugs on despite the mouldering wound ripped open in the centre. 

They tell you it's Thursday, now. 

Before you'd throw something, thrash, and scream yourself hoarse because what does it matter when your heart is dying, decaying inside of your chest. 

Now, you just nod. Thursday, is it? 

Time doesn't exist to you anymore. It's just an endless stream of days and nights that get easier to withstand as the foreign clock on the wall ticks down the seconds you don't feel. 

The world is a murky haze of confusion and pain. You move on only because you have to. 

Things—

Well. They don't get better, but they get bearable, and you suppose that's the same thing, isn't it? 

And then you dream. 

They come in flashes. Snippets. Little moments of a place and time that doesn't exist, that isn't real. This life was not one you lived. The taste of elderberry has never graced your lips, but you think of the sweet, tartness like it's an old comfort. 

It makes you ache. 

Simplicity bleeds into familiarity into love into—

—you should… you should sit for this—

Crushing heartache. It carries the flavour of gunpowder, and is soaked in charcoal; the soot stains the tips of your fingers when you reach out, curling them in the rough lapels of a gunmetal grey jacket still carrying the scent of ichor, and loss. 

—i… i can't promise you forever, but i can promise you now—

You dream of a man. Of hands on your body. Eyes gazing at you—an alluvial fan in hazel, green, and gold; the shadows cast in the shallow valleys make you yearn for something. 

Something, something—

You wake up, hand to your splitting chest as the agony rips it into pieces. Heartache, grief. It drapes itself over you like a storm cloud. Looming there, ever-present, and ready to chisel open a deluge of pain so visceral you weep. And weep. And—

Your pillow is wet. Nose stuffed, eyes gritty. You've been crying, sobbing, in your sleep again. 

It's a cycle. Memories flood your head until it's splitting apart at the seams, making room for that life it wants to force you to remember, acknowledge, and pretend exists, and one you're in now. 

It breaks something inside of you. Cracks the levee. In the midst of crumbling concrete, and a roaring deluge, you hear a voice. 

(You stare at the bottles lining the shelves in your vanity, and tell no one.)

—excuse me? You dropped this—

HERE

There is a tavern on High Street. 

It's nothing special on its own. Just a building, just a pub. You pass it twice a day on your commute to work, and it should be background noise. A blur of scenery and objects as you stroll through the streets. A melding of the world around you, an inconsequential smear of cobblestone and brick. 

And yet—

Your eyes keep finding it, seeking it out. It's involuntary. Automatic. You pass the grocer and the pharmacy, head angled down toward the grey stone below, and then, like an unignorable force, a gravitational pull, your head lifts. The fairy lights are strewn around the outside coruscate in the gloom. You nearly trip. 

It's strange. Odd. 

It's just a building. Just a tavern. 

—got some of the best brews in town—

But you remember it. Are familiar with it in a way that makes absolutely no sense. You've never gone inside, never heard anyone speak about it. It's a building on a street of many. Ordinary. Plain. Nothing about this place should stand out to you. It isn't eye-catching or garish. It's—

—cosy little spot—

It's an anomaly. Much like—

Well. Much like everything in your life. 

There is a gnawing in the pit of your stomach, one that's so achingly familiar that your head swims from deja vu that shouldn't exist. It fits inside like an augur. A portant. 

How can the unknown be a comfort to you? How can it blister your heart with such ferocity that you find yourself pawing at your face to stem the deluge of tears that cascade down your cheeks in rivets? 

Whatever it is, it's calamitous and entirely unignorable. 

Your life is asunder, in shambles because of it yet each hiss in your ear addles your thoughts until you become overwhelmed by it all. Until the echoes that tell you to wander down a random side street, sign a lease for an apartment you can't afford, to leave the safety of your home country, and—

On a whim, you packed your things up on the behest of that strange, Eldridge feeling eating you alive that made you cut ties with your old, peaceful life, and book the first plane ticket to Elgin. No plan, no money. 

(You'd call it an afflatus had it not been so drenched in the unknown.)

It's paradoxical: you cry when you see that stupid church in the distance, your feet drag you to places you've never been before, and now. 

Now: 

You can't stop staring at a nondescript pub in a sea of many. 

Ignore it. Leave it. You take another route, head down, hands shoved deep in the pockets of your jacket to keep them from trembling. It'll pass. It'll go away. 

It doesn't. 

It pools in the pit of your stomach, noxious and rotten, until you wake up drenched in sweat, hands grasping for a phantom who no longer exists—

—wanna come with me?—

You break on Saturday. 

—i like when you wear that dress—

You wear it, and hate yourself a little bit for it. It's stupid, and out of place, but you do it, anyway. 

—booth in the back is where i always sit, want to come join me—

The inside of the tavern is just the same as you remembered it—

No. No. 

You've never been here before. 

You smell malt in the air; the same amber that spumes in your veins. You dance in circles between the tables, giggling at the people who smear by in a haze of gold and red. 

A hand reaches, snags your waist. "Where are you going, pretty thing? Wanna come sit with us?"

It makes you laugh, and laugh, and—

"There a problem?" Heat against your bare back. Ironclad arms around your middle. His voice is a rumble. A thunderclap. "She's with me. Go on now. Get."

You pull away from him, smirking, and—

The air is punched from your lungs. Longing sits in your throat, heavy and thick. It aches. God, it aches. A phantom pain that never quite dissipates. A raw wound left to fester; exposed and open to the elements. It never heals. Never scabs. It oozes grief and headache into your bloodstream and makes you feel lost. Dazed. Confused. 

It's silly. 

Stupid. 

The warm blends of burnt umber and gold make you tremble. Everything inside is—familiar, in all the ways it shouldn't be. 

You can't be here. Can't—

Something quivers inside of you. The sting of a guitar being plunked by indelicate hands. It snaps, breaks. You turn, eyes wild, wide—

—hey, where are you—

"...goin'—?"

A chest. Warm. Familiar. 

Your neck aches when you jerk your chin up, hands beaded against the hard, firm flesh of a stranger who feels all too familiar, too—

Hazel. A boscage in spring. Warm milk—

"Honey…"

It's out before you can stop it. 

Green and golden widen until they're drowning in a sea of arsenic white. An island of bloom, spring, carved in the middle of a barren, icy land. Lids fall, lashes dust across the shadows of the valley smeared beneath the red seal of his lower lash line. 

Your breath catches when they slide open, a slow crawl over a varicoloured plume of witch elm and wheat. 

—dark eyes, a furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips—

No. No. 

It's different. This isn't the man who haunts your dreams and whispers sweet nothings into your ear. This is not the cut of a man who once curled his fingers over your hips, lips glued to your pulse as he spent himself inside of you—

Heat sears your cheeks. 

His mouth opens, and closes. Opens again. No words spill out. His confusion is an oppressive silence. 

You swallow down the bitter tang of panic that pools on your tongue, nails digging into the soft fabric of his shirt. 

This isn't that man. 

He just—

"Sorry," you think you say, but it's all a blur. There was a blue ravine in his eyes, one with shallow shores, and crystalline waves that rippled with the breeze. You're sinking in those waters, now. Dragged down to the murky depths of blue, blue, blue that once made you see samsara with just the brush of his lips. Everything sounds distorted. Hollow. 

—you make me crazy. make me want things i shouldn't. Riley thinks i'm whipped. kinda agree with him, but i can't let you go. i can't get you outta my head, and i don't want to—

"Sorry—," you choke, the words a crumpled piece of paper lodged in your throat. Papier-mache seals over your trachea. 

You push away from him, stumbling out of this paroxysm. Flames lick at your heels, carrying you further from the laps of blue that flicker over beige. 

He chases after you. A warm hand around your wrist stops you on the corner outside of a pharmacy. The streets are dusted in white. It trickles from the sky in a thick hail of cosmic dust. 

His breath plumes in front of him when he breathes, pure white tendrils ghosting into the midnight blue silk that covers the town. 

"Hey, you alright? Can I—call someone for you, or—"

"No." You gasp, shaking your head so fast, you're nearly sick with it. 

"Hey, hey." His hand moves, perches itself against your cheek, eyes brimming in the flushed lamp overhead. His brow is drenched with concern. With confusion. And anger. Anger—why, why—

"Did someone drug you? Did you drink anythin'?" 

It rips a bark of laughter from your chest. "Drugs? No. I'm just—"

Spiralling. 

You make a vague motion with your wrist, and hope it's enough to convey the absolute travesty of your life. It meets the mark. 

The divot in his forehead softens, eyes creasing in the corners. Full pink lips knot to the side. Something passes his expression that looks a little too much like understanding to ever sit well in the pit of your stomach. 

You swallow down the acrid residuum of panic, and nod. Why—who knows. It just feels appropriate. 

"I need to go—"

"—I like your dress."

The words tumble over each other, barely coherent amid the amalgamated syllables, but ring with distinct clarity in your head. Your dress. Your brows knot, eyes dropping to the stupid little thing you'd picked out in a shop you had no business being inside. Led by the nose. A puppet on strings. 

You scoff. "I hate it."

You don't. You'd have picked it out yourself if you had that funny little thing called freewill; that precious little something you'd left behind in a dorm on a university campus you haven't thought of in years. 

"It's, ahh—," he rubs the back of his neck, eyes skirting toward the bar you fled from. "It's pretty."

Pretty. 

"Oh…," you say, quite intelligently. "You can have it if you want." 

It's only when his brows buoy to his hairline do you realise the innuendo within that. 

The fire inside dies. Doused with the waters of Acheron.

"Sorry—"

"—'dunno if it'd look as good on me as it does you, bonnie."

Bonnie. Your veins crackle with ice. Bonnie. 

"What—what did you call me—?"

He blinks. "Oh, it's not—," his hand slides away from his neck, scrubbing over the stubble on his jaw. He looks bashful, almost. The man in your dreams is—

Reserved. Cool waters. A rock. 

"It's just a nickname, it's not—it's not anythin' weird, I promise."

A nickname. You should have known that, you suppose; but like many things, it slips, silken and liquid, through the cracks wrought by paradox. 

"Right." Your nails dig into your palms, cutting the flesh until your fingers puddle with something warm, wet. Tacky. The breath you suck in between clenched teeth is a sharp hiss. "I should go."

"Ah, yeah," his brows tighten again, jaw ticking. He looks uncomfortable, unsure. Concerned. His arms come up, folding over his broad chest. And that—

That is familiar. 

You swallow down mildew and honeysuckle. Heart lurching in your chest, a painful crescendo that echoes to the whispered beat of soft words in your head. 

—you should stay, bonnie. stay with me—

"Can I at least make sure you get home safe?"

You can't. You can't—

There is a tavern on High Street that you've been to before in a dream, where you are taken to by a man with a distance in the crook of his smile; a degree of separation that makes you yearn. It pulled you in, gravity and magnetism and that primal something that they often talk about in wordy biology papers you can't understand. 

Maybe it's the chemical slurry in your head—dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin—all mixing together, and polluting your rationale, but it made a shade of roseate fall over your eyes; veiled like a Magellanic cloud. Through the startling nebulae and cosmic radiation, he loomed. Your fingers reached out, latching on to him, and you pulled him into your orbit. 

The reservations slipped, dulled by the way you fit against him. A missing piece. A complimentary artefact. His edges softened until he looked at you with nothing but warmth, affection. 

And then—

Then:

Three knocks in halted succession. Military precision. Boom, boom, boom. 

A man stood before you, achingly familiar in his mutton chops and hat. The gleam of his metals—chest candy—caught in the setting sun. Ochre, gold. You think of him, and you smile. Was smiling when you peeled back the curtain to greet him. 

It wavers. Your heart aches for that person standing in the doorway; you from a dream. 

It drags in slow motion. He takes his hat off, and cups it on his chest. 

—look, i don't… i don't know how to tell you this—

Then—

"—don't." The word startles you as much as they do him. You baulk. "Just… no thank you."

Something rings in the cognitive dissonance that shrouds you. 

It's your turn to walk away.

And so, you do. 

(He doesn't follow. You don't know why you expected him to.)

—be patient with me, Bonnie. my job is my life. my everything, but you–you're my—

It doesn't rain—a rarity in Elgin—but the scent of wet soil, petrichor, clings to the air. 

It isn't raining, but it feels like it should.

You don't expect to see him again. 

And why would you? There are so many people in Elgin, so many men. The chances of finding him again—shaggy mohawk; kind, amber eyes—were nearly impossible. Infinitesimal, really. 

So, you push him to the far reaches of your mind, and try not to dwell on the stranger that smells so strongly of coumarin that your head still feels dizzy from the scent of golden wheat fields in the spring and sycamore when you breathe in some mornings.

Out of sight, out of mind. 

A familiar stranger in a foreign land.

But you should have known better than to expect anything in this strange purgatory you’ve slipped inside where dreams are sometimes a reality, and you can’t stop comparing a hazy figure in your mind, someone you might have loved in a distant life you have no memory of, to a stranger who slots himself into your path like he was meant to be there all along. 

It starts three days later. 

You tuck a book under your arm, and walk the unfamiliar path to a small cafe you’ve never dreamed of, have no lingering sense of recognition in the small building. 

Safe, you think. 

And then—

Blooming honeysuckle. The heady scent of coumarin. Salt, amber. 

He crashes into your life again, and again, always with the same expression of happy surprise when recognition bleeds into wheat-tinged eyes. 

He offers a wide smile, a little wave, and seems unbothered by a dizzying sense of unease that sweeps through each uncanny meeting, each strange divergence of paths always, always, leading to each other. 

In the produce section of the grocery store halfway across town, he holds an unripened apricot and grins at you over the yellow sign above (30% off!). The colourful anchor in Cooper Park, where he stands with his hands in his pockets, eyes listing toward the swans in the background, drifting idly over the dark water. At the counter in a Turkish restaurant, laughing at something the waiter says as he takes his bag of takeout. 

You turn down a random sidestreet, trying to navigate the tight, claustrophobic streets of Elgin, and he's there, suddenly, at the end. Legs thrown over the seat of a sleek motorcycle, fingers toying with the clasp of his helmet. Wander into a shop, and he's already sat at the table. Reach for a carton of eggs in Tesco's and his hand bumps against yours as he tries to grasp the same. 

You hear his voice crackling through the concrete. A whisper in the back of your head. The grit, the cadence, is so different from the man you dreamed about, the hazy spectre who haunts you, that you know, instantly, that it's him. The man whose only resemblance to the ghost latching onto you is his eyes, the hairstyle. The scent. The familiarity blooms in his proximity. Two strangers sharing the same essence of a soul. 

He drives past you on his motorcycle, wanders down the same alleyway, boards the same train, and gets off at the same station. 

A living phantom. 

It's always the same, too. His eyes always shift, somehow catching yours. Easily, effortlessly, finding you even in the midst of a crowded shop, a bustling park, or a loud eatery. 

Each time, you run. And keep running. 

And then once, you catch him. 

He leans with his forearm resting on the railing of a mezzanine at dusk. His wrist resting on the iron, fingers gripping the nozzle of a lagger that dangles over the edge. 

Behind him, music spills out from inside the flat. French doors spread wide open, leaking the whisper of a party into the warm air. 

No one joins him. He doesn't look back. 

His chin is pointed up toward the varicoloured sky streaked with lavender and pink and blood orange. Eyes glowing brightly in the darkness. A field of wheat against the midnight blue gloom of an approaching storm. 

It's mesmerising. 

Despite the urge to run, you stop. Can't help yourself, really. Not when your heart cracks at the expression on his face, eyes drawn tight, brows pinched. Full of—

Longing. 

Like a magnet, then, his gaze drops to the ground where you stand, clutching your book so hard, your joints ache. 

His hand lifts, fingers still curled in a loose fist, and he gives you a lazy wave from above, lips pulling back into that same wide, infectious, grin. Happy—for some inexplicable reason—to see you, his own little poltergeist. 

You hesitate for a moment, burning the image of him in your retinas where he'll stay, a permanent scar, in the black puddles for you to see again when you close your eyes, or look into a mirror. Another ghost. 

And then you turn. Run. 

(He doesn't try to stop you. He never does.)

It is almost clockwork.

The same soft hazel eyes creased lightly in the corners. Broad shoulders are hunched as he gazes down at his phone resting on the countertop. His brows are furrowed today. Irritation bleeds in the crevasse. 

Your fingers itch. You want to smooth it out. 

(It doesn't surprise you that you can feel the phantom warmth of his finger under your flesh.)

It's strange. All of this is. Paradoxical, really. 

You know him. You don't. You've never met him before. You know he'd taste of honeysuckle. 

There is a war in your mind. A long, drawn-out battle. 

(No victor in the carnage.)

You should walk away, leave, like all the times before when you'd spotted him, and ran, but:

Frozen. Paralysed. 

You can't move. Can't—

—maybe, you're just tired of running—

—maybe, i'm just waiting for you to catch up—

His head lifts, and he catches sight of you before you can run. Hazel flashes in recognition. Spotted, you think; but it doesn't matter, it doesn't. 

He isn't waiting for you—

His chin lifts, a smile crooking on the corner of his mouth. 

—you'll be waiting a long time, Bonnie—

You want to run, but you can't. Can't. All you can do is watch as he slides out of the booth, hands shoved into his pockets, and makes his way to you. Tucked into the corner near the counter, away from everyone, everything, but he still spotted you. Still noticed. Still—

"Hi," he greets, low and cautious, like he's trying his best not to startle you. His eyes crinkle. "Didn't expect t'see you again."

You shouldn't be here. "Yeah," you say, instead, huffing. "I, uh… life is pretty funny that way, isn't it?" 

His brow furrows together at your words, eyes darkening with something you can't place. An unknowable emotion, hidden from your prying eyes. You think of him, then, and see the similarities you tried so desperately to ignore each time you saw him. Each time you ran. 

"Aye, it does." 

You should leave him here. Turn around, flee. Forget this place, this microcosm that blooms, and spreads over parts of Elgin you know so intimately; sure, somehow, that you'll find your fingerprints smeared across the ruins despite never having been there before.

Little pieces of yourself. Shedded skin, hope, dismay, peace. Longing. Laughter. It echoes through the tight webs of cobblestone buildings, bouncing playfully off of the pilasters and balustrades, the wrought iron fences, the fanlights, forever embedded in the grout. 

If you go there now, in that beautiful divisional line between new Georgian and old Baronial, you'll hear it whispering through the alcoves, a tantalising sound that rents the air in two. 

But it shouldn't. Can't. 

You've never been there, or here, or anywhere else that wasn't the winding path from your rented flat to the tavern, and the place you eked out from stone to support the vagary of moving to a whole new place for a dream. A feeling. 

And yet—

You taste malt in the air. Smell the barley, the sickly sweet scent of wet dirt on the slick pavement. 

It's familiar in your olfactory senses. Petrichor. Loam. Humus. It congeals in the slick mortar, clinging to the moss that weaves over the old concrete. 

If you looked down, you'd find a little weed growing through a crack beneath your feet, and so, you fix your eyes up, ahead, and try not to weep when the swooping sense of deja vu nearly knocks you off your feet.

But the only thing ahead of you is him. Expectant, curious. He looks at you like he knows you, like he can peel back the skittish layers that cling to your skin until you're shiny and new again. 

It's too much. Intense. Hazel. 

Your gaze drops, fixed on the rounded points of your shoes. There is no pavement beneath your feet—just scuffed linoleum. 

"Do I, uh, know you from somewhere?" 

His voice carries that same heft, that same weight, as the look in his eyes. A strange approximation of wariness and steeled scepticism, blanketed together by intrigue. Curiosity. Concern. 

"No." 

It sounds uncertain. A white lie that crackles in the air between you, nestled amid the sound of chatter muted in the background, as if someone turned the radio on in a different room. Everything seems to contort, and shift around you when he's near. 

A little microcosm eked out inside a cafe you've never been to but know, innately, what you'd order, and what you would recommend. 

"Well," he dips his head like he's trying to catch your eye, and when you lift your chin, the flash of teeth nearly makes your knees buckle. He's softer when he smiles. "How 'bout lettin' me get t'know you then?" 

It's a bad idea etched into the cold marble of a headstone.  

Your mouth opens, but the word that chews through your teeth isn't no, but yes. 

And fuck—

Something in his gaze shifts. Noctilucent eyes widen, staring down at you like he somehow didn't expect a yes at all, and was bracing for the harsh impact of no. 

"Well—" he starts, but the words fall into ash when you duck your head to avoid the crevasse of hazel washed out in flushed gold. "What's your number? I'll call you when m'free next, and we can—"

"Sure," you cut in, hand sliding into your pocket. The cold metal of your phone burns the tips of your fingers when you pull it out. It feels a little bit like a mistake when you hand it over, but he says nothing about the way your hand shakes when he takes it from you. 

His brows draw together in a childish concentration as he taps away at the screen. The artificial light, dimmed as low as possible, brightens the craggy ravines that cut across an emerald tinged boscage; sunlight splitting a lush valley of yellow and green. His puckered lips, the flash of a deep red tongue swiping across his sun-chapped mouth, seems designed to appeal to your baser desires. The one that knows how he'd taste if you pressed you let your tongue grace the tip of his, and can feel the weight of his hands on your flesh. 

He'd hold your hips like he was anchoring you to the earth: tight, warm, and a little bit desperate as he devoured you whole. 

You shiver, and try to ignore the way his pupils bloom into pits of black eclipsing lightened hazel when his gaze settles, hot and heavy, at the brief brush of skin when you reach for your phone. 

"I'll call you," he says, low and strained, like he was choking on the words he wanted to say. "I'll call you as soon as I can, bonnie." 

You nod. It's all you can offer with your heart scrambling up your throat, pulsing furiously against your trachea. 

His nails scrape the skin of your palm when he curls his fingers into a fist, and pulls away. 

"I'll see you around." 

It's not a choice, you want to say. You nod instead. Choke out an equally strained, yeah, and fight the urge to follow him when he finally pulls away. 

"Are you ready to order?" 

The world bursts back into sound, colour. You blink rapidly against the light that seems harsher now than that it did when he was blocking out the sun. 

"Uh, yeah—"

The taste of freshly poured coffee blooms on your tastebuds. 

You order tea instead. 

(It tastes like defeat.)

You only stop running when you can't anymore. When the murmuration in your head turns into screams, and the white-hot agony of grief, of yearning, threatens to make your knees buckle and your bruised heart give. 

You stop, letting him finally catch up. 

(Somehow, somehow, you feel lost and found at the same time.)

His name is Johnny MacTavish. He tells you this over dinner at some upscale restaurant that feels out of place on the old side of Elgin where the walls bleed history, and stink of old bones, and funeral dirt. 

Over a steaming dish of shrimp scampi and burgundy wine that makes your head spin and belly churn, you wonder why it doesn't feel new to you when he murmurs it. 

(A bit late, you find, since you've been texting rather infrequently since you gave him your number three days ago.)

Names never mentioned. Somehow, they didn't have to be. Until now. Until there was emptiness at the end of his question when he posed it, hazel eyes bright and blooming under the hushed yellow glare of the coruscating chandelier hanging above your heads. 

It feels a touch too late when you share your names over dinner despite already knowing he's in the military—opinions clenched between aching teeth and a strained smile that doesn't reach your eyes—and that he normally adorns a Mohawk when he's on missions, but grows it out, rather haphazardly, when he's home. 

Everything between you and him seems to happen in reverse: fears, wants, and worries are known before his given name; the touch of his skin on yours, the taste of his lips, the brush of his tongue, the weight of his palms holding your hips as he buries himself as deep as he can go in a haunting sequence of memories that bare their teeth at the starkness of reality holding them at bay. All of this before you've ever even touched him with your bare hands. 

There's a strange listlessness that envelopes you—a tangled web that spools around you, trapping you in this realm of hypnagogia. The lines between reality and dream blur until they're indistinguishable from each other. Knotted threads married together. Parallel. Concurrent. Where one begins and the other ends is as lost to you as the unfathomable uncertainty of the unknown universe. 

It's not meant to be this way, you think, watching as he feigns not knowing the name that slips between your numbed lips in the same manner you had only moments ago. Traps surprise in the tilt of his chin, but the display is largely done out of some unspoken agreement that this paradox does exist, and the emotion is fleeting. Temporal. He cloves it down the middle, and discards the excess as soon as you look away. 

(Your name fits in his mouth better than it ever did your own, like it was made for his mouth, preordained to play with the soft coil of his tongue.)

He knows more than he lets on, but you don't begrudge him his secrets—not when you have to turn your gaze back to the curled shrimp on your plate to avoid reminding him he prefers fish over crustaceans when he makes a face at the steamed scallops, and should have ordered the Maple Crusted Salmon instead. 

Like he didn't before, in a life you've never lived. In a place that mirrors this world. 

(It isn't something you should know, but you do. You do.)

You know more than that, too: whispers late at night when he couldn't sleep—internal clock still stuck halfway around the world—and urges you into playing a dangerous game of asking questions of each other when pieces of truth buoy in the dark like bobbing for poisoned apples in a barrel. 

You have to erase the words when you type them out, preemptively answering questions he'd never asked yet, and filling in the blanks to ones you posed yourself. 

Odd, you think. Strange, and weird, and macabre in that way that only deja vu gnarling between the broken crevasse of your grey matter can imbue. 

People don't just—

Know each other. 

And yet—

"They call me—"

"Soap." 

Your eyes snap up. A misstep. A grievous one. You've both been content to ignore this paradoxical magnetism that draws you together like eager poles, unable to stay away (not by choice or freewill, but some design that has no place in rigid structures of reality), and you broke it. Trampled over the unspoken rule left to linger in the foreground while you navigated around it like some misshapen elephant in the way. 

He tries to hide the suspicion, the surprise, but it falls between the empty space of his plate (food he only ordered because he's never been here before despite the familiarity that bleeds from the walls like condensation in June) and the ledge. A proverbial precipice that you leaped down; the steep incline filled with detritus and broken shale sharp enough to carve skin, muscles, from shattered bone. 

You want to swallow the words down, but they sit—innocuous and damning—between the salt and pepper shakers where his hand twitches, curls into a tight fist, knuckles bleaching under the strain of reeling himself in. Joints, cartilage, bulging through translucent skin. Reddened around the angry peaks of distrust and wariness; a summit you're not sure how to descend from now that you've crossed the arching tops. 

(Stuck, forever, at the peak.)

"How—" his voice is gravel, lavascape. Jagged rocks. Lakes of sulphuric acid. "How did you know that?" 

His accent thickens when he's angry. You wonder if he knows that. 

"I—" 

Excuses float like moots in front of you. You reach out, grasping for one, but it dances away in the turbulent wake you leave behind. You bite your tongue until it tastes of oxidised pennies, and then shrug. Nonchalant. Indifferent. Fear curls in your gut. Military, right. You wonder what you'll say if they arrest you for treachery. That you dreamed about him? Stupid. Stupid.  

"You told me," you murmur, eyes downcast and heavy, fixed on the bloody cup of wine you don't like, and trying to find solace in your downfall. "I think. I just remembered it from somewhere." 

It makes no sense, and the weak explanation would crumple like damp papier-mâché if he pressed, even just slightly, against it. A single touch, and the house of cards you built from the ground up on nonsensical lies will come crashing down around you. 

He shouldn't entertain it. Shouldn't let it go. 

"Yeah." But he does. "I must'a, huh?"

When you look up, you catch keen hazel eyes, sharp and pointed like the curved talons of a hawk. Johnny MacTavish is many things, you learn, but stupid, guileful, naïve is none of them. 

"Yeah," you echo hollowly, and give another shrug. "Guess so. It's, ah, an interesting nickname."

The clumsy barb seems to break the surmounting tension, and the pieces fall around you like poisoned raindrops, staining your skin. 

A reminder, then, when it crawls down your throat, that this balancing act can't last forever. That, eventually, your excuses will run dry. Empty. They'll be picked at and poked until they burst like a waterlogged, bloated corpse drifting aimlessly down the Nile. 

"Not the only thing that's interesting about me, bonnie," he says in a way that bleeds boyish charm, but his grin is wide, wild, and untamed. White teeth, sharp canines. You think of a wily fox on the prowl, and reach, reflexively, for the glass of wine, swallowing it down like a lifeline. "But I'm beginnin' t'think y'know that already, don't ye?"

It's a threat. A warning. 

You stare down in the half-empty glass of burgundy, the same colour red as the papercut on your index finger, and try to read the beads of crimson that run down the glass in a bloodied rivulet as if the answer could be found somewhere in the liquid. 

(Crystal Ball. Crystal glass. It's all the same, isn't it?)

"Not really," is what you eventually settle for, hedging through the murk that swims before you, an unsettling fen of unknowns and praeternatural happenings that you no longer than chalk up to happenstance. 

Kismet. 

Horror. 

Some cosmic merging of the two. 

It's all—

Absurd. 

And when you politely whisper to him that he should have gotten the salmon, you can't help but notice the ravines in his eyes widen slightly, the chasm growing and gaping, and taking on new shapes in the boscage that blooms like a familiar friend. 

(Kismet, indeed.)

He tries to pretend he doesn't know what the maple salmon tastes like, but slips up when the waiter passes by, and says it was good the last time. 

You fight the urge to chew on your glass like rock candies between your teeth. 

He stands with his hands in his pocket, rocking back and forth. The uncertainty in his brow is swallowed by the tendrils of pleased excitement that knot over his expression, unable to hide his glee when the hazel of his eyes glow brighter than the sun. 

Isn't this strange, you ache to say, words painted with the aftertaste of brine—sea, salt, and sand that are so uniquely him—but they, too, are swallowed down. 

The urge to lacerate the bubbles of complacency, feigned normalcy, are eclipsed by the raw shock of seeing him happy. Of wanting to make him happy. This stranger in a strange land. 

So, you offer some facsimile of a smile when he asks, words pushed out through a wide grin; infectious, if you had a good time. 

"Yeah," you say, and know that this word, this blase affirmative is quickly becoming your faultline through this mess. The thread keeping you sane, keeping you steady. 

It's at the curve of the word when everything else in the world is devoured by the shadow cast under his magnetic glow. The bright yawn of the sun in shades of white teeth catching on some ephemeral magic still dancing within the aether. Atoms spark. 

You try to run from it, ignore it, but your core teeters on the edge of instability. You think of neurons. Protons. Criticality. Something inside of you heats to almost half of the degree of the sun, sweltering and unrelenting. Pulsing, blue-hot. 

"That's good," he husks, eyes lidded and heavy. "I did, too. Whaddya think about doin' it again w'me?" 

It blooms. A great, scorching mushroom cloud plumes in midnight black in the milky white of your eyes.

You shuffle through the darkness, the artificial, comic night, and try to pat at the walls until you find something familiar in terror, the gnawing sense of loss that permeates through your pericardium, thrumming like a mourning toll. 

Sightless, you nod. "I'd love to."

And you mean it, too.

(Damn you. Damn you—)

Despite that tangled web that snakes around your jugular, twinning threads between the two of you, Johnny MacTavish is relentless in his pursuit. 

Where someone else might have shivered at the ghosts that brim in the tenebrous of your pupils, lurking in the untouched corners where your fingerprints stain the sediment, he lingers. Stays. Fixes himself in your path, and refuses to acquiesce to the whims of the world that keep stringing you along like reluctant puppets to some unseen, unknown marionette. 

It's almost charming in its own right, and really—when has a man fought so hard just to simply coexist in the space you deign yours? When has he torn nails from their beds, clawing at the walls that stand tall and proud, a protective tower of ashlar and dread around you until it starts to give. Until the stone crumbles away under his bloodied fingers. 

But as potent as his statement is, it gnarls inside your stomach like a poisoned seed. 

Bending to the demands of whatever this paradoxical realm goes against every fibre of your common sense that you recoil, almost, for just allowing him the scant space he occupies in your proximity. 

It's a deranged pantomime with some unseen force at the helm, conducting the madness with fingers drenched in whimsy and fate. Notched between its knuckles is the mockery of freewill and choice as it pulls you around a soundstage set in a place you've never been. It makes you dance. Amused god, eldritch horror. It takes pleasure in your discomfort, and glee in your fickle humanity. Weaving webs of tangled kismet until the silken threads are pulled taut and there is no more room, not a single atom, between your body and his. 

A nameless, faceless playwright with you as its shining star. 

Hapless leads stuck in an unending beat, a cantastoria, waiting for the shoe, the curtain, or anagnorisis to drop. 

You want to run again, but your feet are glued to the floor. Tangled in webs, threads of abstract concepts your mind threatens to come undone at the mere thought of. A cosmic sense of surrealism: crushing helplessness. 

This is horrific and terrific in equal measure, but the ache, the agony, of distance hurts more. And so, you stay. Watch as the curtain shudders over his eyes. As the etchings of complacency seem to gnarl in the tussock that line the expansive valley. He looks at you and doesn't see the awful truth nestled in the scant distance between your flesh, unable to be apart for too long. He sees you, somehow, and for him, that's enough. Enough. 

Johnny smiles at you, seemingly unbothered by the precariousness of this dance you're caught inside. In this strange equinox where you can answer questions he hasn't asked, and know things he hasn't said. Where you catch yourself leaning closer, starved for a touch you haven't forgotten despite never experiencing yourself. 

He's content, then, chasing the whims of a ghost, reaching for a fantastical dream in the head of another. 

But as content as he is, Johnny MacTavish is a hard man to catch, you think, noting the distance in his eyes, the arm's length of space he keeps between the version of him not haunted by the wants of ghosts, but such an easy man to love. To fall for. 

He balms the panic—that world-ending sense of uncertainty that nips at your heels—and makes you forget, sometimes, that there is more to him, and more to you, than anyone else could ever know. 

He's kind. Charming. 

A little space inside of your head is eked out just for him, and you find yourself hating that person for falling for some version of him first. Loathe them just a little bit more with each effortless grin he sends your way for tainting the experience of knowing him yourself. 

But you wonder, when he turns away, hiding the shadows in his eyes, and the pinch in his brow, if you really, truly know him. 

Or if the face he's wearing belongs to a phantom.

The dance continues. 

Your feet move to a soundless beat, steps preordained in a sequence lived world's ago. Nothing can feel surprising when you know a man so intimately without more than a touch, when you feel the burn of winter's chill in the middle of summer, and long so desperately for someone you just met. 

Nothing is new, and yet everything is novice. A paradox awakening with each gravitational pull to him, this man who looks only vaguely like the phantom who lives in your head, and tastes of longevity between your teeth. 

An arranged romance. Possession by ghosts who want to drive your bodies until they can live again, and love in tandem, vicariously through your living flesh. 

It makes sense to you, then, to call for an exorcism. 

(It just surprises you that Johnny does it first.)

Johnny has his secrets, just like you have yours. A small morsel of agency after autonomy has been stripped from the bone. 

You see the shadows of those hidden things etched in the topography of his valley-filled gaze, crevasses and canyons that pitch themselves in the tenebrous, uncrossable to even you. 

He reaches for you through the murk, fingers threading through your own, hands trembling with the shock, the electric current that sizzles through your blood at the brush of bare skin against quivering flesh. His hands are rough—worker's hands—and chock full of callouses and cuts, multitudes of scar tissue packed tight on top of each other, a thick layer of a life you will never know. Don't want to know. 

He seems settled when you touch, finally, thumb brushing your skittish pulse point as if he could somehow calm the acrid panic in your chest. 

(And damn him, damn this, he does. He does—)

Magnets fixed together, locked tight. You feel like a conduit to his frenzy, his hidden mania, and feed your own through the line, the red string that ensnares you both in a tangled web, until it's buzzing with shared panic and serenity and joy and helplessness. A feedback loop of emotions too extreme, too flighty, to catch. They run in droves along the lines, weaving into your skin, your chest, your head, and then pulling away to do the same to him. 

His eyes are heavier than steel when he gazes at you, expression caught between relief and longing and fear and—

Something, something. You can't pick it apart. Can't undo the tight knot until it spools, open and known, in the palm of your hands. Some unseen distance. It feels like standing at the highest peak of the valley and trying to make sense of the men in the tussock who look like mere ants from this high above. 

Is it happiness, you wonder. 

(Or maybe it's the same reluctance that wraps it's boney, gnarled fingers around your neck—)

It becomes too much. Too soon, too sudden. In the back of your head, you see images and flashes of a life not yet lived, a world still taking shape. You see him and you and a clock above some blue, broken bed. You see his smile, wide and elated, caught on the dawning sun spilling from the open curtains before it disappears under the covers, taking your laughter with it, stuck between his teeth. 

You see the past, the present. 

And your future. 

Cold. Barren. Three sharp knocks echo in the emptiness of your head. A man, a familiar stranger. You don't know him. You'd die for him. He rents the air in two. Your world in cloves. They fall to the ground, leaving you stranded and alone in the middle.

Future. There's no future. 

Your chest twists. You let go of his hand and find bloody crescent moons embedded in a ring along his flesh, knuckles whitening under your harsh grip. He said nothing about the pain. The flicker of worry across his face is genuine, you think. Real. Current. 

You smell funeral dirt in your nose. The mud is called under your nails. 

You pull away. He lets you go. 

"I, uh," he breaks off into a soft huff, injured hand lifting to scratch at the back of his shorn nape. His eyes slide away from yours, listing seaward. Avoidance undercuts the arch in his brow, the sheepishness in his mien. It's his turn to run, you realise. 

"Glad I met you," he says instead, and it's a confession and a curse. 

A bonfire burns in the river that runs through the valleys in his eyes. It's pitched on the sandy shore: an ochre flicker in the cobalt hue that saturates the land. You see the dark peaks of the rolling hills in the distance, black shapes in draped blue. 

The river is calm. The fire burns a smear of orange across the tranquil surface, meeting the milky white glow of the moon. 

It makes you think of those nights in the zenith of summer, the ones that feel neverending. Timeless. A piece of your history etched in balmy melancholy. Alone in the great expanse with nothing but the trill of cicadas, and the echoing chirp of the crickets hidden in the lush grass below. 

The sky shifts. His eyes plume with lavender-tinged stratocumulus. 

"I really like you, bonnie." It's whispered in your ear, and you wish, oh, how you wish, you couldn't hear it. That you could block the words, and the world, out so that it never reaches you again. 

Sweet longing. Beautiful agony. 

Your heart races, and you wonder how an empty space can beat at all. Can feel anything when it's just a hollow chasm. 

A heat blooms under your skin, desperate and aching. This, this, is everything you've been looking for since your heart split free from its fleshy prison, and ran away to find him, tucking itself in the boscage that glows in the flame on the shores. It's hidden somewhere. The palpitations sound like a song. You could follow it, you think, and find its lovelorn shell nestled amongst the grass that sways to its beat, and tuck it back into your empty chest where it belongs. 

(But it belongs to him, now.)

And you—

You hesitate. 

The words well on your tongue, but you think of fate, of choice, and swallow them down. 

The flames in the distance flicker, growing dimmer and darker as the moments stretch on, unbroken and barren until it's snuffed out. Gone. 

What can you say? What could you say? 

Instead, you say nothing at all. 

Johnny leaves a piece of himself on the table when he walks away. 

(You don't pick it up.)

Johnny doesn't say anything at all when he brings you home, when he stands outside of the archway to your flat, eyes lidded and pensive. A smile snakes across his face, but it's brittle and full of uncertainty, and your fingers ache to smooth the rugged lines in his brow, in the stress in his shoulders. You push it down. Smile for him instead. 

"I'll see you later," you say, and wish the ghosts wailing in your head would drop dead. 

The valley is drenched in ink when he nods, catching your gaze. 

All black, black, black. 

No sounds escape. 

"Sure, bonnie." 

You dream, and when you dream, it's of him. 

He stands at the top of a hill, and when he smiles it's full of starlight so bright it could eclipse the sun. 

In his hand, you see a pair of shears. Your mouth opens, but no sound escapes.  

He says just one word—your name—and then he lifts his hand, and cuts the rope. The sutures knit your bodies together, the string that holds him to this mortal plane, falls in swaths of golden thread to the ground where they're devoured by the earth, dissolved into nothing. Gone, forever. 

There's distance now, and separation. Nothing ties you to him except space. 

You wake up with the ghost of a scream on your lips, and the feeling of silken threads dragging over your flesh. You reach for them, and catch nothing but air. 

Palm pressed to your chest, you feel the rapid pulse under your fingertips, and know that it's back. Back where it belongs. 

Belongs, but doesn't want to be. 

You think of Johnny. 

And you weep. 

He sends a text message, and for the first time since you've met him, it surprises you. Nothing should shock you with him, anymore. You know everything, anything, about him. 

Gonna be away for a bit. Should talk when I get back. 

You reach for answers but they slide like mercury out of your hands. 

You don't dance, and you don't dream. 

You wander down the streets of Elgin, and for the first time since you woke up screaming in your bed with ghosts wailing in agony inside of your head, you get lost. 

Johnny comes back a week later, eyes heavier than you'd ever seen them, and shoulders drawn tight together as he asks you why—

"Why'd'ya keep runnin'?" He asks, words pitched and heavy with something lour and aching, a phantom pain you know all too well. There's desperation in his eyes, a low keen settling in the depth of his throat, echoing with the clamour of his despair. "If you don't want this—;" don't want me: "—then just say so, bonnie, 'cause I ain't forcin' ya t'be w'me, I ain't gonna make you stay. You wanna leave, you can just go—"

Can't. Can't. 

"Johnny—"

"No, none o'that, now. You make up your mind, 'cause I ain't makin' it for ya. I ain't makin' ya do somethin' you don't want to, and I ain't—"

He's pleading, you think. Begging—

For this, this strange thing. This awful, broken calamity, this abomination in the face of free will and autonomy. Despite the rage that hums in your veins at the idea of being controlled, manipulated, he finds something worth chasing. Worth running for. 

Why?

And what?

And—

It comes in flashes, snippets. Fragmented pieces of bright eyes—brighter, maybe, than the sun—and warmth, one hot enough to burn but it doesn't, it won't, it soothes instead. Eases coiled muscles, and absorbs the lactic acid that leaks from shredded, knotted fibres. Hands on your body, on your skin: the press of rough fingertips over prickling flesh. A whisper of curiosity, the slow descent into affection, adoration. Plush lips pillowing sharp teeth, too reverent to ever leave a mark behind—part in fear of marring fragile skin, and—

Letting the ghost of permanence fester, take root, inside his chest where his heart beats—

Jus' f'r you, bonnie. Jus' you.

For once, the phantom touching your body isn't a dream, a half-lived fantasy in another world where a man-made you whole and then ripped you into pieces, letting the scattered fragments blow with the sharp winds howling through the highlands. You know the touch, remember it. Felt it. New, and tangible. A touch that never lingered, too afraid of letting something, something, stick. 

For once—

The snaps flashing, blindingly, through your synapses are not made of dream dust and kismet. 

And—

All at once, it shatters.

—you know, i never thought i'd say this before, but i—

(You were lost in Elgin, but when you see his face, you feel found—)

THERE—

There is a lot to be said about Johnny MacTavish. 

Good things—kind, dedicated, driven—and bad things—bold, stoic, dogmatic—but one thing neither have in common is tardiness. Broken promises. 

So, when Johnny calls you in some distant land you've never heard of, and says: 

Things got bad. I might not—I might not be coming home.

You believe him. 

But the thing is: there's a difference between believing the words being said to you, and understanding their meaning. Your mind is not equipped to latch onto devastating blows with the same swiftness you do ignorant bliss. 

So, when you hear I might not be coming home, you think, instead, of tardiness. Of a missed anniversary dinner. 

(Of all the ones that came before it, and will come after it.)

And you smile. Smile into the receiver with your heart drifting down Lethe. 

"Okay, Johnny," you say, and those words will come back to haunt you three days from now, when John Price shows up at your goddamn door, stupid bucket hat tucked tight to his chest, and rips your heart into pieces. 

But for as much as you are blissfully ignorant, your mind still understands nuance. They used to call it foresight, a sixth sense; hindsight. 

You add, softer than you've ever said the words: "I love you." 

His breath stutters through the line in response. A brief pause. And then—

"If anything happens—" you hate him a little for even saying it; you really do: "just know that I love you, too. And that I hope—ah, Christ, bonnie, you got me all stupid, now—but, fuck, I hope we meet in another life."

It knocks something loose inside of you. Some primaeval thing that nestled in the safety of your ribs, moulting along your moon-white bones and glueing to the soft tissue that pulsed around it. It's shaken. Dislodged. 

It feels a little bit like your soul is being scraped off of bone. 

"Johnny—"

"—gotta go. We haven't heard from Roach or Riley in a while. I probably won't call tonight. So, don't wait for me, bonnie." 

The line clicks before the words I've been waiting for you forever fall from your wobbling lips.

You hate Johnny a little bit for this. For digging his roots deep into the soft chambers of your heart where it gnarled around your pericardium. A perfect little knot. A bow tied nice and pretty just for him. 

It makes it so much harder to bare when John fucking Price knocks on your door, stupid fucking bucket hat tucked tight against his chest, ghosts in his eyes, blood on his hands, and rips your heart into pieces until nothing but the rotten, dying roots remain. 

"I hate you so much right now," you hiss at the tombstone—the only thing you have left of him. "I hate you and I miss you and I wish you were here so I could—"

John finds you with your forehead pressed against the brass plaque, cheeks raw from the rivulets of tears that feel endless—a baptism in grief; in your tear ducts, Noah battles the biblical flood, and loses. 

Eyes that can't see past a shimmering hinterland of death and abject dismay are fixed, broken, against speckled granite. 

It's agony. The kind that makes it feel as if the marrow in your bones turned into a corrosive liquid, molten and devastating, and burst through brittle, hollow bone. 

Price, you've come to realise, seems to know things beyond what you tell him. Always picking up the shedded skin that falls from the people around him. Little pieces of them that he shoves in his pocket to ruminate on when he's trying to put together the puzzle of who they are. 

Words won't penetrate through the haze in your head. It filters in like water through a rhyne, back out to the open sea. 

(He knows this, of course, because you've been shedding pieces of yourself around him for years.)

It doesn't surprise you, then, when he says nothing. When he just falls to his aching knees in the soft humus, resting beside you as your world crumbles into ash and heartache. 

You sit in numbed silence until the sun is swallowed by the dusk that creeps across the sky. The moon itself seems to mourn along with you, hiding her eyes behind a nebulous veil of gunmetal. 

Price, without a word, helps you stand when the gravekeeper comes and ushers you out. He shepherds you into his Jeep and brings you back to the place that reeks of loneliness and dinners for one. A place that still carries the ghost of his presence around every corner, tucked away in each alcove and nook.

He might be gone, but his shadow still lives and breathes the dank, funeral air that clings to your sallow skin. A miasma of loss that tangles itself in every atom around you. 

Price seems hesitant to step inside, but you'd rather sleep on the patio with the chirping crickets and the weeping moon than be inside where the echo of his voice whispers through the halls, and he knows this, because he knows you, and so he brings you in before you can entomb yourself in grief, lost to the elements. He sets you down gingerly on the couch, body now more fragile than fine china, brushing your tangled hair from your forehead. It catches on his weathered hands. You barely feel the pull. 

He looks at you like you're a battle that can't be won. 

"Take care'a yourself, yeah? It's what—" he chokes, then, and you feel the hiccup like a white-hot knife to your gut. "It's what he would've wanted."

What he wanted is gone, and it's dead—just like him.

You don't say these words, but you wonder if he knows them, hears them, anyway. He must, you think, watching as the ashy, smoked cedar of his beard twitches. His mouth gnarls to the side in grief, uncertainty. 

He says your name. You know this because you know the shape it makes of his mouth, but don't you hear it. All it sounds like is a nail scraping over waterlogged, mossy wood. 

Price leaves.

A part of you goes with him.

You rest your forehead against his pillow, the one that smells of him still—warm milk, honeysuckle—and you wish so hard on broken promises, unfilled dreams, to see him again, to hold his face in the plinth of your palms, that your heart feels like it might burst—

—break. 

But it's already broken. There's nothing left to shatter. The pulpy mess he left behind beats not because you want it to, but because it has to. A biological failsafe that does not care about your human emotions even as it quivers and shakes at the loss that tipped your world upside down. A gaping hole sits in the middle in the shape of his smile, and your stubborn heart pulses around the wound. 

Sometimes you think it would be easier to feel nothing at all. To shed the agony like a rotting limb, cutting it as close to the bone as you can, and watching it fall, blackened with decay, and postulating with infectious spores that bud, devouring unblemished, unhurt, flesh until you're a pristine corpse. 

Grief twists you into the living dead. Breaks your head in two, cloved clean down the middle of unrelenting panic and anger—anguish so severe, you can easily convince yourself nothing at all is real. 

But it is. 

And then there is only denial and abject horror at that unimaginable nothingness that looms, blooming in your insides until they turn into a gaping, festering maw. One that makes you feel like you could swallow the whole world and still feel empty. 

No longer a human on the inside but a chasm. The person you were before died the moment his heart stopped beating. Irrevocably changed with three, stark knocks against the door he painted yellow because it reminded him of the way you looked standing in a field of sunflowers. Gone. Gone—

A barren void with its insides scraped out. Hollow. Wind rattles through your chilled bones. It sounds like his voice when it ghosts over your ribcage. 

You chase the sound. 

Running, running, running. Going so fast, it barely feels like your feet touch the ground. A wingless bird soaring across the valleys that gleaned in his hazel eyes. 

Running, running—

Your feet slide against marshy peat. A hidden bog gurgles beneath your soles. 

You don't scream when you sink. 

(The bubbles sound just like him—)

You smile.

—NOW

Eldritch machinations, some fanciful god playing a chaotic game of matchmaker, a dizzying sense of folie a deux—you haven't quite determined what the reason for this is, who or what might be behind it, but one thing you do know is this:

Something might be aligning your paths until all trails lead to him, but when you wander down those Wonderland roads, your heart beats for him. 

A second heart pulses under your skin. One slipped inside when you cupped his cheeks in your palm, and told him when you looked, you saw only him.

It might not be a choice you've made in this lifetime, but it's certainly one you can't bring yourself to regret. 

You run, but this time, it isn't away from him, but to him. 

He tastes of coumarin when you press your lips to his, a kiss met in the middle. 

You're lost, now, in the swell that gusts across the boscage. A breeze dances over your ears. A thousand starlings coo in the clear blue aether above. You feel the tickle of barley against your knees. Rasping tussock sedge curls over your ankle, weaving together until you're tied to the ground. Anchored against the stalks of wheat that shiver in the wind. 

His hands are warm, solid, on your skin. One hand braced on the small of your back, keeping you pressed firmly against him. The other cups your chin like you're made of fine china, polished crystal full of precious gems and rare metals. He holds tight as if he's afraid you'll drift away when he lets go. 

Your head is blooming full of sunflowers. They germinate in your thoughts until the petals burst through, lifting high to the heavens where the sun burns half as hot as his body angling against yours. 

His atoms sing, calling to yours. A buzz, a hum. You feel them stretch, shifting from the prison of you until equilibrium is reached when they merge, tangling together. A new being, a new entity is born from the collision—a person made of two with lungs and hearts that breathe and beat in the same cadence as it's ghosts. Woven together with marionette strings. 

It feels like coming home and getting lost all at once. 

Etched in the delicate flesh of your heart sits a kairos moment. A brief period of nothing that runs as deadly and tumultuous as the Swillies. An upheaval. 

Time is tenuous. Broken. Fragmented. 

An arm stretches out, anchoring across your waist. His mouth presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, eyes glossy in the mid-morning sun. 

"Wha' time's it?" He slurs out, words thick with sleep. 

Your eyes cut to the alarm clock on the end table. A slow, languid smile curls across your kiss-bruised mouth. 

"Eleven-fifteen," you breathe, eyes fixed on the red lines. Your heart stutters when it flickers. "Eleven-sixteen."

"S'too early," he moans, lips rubbing over your flesh. "Stay in bed with me." 

You peel your gaze away from the clock ticking down the seconds (minutes, hours, days, months, years), and turn to him. Hazel in bloom. A boscage in spring. Your eyes mist a little from the morning dew. 

"I love you, Johnny." 

His breath ghosts over your skin. You hear the hitch in his voice when he speaks. 

"Been waitin' a long time t'hear you say that, bonnie."

"Sorry to keep you waiting." 

—don't wait for me, Bonnie. i'll come find you—

—THEN

"Excuse me? You dropped this."

It's raining. Pouring, really. The droplets are the size of pennies and pelt the top of your umbrella with an unforgiving force. It sounds like the clatter of a mourning bell, and drowns everything else out. 

But it catches. Clear. Low. 

You turn, blinking through the thick fog that congeals around High Street in a dense, white blanket. 

"Sorry?" 

A man. He's towering above you, cut off at the chest by the fine points of your umbrella. You lift it, and—

Your wallet is the first thing you see. Wet, covered in grit from the cobblestone. It's clenched between a thick thumb and forefinger, held delicately together. You baulk. 

"Oh, shit—," it's snatched out of his hand, and pulled into the sanctuary of cover. You can feel it already. The mess inside. Still. You hope—

The leather peels back. Mush. 

You groan. The meagre bills you'd pulled from the machine are now wet, sticking together in a papier-mache square. Useless. No one is going to accept sopping wet bills. 

"Alright?" 

"No, I—," you glance up at him, irritation cutting across your brow. No, you're not alright. You're shit out of luck, and stranded here, now. And—

And—

Hazel. It's the first thing you see. Mountains of brown slope into a lush green valley. A cool blue lake cuts through, splitting off into a ravine. 

Your breath catches. 

"Sorry, umm. Yes. I'm—"

Attractive is the first word that springs to your mind when you stare at him—dark eyes, furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips. Kissable is the second one. 

And then—

Oh, God. 

"Sorry," you murmur again, cheeks heating despite the chill. "I'm fine. Thank you, I'm—"

"You're not," he says, and it's uttered so assuredly that you can't find it in yourself to lie. As if he is somehow able to chisel into your head, and rifle through your problems with ease. "It's all wet, isn't it? Were you heading home, or—?"

It's cliche. Stupid. Your belly rumbles.

Mortifying. Absolutely—

His lips quirk up. A soft, almost secretive smile. Reserved. "Well, I know this place around the back. I could use the company, if you wouldn't mind."

You should say no. No, thank you—because you were raised proper. But all you can think about is the deep, brassy tone that tickles your ears when he speaks. The distant, almost careful way he regards you, as if he's putting himself at arm's length so you aren't scared off by his brawn. 

Hazel is dusted in gold. You want to bask in his warmth for just a moment longer—

"I'll pay you back, I promise."

His brows raise. Hazel framed in white. A soft huff leaves his full mouth before his lips pull up in a slow, genuine smile. 

"Y'alright, bonnie. I'll hold you to it."

(And so, it begins.)

[danibee33]

The Queen’s Guard - Chapter 8: Soot & Ash

knight!simon riley x queen!reader

cw: sa, non-con, some gore, generally dark themes *pls read at your own discretion*

>>parts in italics are flashbacks

[<<< chapter 7]

You wake in a cold sweat- a shrill gasp carried away in the wind as you scramble to untangle yourself from the furs. In your fuss, you feel a familiar, strong arm wrap around your waist, pulling you back into a wonderfully warm embrace-

“Shh.. You’re alright- you’re safe-” Simon’s other arm comes to rest over your chest, providing a comforting weight as his lips press gentle kisses to your shoulder; softly shushing you again, “Another one?”

All you can do is nod, because, yes- it was another nightmare. Yes, you had been forced to relive that terrible moment over and over. At this point, you swear you feel as if the gods themselves are punishing you, manipulating your mind so that whenever your eyes close all you can see is blood- and when you take too deep a breath, all you can smell is soot and ash-

“Does it ever go away?” Your voice is broken and meak, turning in his arms so that you could nuzzle further into his chest- replace the metallic char with his rich, earthy scent, “Or will he always haunt me?”

Simon tightens his hold on you, gently tugging you into his lap, “No, sweet girl..”, he pets your hair before pushing it away from your face, “It will fade, I promise.”

Wiping your tears, you feel his whispered apology against the corner of your lips- replacing the words with a kiss, and then another.

You think about how many times he’s apologized for your part in what happened, quietly, genuinely- how he whispered it in your ear that first night. And again, when he found you spitting up bile and acid between sobs in the woods the morning after. You remember the way he and Johnny had shouted and hissed at one another on the third day, right before Johnny was to leave for the MacTavish estate again- he had to go play the part, sowing more seeds of doubt amongst your own people. Had to solidify his own alibi-

But that didn’t stop him from nearly trading blows with Simon. Didn’t stop him from telling Simon how you never should have been in that room, that you never should have been forced to see what you saw.

Only when you stepped between them once again, placing a palm over their chests as if you might actually have a chance at forcing them to do anything- did they finally concede, for your sake, of course.

Johnny had pulled you to the side after that, closer to the cliffs, your voices drowned out by the violent waves below you and the howling winds above, his lips so close to your ear that the heat of his breath sent chills down your spine,

“I’ll find you in the foothills in two weeks- all right?”

You both fell into your partly made up dialect as he held you close, his hands wrapped over your biceps and yours on his forearms- you could still feel the way his scruff tickled your skin, and how his nose dipped down to nuzzle into your neck as he spoke,

“Be careful, Grianach..

It had made your fingers dig into his flesh, and your eyes sting with tears as you leaned into him, pressing your cheek against his, “You be careful, Johnny.. please.”

And it felt so wrong to watch him ride away without even a glance back, because things had never felt more tenuous- you were caught in this odd limbo of overwhelming freedom and the suffocating fear of the unknown..

But, you couldn’t dwell on it, not when you had to focus on moving. You weren’t out of danger yet, the farther away you can get from the castle, the blood, the soot, and the ash- the better.

+++

“Your Grace-”, you’re intercepted by General Leon on your way to yet another meeting, and while it isn’t necessarily out of the ordinary, especially when the King is away, it does set you on edge, “I received a raven today.”

It’s not too difficult to keep your expression impassive, you’ve perfected it over the years after all , but your stomach sours at his pleased smile, “And what news did it bring, General?”

You glance around the long, light-filled hall, take in the grand tapestries hanging against the wall, the warm sunlight pouring in- Simon’s presence just hardly out of sight. And you know he’s scanning the surroundings as well, not to take in the view or look at the pretty sights, just alert, always alert.

Though, by the smallest shift in his weight, you think he’s picked up on your anxieties- waiting for the older Knight to speak again.

“His Grace is returning sooner than expected. Seems his tour of the front lines was cut short after an incident.”

Like a dutiful wife, you let your features morph into shock, playing into the actual horror you felt at the idea of the King being back any sooner than planned- he was still supposed to be out for another two months at the least, and now..

“What has happened?” You ask quickly, taking your lady-in-waiting’s hand in yours, needing something to anchor yourself to- you had to be a concerned wife, can’t let them know you wish he had just died out there- “Is the King all right?”

The General pats your shoulder, obviously uncomfortable with the way you seem to be teetering on the brink of tears, your breathing a bit labored. You were panicking, but not for the reason he thinks,

“He’s fine, Your Grace. Alive and unharmed- they didn’t even get close. Though the Kingsguard did suffer a casualty, they served him well.” He says, his tone almost jovial, so proud of his men and his monstrous King, “And may the gods bless the rest of his journey home.”

“Gods bless.” You give the traditional affirmation at the same time as your lady, Simon’s much deeper rasp lingering in the background.

“Well, a wonderful turn of events.. Truly wonderful. When should we expect his arrival, then? A feast is in order.” You say after a moment, clasping your hands together in order to hide the way they tremble.

“Two days time, my Queen.”

This time you can’t stop your eyes from darting up to meet Simon’s- but where you expect to see some sort of unease or worry in them, you only find the same unwavering gaze. Because to him, this news is nothing to worry about. No, not for the Ghost. His plans had already been in motion, since the night he pulled you from the balcony's edge, he saw it so clearly. Simon knew exactly what needed to be done.

Sure, this is an unexpected obstacle, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s better this way. The sooner he could kill the King, the sooner you would be safe, the sooner he could get you away from all this.

The sooner you would be all his.

———

The night of the feast was upon you faster than you ever could’ve thought possible. The King would be arriving any moment, the festivities already booming with life in the Great Hall.

But here you are, pacing a path into the stone floor. Worrying at your cuticles so that you don’t tangle your fingers in your perfectly set hair- half of the long waves pulled back into an intricate braided pattern, with jewels and emerald ribbon woven throughout. But every step feels too heavy, too cumbersome, your gown creating friction behind you, and your chest tight from the pull of the corset.

“Sunny..” Johnny calls to you from his place by the window- when he found out the King would be returning so soon, and Simon’s plan of what would be happening next, he had stayed at your side. Hidden in your chambers or the tunnels while you were away-

“What if it goes wrong? What if you both get caught, what if he’s able to call out-”

In long, easy strides, he’s right there- pulling your hand away into his own to stop your self-destructive cycle with a disapproving tut, “Grianach- stop, stop. Look at me, aye?”

You do stop, but only because his hold is ironclad, and his eyes are as piercing as ever as they demand your attention, “I know you trust us..”, you nod, “We’ve both done this before- and crown, or no crown, it makes no difference to a sword. You only need to worry about bein’ in that tunnel as soon as y’ get the signal..”

He makes it sound so simple, just another day- just another thing to cross off the list. But.. you know he’s right, you know he’s done it before, too many times to keep count. Your sweet Johnny was an accomplished and revered leader on the battlefield, and your own personal guard, while his past is still shrouded in mystery even to you, has obviously led a long and successful career doing the same.

And of course, you don’t fault them for being exactly what was asked of them, thinking back to Johnny’s words, they were the ones who had been fighting your wars, right? So, disposing of one man.. Well, that should be almost too easy for them-

“But-”

Johnny cups your face again, that newly founded tension flickering to life as he looks down at you, the darkness in his gaze turning into something more familiar as he cracks a lopsided grin, “Always such a worrywart.”

He cranes his neck, lowering his head so that he could be eye to eye, “Ye don’t have to worry about me- we’re not kids anymore..”

Two curt knocks tear you away from each other, looking over to see Simon taking up nearly the entire entryway, gilded eyes lazily moving between you and the man at your side,

“My Queen..”, he cocks his head subtly, “It’s time.”

There’s something in the moment that seems to fortify you- the roiling in your gut calms, and the unrelenting thoughts go quiet as you give a single nod. If they can be so unfazed by this, so confident and immovable, then so could you. You would walk out of this room as the most powerful woman in the kingdom, and you would play your part to change your future.

For the first time in your life, you’ve been granted the opportunity to decide your fate. And who would you be to give up such a blessing?

So with one final, deep breath, you move towards the door- stopping at Simon’s side only long enough to spare a fleeting glance back, seeing Johnny’s eyes steady on you, full of determination.

But when you’re well enough out of the room, out of earshot, Johnny darkly calls to the Knight,

“Queen’s Guard-“, he barks, glaring as the hulking man halts, turning only enough to meet the Lord’s eye, “Don’t let her out of your sight. Not for a second.”

And Simon has to admit he’s impressed with the brazen man, the lengths he’s gone to, and how much farther he’s ready to go, is admirable, if not more than a little grating on his nerves. And don’t think that he hasn’t seen, hasn’t felt, the dynamic shift between you.. knowing that Johnny had been spending his nights in your rooms has thoroughly irked Simon to no end.

But, that’s a problem for another time- right now, they just needed to trust each other; nothing more, nothing less. So, that’s why instead of grunting out some crass comment like he so badly wants to do, Simon gives a singular, purposeful nod before striding out of the room and slamming the door shut behind him.

The rattling sound causes you to turn, meeting Simon’s eye and seeing them a shade darker than you’re used to- the mottled amber all but glowing behind the helm, his hand clenching into a fist and his cloak billowing and swaying with every even step forward. You can’t pause for long though, forced to quickly resume your pace as he falls in just to your right, three steps behind, as always.

Keeping your eyes forward, you sweep through the castle halls, your shoulders straight and your head held high- you would meet the King as not the broken, weary woman he left behind, but as the Queen he never deserved in the first place.

The Queen that has always been strong enough to carry the kingdom all this time, that has done just that, even when it felt as though your bones might snap under the weight of it all- it had always been you. You just lost sight of that strength, lost sight of the power you truly hold, in your kindness and patience, just as much as in your discipline and judgment.

“The King has arrived!” General Leon’s brassy voice booms and echoes off the stone, followed by the faint shuffling of cloth and leather, steel and chainmail straining as those around you take a knee, “All hail the King.”

The doors swing open ceremoniously, even if it is just you and the highest ranking members of court there, your husband had always demanded an abundance of fanfare-

He waltzes in with a bored smirk, looking down his nose at even those who aid him until he sees you, and you know you’ll remember the way his eyes widen as he takes you in for the rest of your life. You revel in it, commit it to memory for the precious few moments he looks back at you with something akin to shock-

Sure, you still accented yourself in his house color, you could not be so bold as to forgo it completely- you didn’t want to draw too much attention, but a statement needed to be made and judging his expression, you had succeeded.

Because instead of his traditional deep green covering you from head to toe, you wore a dazzling gown made of the deepest ebony silk the modistes could find, the only hints of emerald and gold on you being the rings on your fingers and the gemstones and satins in your hair,

“Welcome home, my King.” You bow your head graciously as the others rise to their feet once more.

He steps right up to you, and you resist the overwhelming urge to flinch, to put distance between you and him, to slap his hand away as he traces a finger down along your sleeve, “Bold choice, wife..”, he says before grabbing your hand, lifting the soft skin to his lips, “I like it.”

You hide your sneer with a saccharine smile, acting as though his touch doesn’t make you physically ill, “I look forward to hearing about your time on the front, Your Grace.”

Again, the King kisses your hand, a predatory gleam darkening his eyes- one you only get a glimpse of before he’s turning you around, his arm held out so that he may escort you toward the Great Hall. And it’s then you see Simon’s gleaming eyes as well, stoney and burning with a lethal rage,

“Ah, Ser Simon Riley.. You’re still here.” The King drawls without even a look in the guard’s direction, the taller man falling in on your flank as accustomed before answering,

“Always, Your Grace.”

—---

The feast seems to drag on almost out of spite, you swear. The King had been determined to parade you around, his snide, passively belittling comments only adding to your disdain, your wish to be done with this- yet, it is that same thought that causes your heart to race the longer the night goes on, an hour closer, a minute, a second. You felt like you might be torn apart by your own anticipation, your fear of what’s to come-

Tap, tap … tap, tap, tap

You hear the comforting taps more than you have in a long while, and there’s even a moment when the King has stopped in the crowd, his feet growing more unsteady underneath him that you feel Simon’s hand reach out to preemptively pull you away from the stumbling man; his touch lingering just a breath longer than they should,

“Husband?”, you giggle, forcing a bit of drunken giddiness into your actions and voice, “Maybe we should head to bed, you’ve had such a long journey-”

His wine-laden breath assaults your senses, his lips grazing over your jaw, “That excited to get me in bed, wife?”, you roll your eyes, placing two hands on his chest in an attempt to keep him from falling into you, “Missed my cock, hm? Filthy fucking whore-”

There’s a deep growl behind you, one you’ve grown quite fond of, though it’s never sounded so animalistic, deep and menacing- and you can practically feel how his self control strains, tested to its limit as Simon is forced to listen and watch. But, you’re doing so well, taking every vile thing the King says, every horrifically inappropriate grope and touch, in stride; your grace and virtue never waning.

“Well, c’mon then-”, your husband rasps in your ear before turning towards the group around you, “If you’ll pardon us, m’ladies and lords, I have been away for quite some time.”

You grimace at the way he jerks you into his side, his hand wandering over your hip to rest on the swell of your ass- the wolfy grin on his face conveying all the lewd and lascivious context they might need to know exactly what their sovereign is alluding to. It makes the churning in your stomach return with force, and your blood run hot with anger-

Though you feel the moment it turns frigid, no more than ice cutting through your veins. It’s when he escorts out of the hall, forcefully dismissing your ladies and his own guard, turning on Simon last,

“Well, go on, you’re not needed for this, I’m afraid.” He says, waving his hand at your Knight like one might a stray dog, “Unless you like to watch.”

The empty hall reverberates with his laugh, his grip on your tightening painfully- fingers digging into your side so hard you’re sure to have bruises by morning, “My King-”, you try to soothe him, but it dawns on you now, and Simon, too, that the plan was slowly unraveling.

“No, that’s fine! What a good dog you have, wife. Tell him he can watch, if he so wishes-”

You look back to where Simon is still following, his hand wrapped around the hilt of his dagger, “No, of course not.”, you give a quick nod, hoping you can send the message clearly enough that you were about to upend everything, “My rooms are closer, shall we go there?”

And the moment you speak the words, he understands what you were doing- this wouldn’t be happening in the King’s chambers, but yours. He needs to get Johnny, and get to the tunnels,

“You are relieved, Ser Simon. I bid you a good night..”

Simon hesitates for the first time in his life, looking at you and seeing the resolve in your gaze, the overwhelming faith you have in him. You look at him in a way he’s never seen, not with fear or trepidation like he’s so used to, like he’s always preferred, but with such trust and reverie that he fears he could never live up to the grand idea you seem to have of him.

“Good night, My Queen.”

—--

By the time you’re at your door, the King is openly groping you- his hands rough and needy as he pulls at your corset ties, grunting as he nips and bites at your flesh,

“Black, hm? Making your own choices, that it?”

Very suddenly, he heaves you up, his mouth still on you, happily leaving a trail of angry little marks as he carries you across the space and throws you on the bed- you say his name, the hints of desperation and panic spurring him on as he climbs over top of you,

“You think just because you get to pretend to be King while I’m away, that you’re anything more than a warm hole? Nothin’ but a pretty little cocksleeve-”

You’re crushed under his weight, the sensations all too much, and all in the worst of ways, “Enough-”

You push against him, try to bring your knees up, to wiggle away, but in a flash your wrists are in his grasp and forced uncomfortably over your head, “Tsk, tsk, tsk- none of that now, you just be a good whore and take what I give you.”

“Get. Off.” With how hard you’re clenching your teeth, the words come out as a hiss, your eyes searching for anything, mind racing with how you can get out of this as the room fills with his laugh.

“Or what?”

Faster than you can blink, the weight is lifted off you in a single go- the King’s surprised yelp resounding in your ears and hands pulling you off the bed. Johnny’s hands, gently tugging you to your feet and pushing you back towards the tunnel- “I’ve got you, I got you-”, he says it over and over, a small tinge of fear and loathing in his own voice.

Those same hands deftly skim over you, tilting your head from one side to the other, as he tries to rearrange your bodice- which had been pulled apart and stretched to have your breasts almost completely exposed,

“Oh, Sunny..”

Your face burns with so many emotions- unbridled fear and anger, and now shame and embarrassment, his gentle voice trying to coax you, to reassure you, but it seems to just make it so much worse. You want to shove him away, you want to scream and claw at your skin; you think you want to cry, but there are no tears, you simply don’t have it in you to feel sorry anymore. For yourself, for what’s happened before this night, what’s going to happen-

“I fucking knew it.” The King chuckles from his knees, sword at his throat, “The wretched Scottish whor--”

The insult turns into a garbled choking sound when Simon’s hand wraps around his throat, effectively depriving him of oxygen and blood as he lifts him up until his toes are just barely grazing against the floor,

“What a king you are..”, Simon croons, his head cocking to the side- and the way he looks up at him reminds you of the mean old barn cat from your childhood, the one that would toy with his food, playing with it until he grew bored, “Tell me, Your Grace, are you enjoyin’ this?”

Johnny tries to turn you away, to urge back to the tapestry, to where you should be- where you would be safe, but you just can’t go. That awful, angry part of you wants to see the King suffer, wants to see him hurt just like he had hurt you.

“Grianach, please go. You go exactly where we told you to go-“

A thick gasping and sputtering echoes around you then, both of you turning to see Simon throw the grown man to the ground like it’s nothing. Stepping over his body, he finally looks up, pupil blown eyes boring into your own- like he’s searching, seeking, for an answer, for something. He holds it long enough to see your nod, long enough to gain your approval before he picks up his sword,

“You had everything.”, he says, looking down at the King, “And yet-“

Johnny’s hand clamps over your mouth as you watch the blade come down in one swift motion- sinking into the yielding flesh and muscle of your husband’s chest, crimson oozing around the dark steel, staining the hideous, priceless rug beneath him,

“..you took it all for granted.”

You know you hear Simon’s voice, hear the familiar gravel deepen- but, at the same time, it is entirely unrecognizable in your ears. He sounds so cold, so calculated in every syllable that drips from his tongue.

And the most errant thought crosses your mind, that maybe this is the past he so adamantly avoids with you, with anyone for that matter. Maybe it’s this other version of him, a version that is devoid of humanity, callous and brutal-

“You took her for granted.”

There’s only the briefest reflective glint of his blade as a warning- but this time, Johnny forces you to look away, framing your face in his hands so that he’s the only things you can see. His palms covering your ears help to muffle the disgusting squelch of sinew and tendons being severed, the awful sound of vertebrae forcefully separating.

It all sounds so loud until there’s just.. Nothing. No one speaks, you can hardly even hear your own shallows breaths,

“M’eudail, look at me- please, look at me.”

You do look up, but you just can’t seem to focus, your mind too hazed to see his features clearly,

“He- he’s gone.” You mumble, your tongue too thick in your mouth, and your voice quivering,

“It’s done.”

[Chapter 9>>>>]

tag list: @spxctorsslxt @ssc7514

[sh4rkkks]

chapter 2- bullet wounds and messy bandages

simon ghost riley x reader

“No. no fucking way am i going back.” you shout, sitting up in the hospital bed at a rapid pace. Youre met with immense pain as the wires hooked into your arms tug at you skin. Your fathers face is calm, no emotion shown except for the tick in his jaw. “You dont go back, you’re not my child.” a sinking feeling in your stomach contricts your airways, the room feeling too small at your fathers threat. Everything turns white, the echoing of the gunshots before ringing in you ears while your fathers voice echos in the background. You feel like youre about to die. No no no no no no–

You shoot up in a cold sweat, grabing at your arms to confirm the absence of IV wires. Youre panting, heart racing at a frankly terrifying speed. “Shut the fuck up, will you?” your eyes adjust to the dark room, focusing in on the deep voice. Ghost is sitting up in bed, staring down at you on the floor. 

Youd been forced to create a makeshift bed on the floor, the thin blanket beneath you providing absolutely no support to your lower back. He’d ‘generously’ given you one of his pillows for you to rest your head on, and Price had found an old blanket for you that smelled of gunpowder and like a million soldiers before you. 

“Sorry..shit..yeah” you rub at your eyes, tucking your knees to your chest as you try to calm down. Thats the 12th time this month youve had the same nightmare, always waking up in a pool of your own sweat, or even screaming. “Sorry for waking you.” you mumble, laying back down on your ‘bed’. You hear his grumble of annoyance before he rolls over in bed, presumably going back to sleep. Does he ever take that stupid mask off?

“Lieutenant Indigo.” you introduce yourself to the rookies standing before you, your callsign suddenly sounding too childish for the disastrous sight of the yard. Your boots step into the dirt as you pace up and down the short line of men, head held high. “I’ll be working with lieutenant Riley to shape you up before the next mission.” you stop in front of a particular soldier, eyes narrowing at the man when a snicker leaves his mouth. “Something funny, soldier?” you step toe to toe, cocking your head to the side. He straightens his face, trying to act like he wasnt just disrespecting a commanding officer. “Drop and give me 50.” you say as you walk away, not tossing another glance at the man for the next hour of training. 

“Quit fuckin’ around.” ghost steps next to you, soft hints of cigarette smoke and pine invading your nostrils. “Excuse me?” you shift your gaze from the soldiers running laps to him, raising an eyebrow. “You heard me. Don't give the shits any attention if they don't need it.” he huffs before walking away. 

In the 3 interactions youve had with him hes spoken all of 23 words total to you and yet your thoughts are overtaken by the mysterious man. And annoyance, pure fucking annoyance. 

[melodrama-ticcc]

— “ 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 ” ; 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐗

𝐀 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧

𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

𝙄𝙛 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙨 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙠𝙨!

𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘢 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘺.

𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫. 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧. 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧.

ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍ: ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃⁱⁿˢ ᵐᵃᵗᵘʳᵉ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ. ⁱ.ᵉ. ᵈᵒᵐᵉˢᵗⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃᵇᵘˢᵉ, ᵍʳᵃᵖʰⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ, ˡᵃⁿᵍᵘᵃᵍᵉ ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗᵃˡ ⁱˡ��ⁿᵉˢˢ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ᵐᵘʳᵈᵉʳ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ʳᵃᵖᵉ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ˢᵘⁱᶜⁱᵈᵉ, ᵐⁱˡᵈ ᵍᵒʳᵉ, ʳᵉˡⁱᵍⁱᵒⁿ, ˢᵉˣᵘᵃˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢⁱᵗᵘᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ.

—

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑: 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨. 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞. 𝐕𝐢𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝.

—

“Dang nab it boy, lookit the dog gone mess you stirred up! And you, you aughtta get your side of the family under control! I ain’t seen a mess like this since them college kids showed up!”

“Don’t patronize me Drayton, I think I know to raise my boy.”

“Then why’s this always happenin’ on your side huh, and the hell we gon’ do now? Your boy ain’t know how to stay outta trouble. Johnny you got any idea the position you’ve put your brothers ‘n I in? Aughtta be ashamed of ya’ self.”

“Now now, don’t you worry Johnny, we’ll get this straightened out.”

“Like hell we will.”

“What I’d like to know my dear, is what that Payne girl from down the way was doin’ there with you.”

The room fell silent.

Not even a peep.

Only the muffled sounds of chickens broke that quiet, and still the three stared to one another expecting an answer from the other. Drayton a way to solve this mess, Nancy an explanation from her boy, and Johnny, who’d been sat right on the tattered sofa like he was just a boy.

“I know you lookin’ out for me, but I fail to see why that concerns you ma’.”

“Oh just wait till your grandpa hears ‘bout this one.”

“Now hold on a second.” Nancy extends her arm to Drayton, whose one word away from letting the entire family in on it. Nancy herself bubbles with aggravation, masking her rage through this bothersome tender mother act. “Oh Johnny,” she sighs, having the seat beside him with her hand placed tenderly against his knee. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten, family comes first baby. We can’t keep no secrets ‘round here, gotta make sure we know everythin’ to get this squared away. Now tell me, what’s this pretty lil’ thing doin’ out with you like that, hm?”

Perhaps the only time Johnny’s charm didn’t work was when it came to his folks, they never failed to see right past his guise. He knew better than to fool them.

“I was right when I told y’all ‘bout her bein’ like us, ya’ know? I got a, a real eye for these things. Lemme tell ya’.” He peers to his mother at his left, and Drayton cooped up on the right side of the living room. “I’ve known since that day they had us for supper ya’ know? The very second I saw her. She’s got a fine taste for huntin’, does a real good job of it too. Why, she might even love it more than me. See, she just learnin’ still.”

“If this ain’t hell in a hand basket I don’t know what is boy! You are out of control, now you out givin out information to everybody ain’t ya’!”

“If you did your job and ran this damn family like grandpa did, she’d be one of us already!” Johnny huffs. “She don’t know ‘bout us, just me. Been takin’ her out for weeks and she’s gotten good, we could use her.”

“I’ll be damned if I let my boy get taken advantage of by some lil’ hooker!”

“I’m tellin’ you, she like us. Have her over for supper you’ll find out.”

“You’re out of your god damn mind!”

“You can kill her if she ain’t. But I’ll tell you right now that ain’t gon’ happen.”

“I’ve had enough of this Bonnie and Clyde act, what’s got you’s so fixated on this damn girl?”

“She’s mine damnit, ain’t like nothin’ you’d ever seen before I promise you that.”

“Johnny you ain’t know what you’s talkin’ ‘bout! She’s, why she’s just some tramp! I mean come on.” Nancy can only scoff. “This is real silly.”

“Tch, just like them university girls you’s said was yer’s, the ones that damn near drove this family into the ground?” Drayton laughs at him.

Fury burns in him and turns him red, a frustrated grunt leaving his lips when he slams his fists against the coffee table and stands up all at once.

“I said she’s different! This one’s different!” He screams. “You’re a damn fool if you ain’t see it, this one’s different — she’s different!” He huffs, leaning in real close to Nancy’s face, still seated on the couch and laced with shock, fear, maybe. “And she sure as hell ain’t no damn tramp.”

“Enough.” The room quiets and Nancy stands. “I ain’t hostin’ no supper for some no good lil’ girl messin’ with my baby’s head.”

“Finally you say summin’ that does anythin’ ‘round here, now handle your damn boy.”

“Y’all really think grandpa ain’t gonna want to get s’more hands ‘round here, huh? Like your time ain’t runnin’ out?”

“What in the damned hell did you just say?"

“You heard me, cook.” He snaps. “Ain’t nobody messin’ with my damn head, specially not after what you did to me.”

Nancy’s expression fades from that of indifference to a look of betrayal and hurt.

“Now Johnny baby that ain’t no way to talk to yer’ mother.”

“I’ll talk to you any way I damn well please, just like you gon’ talk to me like I’m some kid. Well I ain’t no more, and I ain’t gonna sit here ‘n let you talk me outta this. She’s comin’ to supper.” Nancy’s countenance softens, sours, like someone had pissed in her cheerios for the last time. Some amalgamation of hurt and anger.

"I’m fixin’ to clean yer plow here soon. We do what’s best for each other, not for your lust. Gon’ end up in the shitter if we ain’t keep this place up tight.”

“You best watch yer mouth ‘fore I ring yer’ neck for even lookin’ at my boy like that.” Nancy coos, a fake smile hiding her heartache. “Johnny my dear, I trust you. Let’s see what this here girl is like, maybe we’re wrong.”

“You fool-”

“Tomorrow evenin’, have her over. Till then you ain’t get out so much as a foot outside that door you hear me?” Nancy storms out quietly, warranting a stark glare from Drayton who then goes back to Johnny.

“Now we aught to lay low. Yer selfish act costin’ all of us the good meat, we got scraps till this blows over and that’s that. ‘N you just wait, Nubbins’ll have your head when he finds out.”

—

“Rebecca . . . .” Worry laces his call, domineering her attention from the dishes to exchange glances with him from across the room, as he shuts the radio off and rises from his seat.

“Yes, daddy?”

“What’d y’all get up to last night?”

“Headed down to the diner in Pfluegerville for some malts and caught a movie at the drive in. The usual, ya’ know? Why do ya’ ask?”

“Curious, you’s never tell me what you two get ‘round to.” Raymond’s voice shakes, congruent with the anxieties that riddle his body. He had no reason to believe the reports made had been them, no matter how closely the description aligned with their appearance had. Johnny was a fine man, he was sure of it, and did a good thing keeping his girl safe. “That all, then?”

“That’s all daddy,” Becca laughs, too loud for his own comfort and he sighs.

“You think I’m lyin’?” She questions, astounded. “Ask Johnny then, he’ll tell ya’!”

Raymond has to take a step back, reigning in his thoughts and quelling the fears within him. It was foolish of him to believe such a thing, that his daughter and he comely partner had committed murder in an entirely separate way region miles away. He felt guilty, perhaps he’d not given the girl enough credit. It was all just some, peculiar coincidence.

“No, no, Becca I ain’t callin’ you that.” Raymond nods. “I believe you, I just like to check in. It’s a father’s right to make sure his baby’s safe now.”

“Yes well daddy, I’m quite safe, peachy keen you’d say.”

“Right, well,” reluctantly he does refrain. “Let’s just make sure we stayin’ ‘round the house instead of headin’ out every night. You still under my roof, after all.”

It would come as no surprise that Johnny neglected their staunch orders, for he always had a mind and manner of doing things according to his own agenda. Caution never did suit him either; there’d been a track record when it came to things like this. The Pfluegerville incident, what happened with Maria, those college kids that came looking for her, and now the case with the imbecilic drunkards from Cedar Canyon. The one thing that remained constant between them all was the way in which he deceitfully maneuvered his way clear of every single one; he hadn’t been caught once.

Due to the bold nature of his work it was only expected they’d come across these complications, none but Drayton had ever done what Johnny had. While they’d wait for prey to come knocking on their door step, he went out hunting. A provider and a damn good one; and even they were not the same. His family would only ever understand it as that; a family affair. They’d hunt for survival and that was that, where, he took great pleasure in killing, hunting them down and watching the life drain from their eyes whilst he strangled them to death. It was no wonder the frustration bubbled and stuck out like a sore thumb, that with the loneliness that would be accompanied by it.

The mockingbirds sing a mawkish song to the storm clouds that sweep in from the north sky, their bolsterous heads an ominous omen in the distance. Fall had settled into the air, the summer heat fading to a soft warmth and then, cool. The winds would blow in, picking up the reddened leaves of autumn and dusting them over the hills to form a crimson sea. They brisk against the dirt and kick up dust, crisping faintly as they get caught in the brush where the tumbleweeds too would bung to the thorny exteriors of sickly bushes. He can hear the crinkling of those leaves from the inside of the truck, just feebly, when he pulls to the front of the Payne estate. It’s there that the air becomes still and the sugary songs those birds once chirped become deafened by the heaviness that fogs the place. Thick and muggy, as though the area itself had been swallowed up by a musk that wreaked of depravity. With it the sunshine fades in the cloak of those thunderheads, there’s a storm on its way.

The hollowed knock he lands on the front door falls on deaf ears, so there is a second, and a third. All harrowing sounds which go unanswered to further perpetuate the persecutory void the pensioned estate had adopted so peculiarly. The wait imparts annoyance from Johnny, who’d never been considered a very patient man. Thus the inclinations to go poking his nose about the place with a somewhat disquieting phenomena burgeoned in the low of his stomach. He decidedly moves to wander towards the pasture out back particularly certain he’d find his objectives buried up to her chin in work. There the gloom outstretches the earthed hills, cattle grazing on grass in the midst of the shadows and nothing but hay bales and hills as far as the eye could see. There he finds Raymond, busied with a preparatory work reinforcing the fences in the fields. He must’ve seen him, for he’d gestured his head Johnny’s way the way he typically had and kept on with his work. He’d only traveled about half way before Raymond called out, rather bluntly.

“If yer’ lookin’ for Rebecca, she’s up in ‘er room.” There’s a stagger to his canter, one that leaves him stopped in his tracks. “Been up there since breakfast. Think she’s upset I told ‘er to stop goin’ out so much.”

“Mind if I check in with ‘er? Don’t mind comin’ to help out afterwards if it’s a problem.”

“Be my guest,” Raymond motions his hand towards the house. Only veering his vision up from his work when Johnny pivots and begins walking back that way. “Say uh, ya’ heard ‘bout those brothers goin’ missin’, out in Cedar Canyon last night?”

He slows, then halts again, a tick tocking in his head as his brow raises. He peers just over his shoulder, able to make out a blurry image of Raymond watching him incredulously.

“Pardon?”

“Ah, nothin’, just summin’ I heard on the radio.”

“Must’ve missed it.”

“Right. Say uh, where’s you ‘n Becca run off to last night?”

There’s a moment of shared silence, and it’s then that Johnny turns to face Raymond in what he could only understand as repudiation. He was suspicious.

“Same as always, sir. Just that drive in out in Pfluegerville. I’m sure you understand, she’s got a real passion for those movies. Tells me she’s loved watchin’ ‘em with you at home.”

“Ah, good.” Raymond smiles. “Just makin’ sure, she’s still my girl after all.”

“Yeah well, she’s a real fine woman.”

“Right.” Raymond stands with a grunt, hunched over nearly. “You go in and speak to ‘er then, and uh, here.” Raymond traverses laggardly, fishing a five out of his pocket and handing it to Johnny. “Say uh, you two go ‘n pick me up sum’ more of them nails.” Raymond tosses the box into his hand. “There’s a storm comin’ in, best to get these sturdy now ‘fore it gets here. Take the truck, keys are on the stand by the door.”

“Sure thing,” Johnny nods his head ploddingly, then he’s on his way back toward the house with a less than ebullient expression. One that’d look sour milk if given the opportunity.

The house is quiet, so much so that the sound of the front door shutting behind him echoes about the chamber. Still silence, the eery and portentous kind.

“Darlin’?”

The cacodemonic sound phases through the home and back to him, and it’s just when he’s about to head up the stairs of the foyer she appears, like a grim shadow in the corner of the graveyard, Ghoulish and Cimmerian. The viscid black sullied over her eyelids and cheeks like soot shadows her beauty. Those pretty features veiled by the severity of her mania.

“Yes, dear?” A desolate gasp for air fuels her quiet call.

“Well lookit’ you,” Johnny muses. “Your father sendin’ us into town for some supplies, best we get a move on now.” It seems futile in that moment, the method of which she agonizingly scales down the steps to him; as though she were an apparition in its desolate descent to hell.

“To town?”

“Look I know it ain’t ideal, but sooner it’s over sooner we can lay low, let’s get on with it.”

“Right. I take it you’ve heard it then, the radio? They got us huh?” She reaches him, slow and laggardly as she comes to rest her head at his chest. “Johnny boy, they saw. I, what’re we’re to do?”

“Tch, come on darlin’, this ain’t my first rodeo. You think I ain’t end up in this kinda pickle before? We’ll be just fine.” The steady hand on her back nudges her forward. “Let’s just get this on over with so we can put it to bed.”

Silence was bliss, except for when it was filled with the incessant anxieties that plagued one’s head. His affirmation hadn’t been taken at face value, and the thoughts that troubled her prior had only begun to swell. Sitting in the passenger side of that old truck, with nothing but the empty grasslands to distract her. His ignorance was her hell, and she could only hope to find some solace in raising her concerns once more.

“Ya know, daddy asked me ‘bout last night I, I think he suspects summin’ of us.”

“I know,” he sighs. “Asked me ‘bout it too.”

Rebecca turns to him, shifting in her seat quickly for his response had stirred a whole heap of worrisome thoughts to further pick at her insides like vultures.

“Oh god he knows it, what’d you tell ‘em? What if we told ‘em summin’ different I, Johnny, what’ll we do?”

“Would you settle the hell down? You’re scatterin’ all over the damn place.” He warns. “I ain’t told him any different than you, only added onto it, aight?”

“Surely you don’t know that.”

“Darlin’, let me worry ‘bout these damn things and just focus on lookin’ pretty. You got that?” She can hear the annoyance in his voice, the aggravation begin, and she takes that as a warning to cease for the time being despite her growing sense of dread.

She settles, still wary and bug eyed when she flips the radio on in an attempt to ease those thoughts. The thoughts that, despite her forlorn efforts tore down her every sense of stability and peace, she couldn’t know for certain. And, until he could prove that to her she wouldn’t find peace. Especially when every station had the report blaring, while she vehemently clicked through radio stations in search for an escape. It seemed no matter what she’d done, the consequences of their recklessness had followed.

The hyper awareness of that damned mistake, toppled with the blaring radio station in the old hardware store downtown had made her to belief they were done for. Shaking there beside her boy, partly clinging to the bend in his arm while she look about like a lost puppy. There, where the eyes of the shop clerk stared into the back of her skull and the few patrons seemed to have their eyes peeled to her every which way.

“Johnny . . . everyone is starin’.”

“Shut the damn hell up would you?” Johnny quips back, causing her to recoil into him. Her eyes still looking sporadically between the three others in the building.

It had seemed like the entire world was against her, when the eyes of many wouldn’t leave her in peace and the radio inside the station began blaring about the same old story, the one they’d so carelessly created last night. That had been enough, enough to push her over the edge and spill the tears hiding behind those eyes. She hits Johnny’s arm, shaking it and pulling and anything she can to get his attention and draw him out.

“Johnny they got us- we gotta go they know they all know.”

“Go sit in the damn truck and shut the hell up.” He shoves the keys into her, an act that has her stumbling back and clutching them to her chest. “Go on, go!” His loud voice only draws more attention to her, more eyes, and when her own gaze makes eye contact with the others in the room she scurries out like a scared little mouse. Clumsily and pathetic, throwing herself into the truck and bringing her knees up to her chest. It was all over, they’d been had.

“What in the damn hell is wrong with you? Makin’ a scene like that?” It wasn’t until Johnny had climbed in yelling that she realized he’d done it just fine, nails in hand. “I told you and I told you, there ain’t no god damn thing to bitch about. Quit your whinin’ and get on with it.” Perhaps he should smack her he thinks, to quell her irrationality.

Aggravation bares an ugly head in him, feasting at his frustrations. She’d not comprehend the grievance of their situation, at least not how he did. She’d make it out to be some big thing, but for Johnny it was a nuisance, and the longer they sat there twaddling with their thumbs the more indignant he became. The frustration turns to virulence, then his face goes red with lividity. His patience wearing thin there is little attempt to withhold his harsh words, she’d know soon enough.

Even as he drives the truck off the main road and back down the way they came she shakes in her place, eyes red and wide, and limbs weak and heavy. It’s as though the world around her spins; she feels nauseated, sick, in a blind panic. It’s then that she begins to cry, silent and painful tears. And Johnny he says nothing, despite her silent calls for help and his callous attitude, speeding the truck down the highway and scrunching his face up in a less than gracious manner.

“They gon’ catch us, ain’t they?”

“I’ve had enough of this god damn act you hear me?” His scream pieces the metallic interior, causing her cries to become vocal. “I ain’t gon’ tell you ‘gain, we’d be just fine if you shut the hell up already.”

“I can’t! Not when they out there lookin’ for us and everybody knows just exactly what we’s look like Johnny, damnit!”

The truck jolts forward when he shifts it into park, and he only stares forward, not making eye contact.

“Go inside and figure out whatever the hell it is you need to shut up while I go on ‘n get these to yer’ pops.”

“Johnny?”

“I said now damnit!” His yell is the last warning that sends her inside without another peep, before he goes off looking for Raymond. Whose leant up against one of the rotted fences out back sipping on some ice cold sweet tea.

“You find ‘er?”

“Yeah, she’s all right.”

“Got them nails?”

“Right here sir,” Johnny plants them in his palm. “Listen uh, got summin’ I need to ask you ‘bout?”

“Go ‘head boy. If you’s askin’ to take ‘er out again tonight my answers no. Needs to stay in ‘fore that storm gets here.”

“Nah, my folks uh, they’d like to have ‘er over for dinner tomorrow night. That all right?”

There’s a long pause, hesitance.

“Dinner huh?”

“You’ll have to excuse my mother. See she’s real skeptical ‘bout Becca, just wants to get to know ‘er is all.”

“Normally I’d say yes, but,”

“Please, sir,” Johnny sort of chuckles. “It’s real important to me, I promise I’ll have ‘er home early if that’s what it takes.”

“Mm.” Raymond hums, thinking. “She ain’t been home much lately, ya’ know?”

“It’ll be a few hours, at most, not more than yer’ out here in them fields. I’ll pay you back what I can in labor. Though I’d do that anyways.”

“All right Johnny,” Raymond sighs, clearing his throat of the sugar from that tea. “Best hope you ain’t disappoint me.”

“You got my word, sir.”

The house is quiet when Johnny recenters, impatiently searching for a troublesome Rebecca who emerges down the stairs with a distressing visage. Viscid black sullied over her eyelids and smeared rouge over her cheeks and nose, she hyperventilates like she’s hard of breath, gasping for air like she’d been strangled.

“May as well run if they gon’ get us, we gotta run!” She screams, clutching onto her messed head of hair. “Run like hell! Now now! We have to go!” She pleads with him, met with a stoic impression by him.

“Now don’t go talkin’ like that on me. You sound pathetic. You give up that easy?” He quips back instantaneously, coming up those steps to meet her midway up the bannister. It’s there her blackened, tear-stained cheeks seem muddy and bedaubed. An angry red peaks out through the smeared makeup, as though she’d been galling at it for some time. “Quit your cryin’. Ain’t no use whinin’ now. We got bigger problems.”

She begins to cry, quietly, her gaze avoidant and peeled to the ground her feet stood over. Those weeps become more and more hysterical, as she clings to the skin of her cheeks for some sort of relief. “I can’t- Johnny, what’re we gon’ do? It can’t end like this, no, it can’t!”

The feeling is anomalous, uncustomary; and yet she feels as though it is normal to experience such a strange sensation. Nobody knew just how deprived one became when their way of life was threatened, and the solitude of their lives became compromised. It felt as though the world itself had ended there, as though Christ himself had come to judge them all and yet he did no saving. For the feeling was real and uncouth, viciously tearing apart all that she had come to love. In its wake a coarse, hollow body in mourning. How pitiful, she might believe those words. Maybe she was pathetic.

“The hell did I just say?” There’s a sharp incantation in his pitch, one that thwarts her head from her mind and draws her to him. His eyes watch over her like he’s studying, an attempt to pull together the pieces and gather his messy thoughts. Then his roughed hands reach to her face, clasping either side of her cheek and staring a hole into her. Straight through those frightened irises and into the darkness that had taken her and plagued her with such terrors. “You aught to learn how to get these thoughts of yer’s under control, shit, just shut up a second. That report ain’t nothin’, station’s pumpin’ those out all the time cause ain’t shit else goin’ on ‘round here. Don’t mean nothin’, we just lay low for a while and everythin’ll blow over like it never happened.” He’s watching her with a fervent intent, one evident in the way his eyes peruse her for signs of doubt. His thumbs glazing over dampened cheeks in a feeble attempt to rid the black smeared about her face. His stern voice quiets to a hushed, more subtle tone. One that matches the touch of his fingertips against her velvety skin. “Actin’ like this ain’t my first time, tch. Come on now darlin’.”

Her lashes flutter open and her sight fixates on him, then, languidly her arms stretch from her face to his. A trembling palm, clammy skin pressed against the sharp line of his jaw. Her hold is a weak and pitiable one, and her whines of desperation shameful. Then she quiets, a polarized decorum haunted by the uncertainty of their fate. Blue eyes wide and wet with fear and lip quivering.

“I don’t too much like repeatin’ myself but perhaps you ain’t hear me.” Johnny is angry, his voice deplorable and cruel. The forceful handful of hair he takes between his fingers and tugs toward his lips sends a sharp sting to her scalp. Met with an ireful groan when she winces into his hold. “Quit yer cryin’ and show me your damn capable, not just sum’ painted up bitch. I said we’d get it straight and ‘less you don’t trust me, and, ha, you’d better trust me, this lil’ pity act of yer’s better get cleaned up real quick.” Each word as cruel as the last it bites, teeth sinking in to create an even deeper wound. She yelps, and in the slew of their shared words she wastes no time in throwing him off of her. Her apoplectic guise becomes her, boiling blood pinks the tips of her ears and makes her hot. Her eyebrows arching down to a furious grimace. It seems she would always forget how angry he made her, how downright loathsome he would become. How his impatience and temper ignites her own and turns her into something she despises. The incensed and shameful, the downright disgusting. Johnny’s back collides with the wall, a thundering sound in its wake. The frames and decor hung so neatly shake and tremor. The collision sending a photograph crashing down to the steps, the noise of shattered glass ringing in the entryway.

“Would you shut the damn hell up!” Rebecca screams, a feverish appearance overtakes her once solemn features. Her limbs still shake, only now with the adrenalized presence of her fury rather than mourning. “Don’t ever speak to me like that, I told you and I told you.” Her hands clench to fists, waning at her sides for the words to leave his stupid mouth.

They were eyes he hadn’t been on the receiving end of in some time, ones enraged with rabid madness and incurable choler. Scrunched up the way they did when she was riding the fine line between composure and a blown temper. It arouses him, gets him so excited he smirks some deviant way. Only this time the looming presence of their little fiasco far outweighed his willingness to play along with her charade.

“Stupid bitch.” He grabs her arm, sending her scrambling to fetch up one of the broken glass shards as he drags her up the stairs despite her protests. The wood edges bang up her knees and shins, grunts of pain and groans leaving those bitten lips. As they reach the top of the bannister she sends the glass blade sinking into the skin of his arm, prompting his grunt and release. She wastes no time in stumbling away from him, leaving him to pull the thing out and clench his arm whilst the blood drips down it.

There she stands, legs widened and hunched over at the end of the hallway where her figure is outlined by the white light that shines in through the window. She breathes erratically, huffing out through an open mouth and seething in her indifference.

“I don’t like too much repeatin’ myself either. For a man who prides himself on respect he don’t do too much to earn it from me. I told you and I told you, quit speakin’ to me like I’m yer’ dog or I’ll cut yer’ tongue out yer throat and you’s ain’t gonna talk at all!”

“God damnit, you done pissed me off now, we got bigger things to worry ‘bout you know that?” He saunters over, not before she’s grabbing the lamp off the stand in the hall and using it to throw at him. “You real keen on me teachin’ you a thing or two, so here’s summin’ to take note of.”

Just as she turns to flee he grabs her wrist, yanking her backwards and into his arms when she trips over her own feet. There he holds her body to his, a hand pulling back that hair with a firm grip. She cries out in pain, her fingers clinging to his wrist as she winces. Thrashing her body about to loosen his hold does little to relieve her position. Especially as he wanes into the crook of her neck and laughs.

“Don’t start summin’ you can’t finish, darlin’.” His whisper is sickening, that and the hot air he breaths to her neck. The scratchy fondle of his chapped lips scraping at her, with his teeth that nip and his torrid tongue. Her vain efforts dwindle, fists pushing and clawing at anything she can reach. In a desperate attempt to create a gap between them and sever him from her. Regaining her footing she kicks her leg forward, followed with a swift knee to his crotch.

He lets go, leaving her to crash against the wood floors flat on her back. Both she and him wince and groan, writhing around in pain like fools. She has not one spare moment to recover herself, before he’s on top of her and she’s screaming at the top of her lungs. It isn’t then, no, it’s when he uses his strength to pin both her wrists down beneath him that it floods in. All the times he’d so senselessly fucked them, had he thought her no better?

They flash about her vision like a picture show, and as her exasperation nears its peak she’s hopeless for any sort of salvation. Still kicking and screaming, thwarting around her body like some squeamish little thing.

Rancor consumes her when he presses a messy kiss to her lips and he frees his arm just to grope at her. It’s a long enough opening for her to reach for the shard of glass, fumbling with it for a moment before grasping it tightly. The ragged edges dig into the skin of her palm, procuring blood from it, the sharp sting the edge she needs to do such a thing. Her fist comes crashing downward with a purpose of vengeance, the sharp tip stabbing into his back again, and again, and again. Until he buckles over her and gives her leeway to wiggle out of his hold. She’s freed herself, shuffling to her feet just to kick into him. His scornful grunts and expressions leave him in a state of shock, weakness, for Becca kicks him to his back in time to straddle him. Her jeaned thighs on either side of his torso, she holds the makeshift blade to his mouth shakily.

Her body rattles with emotion, her eyes the keeper of her heart — and the bitter feeling of betrayal that leaves her heartbroken. Tears prick at them, forming a river that graciously falls down her stained cheeks.

“Gimme one good reason,” she huffs. “One damn good reason not to sever that damn tongue so you ain’t ever speak to me ‘gain. Or better yet, let’s slice off them damn fingers or cut you up and bash yer skull in god damnit Johnny boy.” She holds her stature over him, watching him puff out hot air and catch his breath. When he only laughs she screams something incoherent, pressing the knife into the corner of his lip to draw blood. “I’ll do it god damnit I swear!”

“You wanna reason?” His question is met with a look of disdain, horrified by his blatant ignorance. “Cause both you and I know a damn good reason girl.”

A nasty sob that leaves agonizing cries to elicit from her pink lips, as she drops the blade and hangs her head in defeat. Love, love was a pertinacious affair.

Rebecca gets to her feet, not so much as sparing him a glance when she turns her back to him and begins walking towards her room. Johnny soon gets up, examining carefully the newly acquired scars and wiping the fresh blood from himself.

“Clean up this damn blood, ‘fore your daddy gets in here. I got the glass.” The back of his hand smears the blood over his mouth and cheek, and he has to spit to the ground to keep from swallowing it.

Johnny only sighs, looking to her with a cynical sort of expression, as though he were trying to figure her out. His brows raise, and for a second he looks mean. That is until he remembers being in the same place she was. Afraid, shaken up and alone. Before he just couldn’t understand why she didn’t get it, and it still fired him up for it was just as much as nuisance as it was annoying. But then something made sense, for he’d again seen the pieces of himself imbued in her and was reminded of why she was so unique.

There came a time where Johnny had been the outcast, poked fun of by his family and made to feel foolish and pestilent by his own mother. He’d never forget that day, for the scar that gouged the left side of his face would never let him. He resented mother for that, for robbing him of that freedom, a chance at normalcy that wasn’t so confining.

“And for heaven’s sake get yer’ self presentable! I’m takin’ you out!”

Devoid of emotion, numb, as she sits petrified in the passengers seat trying to make out something of what had happened. It lets itself play over and over again, and she finds herself reliving the experience. Her body still shaking, hands still balled up into fists. Her eyes are wide, the residual tears still staining the reddened skin around her lashes. Hastily done makeup does little to mask it, only makes her seem like an old porcelain doll.

They’re both silent, the only sound filling the cabin that of the wheels against asphalt coming in from outside. She thinks he’s heartless, not checking in on her after such a ruckus and leaving her to grasp into scraps. Her palms hurt, gashed open by the glass; the dried blood of both of them still coaxed into her nail beds. She picks at them, finally some movement in an otherwise motionless car ride.

“You really hurt me, ya’ know? Makes me think twice ‘bout everything you’ve said.” Her doddering voice breaks the silence, her eyes unmoving from her own hands. “I was scared of what might happen, us bein’ caught. I ain’t ever done this kinda thing, you gotta understand.” She is met with uncomfortable quiet, his stare unyielding from the road.

“You pissed me off, should know better to watch yer mouth and listen as I say. I told you we’d be fine. Now what we gotta handle is the fact that yer’ daddy is awful suspicious of what we been up to, and my folks ain’t to keen either. We’re in a real shit show there, I told ya’ we aughtta lay low for a while ‘n stay in and yer’ pops had us out runnin’ his errands. Top of that, family wants you’s over for supper tomorrow night. You need to learn to get those thoughts under control and listen, cause while you’re havin’ yer way I’m tellin’ you how it is. I ain’t hurt you, was yer own damn fault.”

Searing tears prick at her eyes, her face souring. She sniffles, gasping for air and throwing her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry! I ain’t mean to make such a mess of things.”

He remembers being so distraught running off to the back fields while dusk set in, clutching at the wound on his face and wallowing in his own shame and pity. There was no one there to save or comfort him then, no one to explain or help him understand. Instead, pure and unbridled rage and despair at the hands of his insufferable mother. He remembers collapsing to his knees as the blood spilled from his face and into his hands, staining his jeans and the white t shirt that clung to his skin. The scene that played before him was just that, a mirrored image of himself. Whilst he too sobbed helplessly into his hands.

That had been the last time he cried, displayed such a weakness that could be exploited by those around him. He never wanted to give her that power, so he buried it and acted as though it didn’t bother him. The birth of his disdainful love and hate.

It’s funny then, as just thinking about it made him feel those same feelings, made him feel the tightness in his skin, the burn of his wound, the searing brand her hand left upon his face. He could feel it then, the indentation of his past and the ugly it left over his once unscathed facade.

Within those passing moments his gaze softens as it watches over her, and maybe then he feels a pang of empathy and guilt, one which he pushes so far down he’s nearly choking on it. Fixing his eyes back on the road as they narrow in thought, the sound of her cries fading in the static of his brain. Whilst he preferred to leave her to her own devices, he found it uncomfortable to sit idyl whilst she battled those feelings of illegitimacy and fear, loneliness.

Begrudgingly he sighs, a hand carefully reaching for one of those hands in place of her face.

“It’s alright,” he doesn’t stagger from watching the road, and after removing the hands from her face does his find it’s place back on the wheel. “I’ll fix it.”

For a moment there’s silence, whilst she dries the tears from her cheeks and tries her best to remedy sullied makeup. Trembling with a strange cultivation of feeling, but if the calm in his voice is any indication of solace, those worries are quelled. She’s partly shocked, that he’d calmed so quickly, as though he saw her agony. Only the right turn he makes off the highway pulls her away from her thoughts. There he pulls off to the side of a shabby old gas station boarded up and rotten, a typical mom and pop convenient store advertising Texas barbecue and Coca Cola on its edifice. There’s a large plot of land out back, fenced in by barbed wire and rotten wood planks. Rebecca only looks to Johnny, a questioning look behind her glossy eyes.

“Relax, thought we could make a date out of this ‘n get some pop. ‘Sides, this is the old man’s place.” He stares ahead, putting the truck in park and moving to hop out. Then he saunters off in his usual manner, coming up the passenger side to pop the door open and caress her chin with a calloused hand. “C’mon darlin’, let’s say I treat you.”

Johnny would never admit it, that he felt some type of way about what had happened. That he too could relate to that same scared, secluded feeling. Instead he’d rather fancy her up with miscellaneous little things, make her feel like he wasn’t so uncouth.

For a moment she watches him, his suave smile and calming voice. And she can all most forget the fact he’d so blatantly overpowered her and ignored her pleas. Perhaps that was a part of the reason he loved her so much, because she didn’t just sit and take it. That idea simmers, the same type of estranged feeling she elicits when she’s yearning for the men to beg and plead and cry, and even fight back. And all the things Johnny’s said, about liking the chase. Only she was still around, a part of her could reconcile with that fact. So, she smiles, clasping his rugged hand as he helps her out of the truck like he always did, strolling in casually with her on his arm like some trophy. All which is met with Johnny’s ecstatic grin and sense of relief, and an pleased “that’s my girl.”

She wasn’t half as surprised to find Drayton waltzing up to the front door to greet them there, Johnny with a fiery look Rebecca could only describe as heinous. Something wasn’t quite right there, for when he looked to her it was as though his entire demeanor changed back to the lovable old cook.

“Nice to see ya’s, how’s you and that old man of ya’s doin’? Fixin’ to see this storm I reckon.”

“Mighty fine seein’ you too sir, we been doin’ just fine. Daddy’s out fixin’ them fences right now. How you been?” There’s that certified one of a kind smile, faker than the front Drayton and anybody else put up.

“Ah, works work. You two come on in and get you’s sum’ lunch.” Drayton’s smile fades when he looks to Johnny, instead a grave look overtaking his features and a hasty tone in his voice. “Your cousin’s in there, back home ‘till thanksgivin’, oh and uh, I ‘ready filled ‘em in on yer’ lil’ problem.”

A nasty scowl on his face Johnny groans and pushes past Drayton, swinging the front door open and stomping in there without another word. There the scent of smoke and meats radiate about, a deliciously sweet scent that has her stomach growling. Still attached to Johnny’s arm, she follows him about whilst looking the small room up and down. Not much but the smoker and some old shelving and benches, and the red headed mullet sitting up against the smoke room door. He doesn’t say much, just grunts and makes a pointed gesture towards Johnny who seems delighted. The biggest grin over his face and an eager nod.

He’s a large man, easily towering over both she and Johnny. His clothes are something out of a rolling stones magazine and his hair kinked and greasy. There’s a mean look to him, angry, and even the sounds he makes seem displeased. Rebecca can only smile, watching Johnny as she waits for his call.

“Well I’ll be, lookit you! How ya’ been?” He’s like a child excitedly trying to make friends with the cool kid on the playground. She’d never seen him so elated, desperately trying to show off. “Got someone I’d like ya’ to meet.” That sentence snaps her away from her thoughts and calls her attention to them as opposed to his words. He pulls her forward, to which she obliges and smiles graciously.

“This is my girl, Rebecca. She’s uh, been a real jewel ‘round here.” Her introduction is met with a crude look from the man, who leans forward as if to examine her and nods his head in acknowledgement. All before leaning back up against the creaky boarded wall. His arms plant on his knees and he looks to Johnny, not a word, just a slight hum.

“Rebecca, this here’s my cousin Hands, he’s one of ‘em truck drivers, been out on the road for weeks. Real funny once you get to know ‘em.” He pulls her forward, showing her off like a toy and snaking an arm around her waist. It would be a shame if she didn’t relish in it, just like she had been, an overwhelming sense of accomplishment blossoming in her.

“Pleased to meet you sir, any friend of Johnny’s a friend of mine.” Sweet southern tongue pretties her words like icing on a cake, and despite Hands’ lack of words and acknowledgment she offers her hand as a sign of respect.

Hands looks at her hand, long slender fingers with painted white tips. It takes some time, but he finally moves. Reaching into his pocket to fish out some old trinket and placing it into her palm. The silence is loud, but she kindly looks to her palm to find an old coin that had been pressed through one of those old penny presses. The design untidy and choppy, on it is a scrounged up image of a man who faintly resembles Johnny, one which she was half sure he’d done himself.

“Well I’ll be,” Johnny cuts in, taking a look at the smashed penny in her hand. “Ain’t that somethin’,” Johnny nudges her with his elbow. “Means he likes ya’ darlin’!”

“Ain’t it?” Becca grins. “Real nice of ya’, mister Hands. Johnnys a fine young man, I bet you’s aughtta be real proud of ‘em.” Johnny steps away, removing himself from her to head towards the ice box and grab a few bottles of pop. To which her gaze lingers, not before snapping back to Hands with a smile. “Ya’ know I bet you and my Johnny got lots of memories together, can’t imagine what he was like when he was just a boy. Guess you could say I’m real fond of ‘em ya’ know?” Her attempts at small talk are left on deaf ears, for Hands only grunts and groans or hums in responses leaving her to awkwardly smile and nod. That is until Drayton steps back in and looks to her with a knowing expression.

“Say uh, Johnny tells me you’ll be joinin’ us for supper tomorrow, grandpa’ll be real excited to meet you ain’t that right boy?”

They each exchange a look of disdain, Drayton towards Johnny and the other way around. Glaring holes into each others head whilst Johnny takes three of the cold Coke bottles and tossed them onto the counter.

“Oh yeah, he’ll be real fond of ya’ darlin’.”

“Boy ain’t ever brought a lady home for supper before, must be gettin’ real close eh’?”

Left out but not oblivious, she’d be a fool to think something wasn’t afoot between the two. That with their less than enthusiastic attitudes toward one another and the sly words which injected Drayton’s words. Instead of feigning innocence she politely plays along to their game, making it clear she was no stranger to this coy act of his and more than anything proving herself.

“Oh yes, matter of fact I was just tellin’ Hands I’m real fond of ‘em, and don’t you worry daddy thinks he’s real nice too.” Rebecca turns round with a grin and moves to Johnny, grasping his bicep knowingly. “Ain’t that right dear? Now, shall I bring a pie? I’d love to help anyway I can. Real kind of you folks havin’ me over and all.” She looks up to Johnny, already staring back at her with a wild grin. Her attention diverts quickly to Drayton with a snap of her head, Johnny watching her with a proud look.

Drayton is unusually disoriented, fixing his own head on pulling the barbecue from the smoke room. The ebullient chuckle that falls from Johnnys lips only rubs salt in the wound, and while Drayton responds to Becca’s offer with a slight nod and a hum, distracting himself with the cutting of meat bits whilst he glares through Johnny.

The sound of the blade against the wood of the cutting board and the soft cracks of open bottles of pop sound the air, as Johnny passes a bottle to first Rebecca, then Hands and finally one for himself. If his distaste for Drayton wasn’t clear then, it was abundantly apparent in those moments. Much of their lunch was spent that way, with Drayton’s passive aggressive comments towards Johnny and their mischievous banter. Rebecca found herself at the center of the old man’s soured mood, and her innocent enough but coy smart ass comments only made matters worse. It sure did keep the shit eating grin on Johnny’s face nice and wide, though.

“Well, I’d be lyin’ if I said you ain’t have a fine talent for cookin’ sir, I’d love to get the recipe sometime.” Rebecca stands, taking the plates from the three men and moving to wash them in the dingy sink off to the side. “Thank you very much for the treat, I’ll have to pay back the favor.”

“Oh no need, nice surprise havin’ you stop on in, slow business today. You tell that father of yours hello and tell ‘em not to be no stranger. We’ll see ya’s tomorrow, stay safe in that there storm.”

“Oh yes,” she smiles, putting the dishes up to dry and wiping the wet hands against her jeaned thighs. “Of course, have a good afternoon would y’all?” She’s met with Johnny at the door, who escorts her out before getting a smack to the back of the head. Half enraged he turns around, clutching the back of his skull as he stares to the old cook.

“Your mother’s gon’ have a cow ‘bout this one you nitwit.”

“Watch your mouth old man, I’ll make you eat those words.” Without another word does he shove the door shut, marching out to where Rebecca leans up against the truck with a pleased expression.

“Rebecca Payne, you’d like a honeysuckle full of poison, you know that?” His jubilant smile brings one to her own face and she laughs, shaking her head as he greets her with his hands at either side of her waist. He leans into her, a freed hand coming to swipe at her ear. “Sweet and deadly, just how I like it.”

“Well I’m happy to please,” she teases, a hand glued to his chest and the other pressing at his chin when she forced him to look at her.

“I bet you are.” Johnny’s tall frame hangs over her, closing her into the cage he’d formed around her. It’s hard to say no to him, to object, when his hand is at her hip and lips against her mouth. One of the many things she felt naive in, and helpless, when his mouth would traverse over the tender skin of her neck and his touchy hands would snake under the warm skin of her blouse. It’s nearly there, at her breast when she grasps at his wrist. Her head tilted up as he prods at the pristine and untouched skin over her collar bone. Soft and warm, velvety, not like the cold and dead ones he was so used to.

She wishes, partly, that he’d have her right there. Yet, guilt festers in her like maggots to decaying flesh, stopping such lustful desires in their tracks and picking at her gut. It’s just hard to say no, when his body is pressed up against hers and he leaves bittersweet bites over the plains of her body. Rebecca’s values were always strong though, as was her desire to remain pure, so when her grip on his lingering wrist tightens she instructs him to stop. Her free hand pushing at his jaw, holding it there, forcing him and his handsome mug to look at her.

“No, no,” Rebecca coos out, a whisper, plagued by the pleasures he so lavishly laid onto her. “You know me, guess you could call me old fashioned. I prefer those older values, traditionally, it’s more special that way.”

He’s annoyed, as seen in the way his hands ball into fists and he huffs. He watches her, grasping her wrist and pulling her hand away from his face. Instead he presses it to his sickly sweet lips, watching her through it all.

“Fine,” he hums. She’s right, there’s something special about having the forbidden fruit, taking something that wasn’t allowed. Maybe that’s how she was different too, she wouldn’t give it up so easily, and she was, she felt, different. Special. Impulsivity was written in her nature, as is clear when he grasps at her throat, not enough to harm her, just enough to pull her forward. Close enough for his lips to graze her ear, for his fingers to dig into her flesh. “Let’s say this; if you were mine, my wife, what would happen then?”

Rebecca can only laugh, finding his silly little hypotheticals unserious and teasing. She shakes her head, despite his fingertips pressing into the smooth matter of her neck. She flashes a toothy smile, and she feels his hold loosen when she hangs her head.

“Did I stutter?” His staunch tone causes that smile to fade, and he’s now holding her head up much like she had done to him. She can’t tell, if he’s angry or simply serious. Either way, he had captured her attention. “I need to repeat myself? I told you I ain’t like that.”

“Johnny, please.” She breaths out. “I don’t take these things lightly.” It’s a warning, anger pitching in her voice out of fright, fearful he might’ve been acting a fool.

“What makes you think I do, darlin’?” He pulls back, his hands each falling to hold her waist. “What’s stoppin’ me from marryin’ you one day, you?”

“I ain’t say yes.”

“But you would, wouldn’t ya’?” Johnny smirks, thinking he has her feated.

“Not unless you gave me your word, that you truly cared for me,” she looks to him with all seriousness, steadfast, all most a glare. She leans into him, her hands resting over his chest the way she liked so much. She’d eye him up and down, battering her lashes and resting her head atop one of the hands she’d laid over him. “And that I’d be the only one you ever, ever kept alive.”

He holds her in silence, in thought, while he pieces together her conditions and considers what that meant, how it effected him, and everything else.

“Rebecca Payne my word ain’t taken lightly.” He groans, flustered. It’s an oddity, how he cannot begin to think of another, someone who’d beckon to his will and call or do anything to please him, any other worth keeping around, worth bringing into the hell that was this family, any one who’d make being there just a little more tolerable. He found every part of it deplorable, the way she’d so easily infected every inch of his mind, his life. How little she had to work for it, how much he felt tied to her. He hated the way it made him feel, the fact that he felt at all. Despised the bludgeoned feeling of not having the control over someone, the ability to play with them like they were his food. He couldn’t fathom the idea of killing her, no matter how much he would’ve liked to. If he wanted to rip her apart limb by limb he couldn’t, couldn’t strangle her and watch the life leave her pretty blue eyes, couldn’t even tear into her with his favorite knife. The worst part of it all is he hadn’t the slightest clue why, and no matter how deep he buried the emotions they’d choke him out each time he saw her. It was why he felt so angry, so pent up, so different all at the same time. And he couldn’t figure out why it was he felt so futile, whenever she came about with her homicidal desires and her prim and proper intentions. She was just too much, too much like him. He was staring back at his own reflection, and he was too much in love with himself to salvage it.

“If I gave you my word?”

“Then I’d say yes.” Rebecca smiles, planting a kiss to his lips which he can only return with great satisfaction. His own chapped ones moving against hers soft, with intensity and roughness her own tender touch lacked. He kisses her, and there’s a time where the insatiable appetite for human flesh subsides, and he can forget about his family and the endless killing and blood and guts, he can forget about what his mother did to him, he could even forget how much it tormented him for all these years and the neverending pit of loneliness this life had condemned him to. It all fades away and there, just the passionate feeling of her skin against his can not just numb but take, take it all away. What was left was something lively and whole, a warm light that never goes out.

The second she pulls away he’s reminded of those things though, and his bloodlust floods in ten fold. Where he craves the hunt and the slaughter, and he can see it in her too. The desperate look in her eyes for something sickening and disturbing. He can only smile at her for it for he is the same, and then they go on their way.

As they made their way back to the farmhouse on the highway, they each found themselves in an overcrowded heap of their own baggaged thoughts. Johnny silent, trying to sort out those uncomfortable and isolated feelings and Rebecca, considering his uncharacteristic display of emotion and what it meant to become family.

“You’s got alotta family, huh?” Rebecca wonders aloud, her eyes peeled to the clouds forming in the distant sky.

“Summin’ like that,” responds Johnny. “Just got alotta cousins, that’s the way it’s always been.”

“It must be real nice,” she muses. “Havin’ a big happy family like that, I always wanted to have one of my own. Momma just . . . it just ain’t work out that way.”

“It ain’t always easy.” His calloused hand finds a home on the top of her thigh, warranting her attention. “Most of the damned time we ain’t see eye to eye, fact I ain’t too much like bein’ home for too long. We just got eachother’s backs, is all.”

“You mean you don’t like havin’ all that family?” She shifts her body to face his. “What’s it like Johnny boy?”

“Nah,” he sort of chortles. Then he pauses, thinking. “My family, to them, that’s the most important thing in this life. Family. We was raised with a certain respect for that, no matter our differences. It’s grandpa who ties us together, keeps the family goin’, you’ll see, we gotta whole lotta respect for that man.”

“He loves y’all, then?”

“Yeah sure, summin’ like that.” Johnny shrugs. “It’s just the way things are, it always been that way. I ain’t too much like the way my mother and the old man like to run things but I go ‘long with it any matter. We got a pretty good thing goin’, they say.”

“You ever want a family of yer’ own, Johnny?” She ponders, watching him with doll-like eyes, a certain innocence to them. “I wanna be a momma one day, better one than mine ever was that’s for sure. Settle down with a real man in a big pretty house, with children runnin’ a muck, a big happy family. Like yours, I reckon.”

Johnny chuckles, watching her and the genuine smile that forms on her lips.

“I got family ties I ain’t get rid of, that’s where those loyalties lie. Always has, always will. Guess you could call me a family man.” Johnny shakes his head. “I gotta protect ‘em, provide for ‘em. If I ain’t do it no one else will.”

In awe she smiles, looking over him with some newfound respect and admirable affection. His sense of dignity and loyalty to such morals would closely tie into her own, making the feelings in her stir. Perhaps she’d felt like the world had brought them together for that very reason, like the lord above had made him just for her, that this was fate, they were meant to be. It was that that excited her, made her eager to pursue and cater to his every need, do all that he asked of her and then some.

“I think that’s mighty fine of you, Johnny boy. You’s a real man.”

Thunderheads still cloud the sky when Rebecca shows up on the doorstep to Black Nancy’s home, a quaint blue house with a beautiful front garden abundant with flowers. It was there that Johnny would greet her with a neutral look in his eye and a half-assed kiss, ushering her into the loud foyer where the echoes of his family could be heard bickering with one another.

“Listen uh, there’s summin’ i aughtta tell you ‘fore you come in here meetin’ grandpa and the rest. You seen the brothers before, ‘lot of ‘em ain’t all there in the head. Can’t give too much into what they say, and as for grandpa well, you just be that charmin’ southern ‘gal I know you to be and it’ll be just fine.”

“You reckon I better introduce myself ‘gain? Ain’t wanna impede as rude.”

“You leave that to me.”

It’s with a boisterous smile she follows him, to the right of the foyer where the kitchen and dining table sit. Drayton and Nancy are muttering obscenities to one another under their breath as they prep the meal on the stove, the burners making the interior of the home warm and stuffy. Then at the table the rest of his peculiar family sits together, giggling and whispering to one another as they eagerly anticipate Johnny’s words. Nubbins sits on the far side next to what she can only assume is Bubba, now dressed in a navy blue pants suit adorned in a feminine mask that dons some messily accomplished makeup. And beside him a woman who she has never seen before, a frail girl with blue eyes and light hair tied back neatly. Her sharp features are striking and her little polka dotted dress rides up a little to high for Rebecca’s liking. Though she seems faintly familiar, her gestures something reminiscent of something Rebecca had seen before.

Then at the near side sat Hands, who looked just the same as the day prior, fidgeting with some gadget on the set dinner table. His grunts were easily drowned out in the noise of the kitchen, that and the scratchy groans of the elderly man in the rocking chair at the tables head. She presumed the crotchety looking old man had to be Johnny’s grandfather, or what was left of him, for he seemed partly diseased. His skin pale and puckery, void of any color or movement. Even his shrouded eyes looked partially lifeless, the only sign of life had been the faint rise and fall of his chest and the lewd sounds that fell from his open lips. Still she smiled, her housewife act overtaking her judgemental gaze with a pretty smile and persona.

“Grandpa I got someone here I’ve been waitin’ for you to meet.” Johnny’s voice calls the attention of everyone in the room, commanding their eyes with delighted silence. Even Drayton and Nancy take the cue to turn back round and watch the ordeal, as Johnny saunters over to his grandfather with his trophy as his side. “This is Rebecca Payne, her and I’ve gotten real close.”

“Now Johnny Sawyer I-” Nancy’s vicious tone is cut off by the gentle words of Rebecca, who frees her right hand from the pie she’d brought to extend it out to the wrinkly.

“Delighted to meet you sir, you done a real fine job with this young man.” Her charismatic charade is interrupted by the outburst of laughter that it earns from Drayton and the three at the far side of the table, one which goes on for some time and causes the smile to falter from her face and her hand to retract slightly. She can only look around clueless, then to Johnny whose look is soured rotten. He takes the pie from her, walking over to slam it against the kitchen counter.

As the laughter dies down Nancy speaks up once more, a fake grin of her own directed towards Rebecca’s presence.

“Real nice of you to join us girl, why ain’t you take a seat. Supper’s all most ready.”

“Thank you for havin’ me, miss,” Rebecca nods. “Anythin’ I can help y’all with? I don’t mind one bit.”

“No, no,” Nancy hums, now turned the opposite way. “You’re our guest now, sit.”

“If you insist. Thank you, miss.” Reluctantly Rebecca takes her seat, leaving the space between her and Hands for Johnny presumably, whose still cooling off from his families’ insult. One which she’d still found herself cautious of, and somewhat perturbed. She can only brush it off for the time being, playing the game until there was chance to open conversation.

Her cautious stare carefully removed itself from her Johnny and Nancy to across the table, where she is met with the wolf stare of the woman seated across from her. Once more she smiles, gesturing her head that way.

“Pleased to meet you, names Rebecca.” The girl beams with excitement, and despite her off putting stare smiles and nods her head.

“Well hello! Aren’t you just a doll. Wonder how Johnny managed to lure you in, he ain’t ever had any girl stick around long enough to eat dinner with us. You can call me Sissy.”

“Well,” Rebecca only laughs, the wheels turning in that brain of hers in an attempt to piece together the strange family dynamic between the ragtag group. Their words, their mannerisms, their behaviors, all of it seemed so surreal and artificial. “I’d ask myself the same, but he just real at takin’ care of me is all. Been real kind to me, believe it or not.”

“Hmm,” Sissy hums in response. “So where he been keepin’ you?”

The manners of which Sissy speaks in, as though Rebecca were a prisoner chained to Johnny’s beckon and call, one of his little whores, a victim, it’s a striking concept, one Becca can only brush off as misunderstanding. He must’ve not said much to them, for he hadn’t said much of his family to her either. Presumably for good reason, as they’d all seemed like backwoods hicks.

Still she’d respected them, or at least tolerated them. She cared not particularly what they were like, just that they take a liking to her. That she was impressive and obsolete, the finest young woman they’d ever like for their Johnny to be with. If they were to be family, she’d like to like them, too. So despite her charming smile and charisma, her intentions were not entirely shallow. She did care, about as much as Johnny cared about keeping up appearances with her own father.

“Dang nab it girl quit talkin’ nonsense.” Drayton chimes in.

“Your real pretty you know,” Sissy looks away from Drayton and back to Rebecca, her change in topic sudden. “With that long blonde hair.”

“Y-yeah, looks like one of them girls in the pictures!” Now Nubbins pipes up, rising from his seat whilst Bubba hums and rocks too and fro.

“Why like a movie star even, say, you sure you ain’t in any of those lewd films girl?” Nancy’s comment is laced in bitterness and spite, even the insinuation sparking Becca’s anger to pique in the pit of her stomach. Her face falls and her brows crook downward.

“Pardon me?” She’s nearly in disbelief, why would such a coy little bitch insinuate such a ludacris idea. “I’m no harlot, if that’s what you’s askin’.” She spits back with just as much spite and venom. Disguised by the innocent canter in her voice. “My daddy raised me right, I’d rather be caught dead then loose my morals miss, with all due respect.”

Two women, sat on either side of the room with maleficent gazes fueled by predation, leeching off one another’s acrimonious and defamatory clauses. Acting catty was below Rebecca, and she’d been sure to make a point of that. It’s in those moments though that it becomes clear something isn’t quite right, about this family of his, and his caustic mother. She makes a pointed stare to the woman, her eyes narrowing as she watched that bitch with purpose and strategy, trying to figure out just what it was was going on beneath these people’s facade.

“Right.” Nancy muses. “Johnny baby, why ain’t you come have a seat at the table.”

There’s some lull to the conversation then, even as Johnny sits beside she and Hands at the table. A piercing silence overcomes the home, seldom for the thunder that punctures through the evening sky, and the lightning that follows in quick sporadic flashes out the window. The approaching storm had been the only thing to fill that void, that is until Rebecca’s benevolent smile returns in a quick attempt to lighten the mood. She decidedly takes the high road, presenting niceties and focusing on her perfect persona in order to get in good with the others. The precious little housewife act was her saving grace, the sole thing she could fall back on in tests of true poise. And here was just that, handling the deplorable hosebeast of a woman Johnny dare called his mother.

“Say Nubbins, been leavin’ them traps alone for ya’, catch anythin’ good lately?”

“Oh yeah, real good. I-I got some pictures too uh, you wanna see?”

“Boy you ain’t showin’ pictures of no road kill at the table, put them damned things away.” Drayton huffs, not before he’s serving bowls of chili to each member of the table.

“Oh I don’t mind, really.” Becca replied.

“You ain’t no fun, cook, tch. I uh, I got my camera here instead I, I take real good pictures. Johnny’ll tell ya’, yeah, real good. You want one?” Nubbins’ response is met with some grave countenance from his elder sibling, followed by a slew of mumbles. Something about beating him upside the head after supper was had.

“That’s real kind of ya’.” She smiles. “I’d love to see yer pictures sometime, I’ll have to come by more often. I’m sure they’s lovely. Johnny ain’t tell me you was a photographer.”

“Oh yeah,” Nubbins grins, his crooked teeth muddied with brown bits of grime and decay. He brings the camera that had been hung around his neck up to his face. “H-here, smile!”

A soft chuckle falls from her pretty lips, and she smiles gently in time for the flash of his camera to go off. The photo prints, and he excitedly wraps the it up in some crinkled piece of tin foil.

“Sissy, is it? That dress of yours is real pretty, you make it ya’ self?”

“Oh, why thank you sug’! I did. Got a machine and everythin’. Say, you got a sewin’ machine at home?” Sissy asks, resting her sharp chin against her palm. “I love makin’ clothes, be nice to have another girl ‘round here who likes makin’ frilly things.”

“My momma taught me how to sew some time ago, still got her machine cooped up somewhere. Ain’t made nothin’ in a long while. I’m helpin’ daddy out in the fields when I’m not homemakin’, ‘spose I forgot what it was like to have a hobby.”

“That’s a shame.” Sissy sighs, “You can use mine, I think you’d find it real fun!”

“Oh a real shame,” Nancy hums. “The fields ain’t no place for a young lady, ain’t no wonder you got all them muscles. Why, someone might lookit you and think you’s a dyke.”

“I’m sorry?” It’s caught her off guard, and her flagrant stare moves to pierce the smug eyes of the woman across the room. Her sly, cuntish smile.

“Oh it’s just, a woman’s place is in the home. My Johnny needs a nice girl like me to take care of ‘em, be a homemaker, you understand.”

“Now ma’.” Johnny hushes.

The way her ugly voice and patronizing attitude digs into the skin irks Rebecca, and it takes every bit of self restraint to keep from lashing out at her like she had Johnny all that time ago. It’s clear then where his brutish behaviors came from, and it was no easy beast to feat. Collecting herself, keeping her composure, she inhales a sharp breath. Her vexation building and face becoming hot with upset. Johnny must’ve seen it too, for he placed a hand against her thigh in an attempt to keep her grounded. Something her fiery temper proved to be increasingly difficult.

“Well a home needs to be built, and it sure as hell ain’t built on sewin’ n’ cookin’ alone. Now if you’ll excuse me, may I use your washroom?” Rebecca, as poised as ever, calmly responds and rises from her seat.

Her gaze meets that despicable woman’s satanic smile, and then she feels rage.

“Go on ahead love, down the hall last door to your right.”

Hurdled over the white porcelain sink both hands grip either side of it, heaving shaky breaths from her parted lips whilst she glared at the reflection of a mangled, fragile mess in the mirror.

“Fucking bitch.” The growl leaves her mouth lowly, a sullen scowl formed over her once coming features. She has to bite her tongue to keep from letting it all go, battering that cunt’s head into the oak table over and over again until she was unrecognizable.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been in there, nor how long she’d left the water on the faucet running. Time then seemed irrelevant, for everything was sped up and slowed down all at once. As if the world around her was moving in slow motion and she one hundred miles per minute.

It’s when there’s a knock at the door she’s pulled back into reality. Feeling the flesh gripping cold glass and the sweat dripping down her hot face. Fuck. It’s happened again, and it was all that abomination of a women’s fault.

Quickly snapping her head towards the sound and turning the faucet off, the echoed sound of water down the drain fades and she calls out. “Yes?”

“It’s me.”

The lock clicks and the handle turns, opening the door laggardly to Johnny. He’s taken a lax position lent up against the door frame, eyes flicking up to meet hers as she watches from below through painted lashes.

Your mother’s a ungodly old crone and a reprehensible host.

He’d must’ve seen the putrid amount of revulsion in her, for he smiled and laughed. Fixing the strands of hair that had gone astray and stuck to her face, he pulls her chin beneath his fingertips.

“Why ain’t you come on back and join us, keep that beautiful head of ya’s screwed on straight a lil’ longer, aight darlin’?”

She’d realized then just what had happened, where she was and what was going on. His touch quells her vexation, and as a result she’s beaming with pride and delight. A vibrant pearlescent smile domineering her face as she eagerly nods.

“Oh yes, anythin’ for you dear.”

It’s the same veil she brings to the dinner table, reseating herself and making a point to lock eyes with each and everyone of them, saving the old hag for very last. Meeting her prideful smirk with a delightedly unsettling and toothy grin.

“You’ll all have to forgive me.” She pauses. “You’ll find I’m not myself when my dear momma is mentioned. Oh I miss her so dearly, now, where were we?”

Aside from the rocky beginnings of her introduction, the entirely of dinner remains lax and civil. Small talk is made between she, Sissy and Nubbins, with Bubba occasionally replying with an excited nod or some abhorrent sounds she couldn’t make out. Johnny tuned in from time to time, but hadn’t much to say, his focus was with Hands. When it wasn’t, it was on observing Rebecca’s every move and word. Drayton and Nancy would ask questions, and Rebecca would respond with a souringly sweet response. Meeting Nancy’s blatant attempts at ruffling her feathers further with the most idyllic and perfectly crafted answers she could muster. At some point, the brothers had fed the grandfather from an old bronzed bottle of what looked to be emulsified meat.

“Dinner was real nice, mister Drayton, that chili was the best I ever had.” Becca rises from her seat, collecting the tables polished dishes and silverware and taking them to the sink. “You’ll have to give me the recipe sometime.”

“Oh well,” Drayton laughs sheepishly, “there’s no secret, it’s all in the meat. We- I got uh, a real fine eye for prime meat.”

“I’ll have to repay the favor one day, oh, maybe we’ll have you folks over for Thanksgivin’, wouldn’t that be real nice?” She smiles, and takes the initiative to wash the dishes with her back turned to the group. When no one can see her, when her mien is hidden and shadowed with the dark of the night coming through the window does her visage fade, forming a demented and twisted face full of hate and lividity.

“Y-yeah! Real fun, huh Bubba?” Nubbins laughs, matching Bubba’s deep and disoriented giggles.

“It does sound just lovely, Johnny wouldn’t mind that one bit.” Sissy clasps her hands together.

“Well now, let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.” Nancy hums. “Becca, sweetie, don’t you worry ‘bout those dishes will ya’? I’ll take care of ‘em.”

“No, no,” Rebecca hums. “I’ve finished.” The faucet shuts off and she turns back round, her expression some odditied cross between the devil and and angel. Her chin tucked in and her brows screwed downward. Her eyes are half lidded as she looks to Nancy, an eery smile painted over the lower half of her grimace. “Please, my name is Rebecca, miss.” Without dropping her line of sight she retrieves the fresh cherry pie she’d made just before heading over, holding it with both palms.

“Say Rebecca,” Nancy muses, having her seat adjacent to grandpa. She dusts her hands off against the apron tied around her waist. “What ever did happen to that mother of your’s? I don’t recall your daddy mentionin’ nothin’.” A volitional look of scrutiny hides behind those glazed, cloudy eyes of hers. A narrowing state with a coy little smile. It’s ironic, in some ways she’s just like her son once was.

The mention stirred her, for the whirlwind of thoughts that swirl about shakes her up, hearkening back to the day she’d watched porcelain shatter over heads and bedside lamps cause blunt force trauma. The day she watched her mother and that dastardly boyfriend of hers scream at one another like wild animals, ripping eachother apart while they scrambled to protect themselves against their demise. The blood and the bits of flesh, the smell of iron and the tears.

“Oh, momma?” Rebecca looks ahead, stoic, pale, as though she’d just seen a ghost. “Well, she died just a little over a year ago now. We was livin’ back in Oklahoma when I found her.” Events of the past still bounce about in her head; walking through a bloodied and mutilated massacre. Her bare feet against soggy shag carpets, trudging through gallons of blood and brain matter. The house had been torn limb from limb, coaxed into a sanguine picture of the horror and macabre.

“She uh-,” she feels faint, blood rushing up to head and painting her face bright. And her ears, burning with anger and resentment, as she feels her body sway and begin to shake. Her eyes grow wider, just before they narrow and she looks down to her hands, seeing the blood pull in them and drip over her lap where the body lies. She clenches them, laughing madly in the mess of it all. Knelt onto the ground in the middle of a uxoricidal entanglement.

“She deserved it.” Rebecca smiles, in a frantic and awkward sort of way. Clenching her bloodied palms into fists and clasping them together. Then she laughs, shaking her head. She can no longer feel it, her limbs trembling and body swaying. Her head no longer spins, but her consciousness is quick to catch onto the hell she’s stuck herself in.

“I’ve brought a cherry pie, still warm from the oven. I’ll go ‘head and get you all a heapin’ slice, why don’t I?” She snaps around, hot tears pricking at the cusp of her eyelids. She had tried to be the bigger person, she truly had, but it was when wenches like her stooped so low she’d need to put a bitch like this in her place.

“Oh please, yer’ Johnny’s honored guest, let me take care of this.” Nancy rises from her seat.

“No, no. Sit.” Rebecca removed the dirtied knife from the counter, bits of raw meat and drippings still tainting it when she cuts into the pie. Once more she’s turned round, face cold and void of the sugary sweet she’d once presented. Into it, she cuts seven slivers, saving the eight chunk for the lead woman of the estranged family.

“Sit. Back. Down.” Rebecca warns once more, her voice now threatening, a warning of sorts. Nancy does not oblige, only pushes further.

“At the very least-”

“Sit down and do as your told, sweetie.” Rebecca’s body stirs in its place, the cut pie placed neatly in the palm she holds up near her head and the other at her side, tightly gripping the handle of that rusted knife.

It is met with astounding silence, and awed looks from all but Drayton and Nancy. Even grandpa, whose stare settled onto her with a faint groan. It does little to stop her, though. Rather, it fuels her incessant need to have her way, to prove herself to her Johnny, to not let bygones be bygones.

Her frightfully deviant expression says it all, too. Beady eyes wide and pupils shrunk, they stare a void into all. The twitchy, faded smile of a crazy greets her audience with a discomposing ambience.

“Excuse me, young lady?” Nancy’s fury struck the room like lightning to the great state of Texas. “I’d advise you to watch yer tone with me.”

She says nothing, instead, carefully carves out each sliver of pie with the muddied knife and cautiously places each helping onto the bare table in front of each character. She takes her serving on the knife, leaning over the table and tossing the large hunk of pie left in the tin to Nancy’s place at the table. It lands with a piercing sound, bouncing bits of cherry filling up to splatter over the flowery fabric of the woman’s dress.

Nancy is astounded, as is their table mates, watching between the two eagerly with worried thoughts. Her image is somewhere between animosity and shock, with Rebecca’s words and unsettling display digging the grave six feet under.

“Eat. It. Up.” Blazing blue orbs deadlocked on the crone’s on the opposing end of the table, it was only a matter of se ones before Nancy herself blew her top. But Becca can only laugh, finding amusement in the pissing contest she’s so gloriously won. I’m a celebratory fashion she pulls the knife up to her lips, licking up her share of sweet and red cherry pie off the knife.

“That’s it! I’ve had ‘bout enough of this, get the hell outta my house!”

Akin to a deer in headlights she froze, as though a bullet had shot right through her, rattled her to her core. In that moment she’d felt shame, failure, a slip that was not meant to happen. And for it, she loathed Nancy more than she ever had Johnny, more than she detested her own mother, more than any stupid boy that ticked her off.

“Get out! Out!” Nancy hollers, and if it hadn’t been for Rebecca’s father she’d of tried to kill her right then. “Johnny get this rotten lil’ brat out of the house!”

“No, no,” She vehemently shakes her head, as he approaches her with caution. “No!” She holds her hand out, those hot tears searing her cheeks as she squints.

“Darlin’, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“What?” Then there’s hurt, pure brokenness and helplessness. The break in her now softened voice gut wrenching to some, the rest of the family out of their seats as they watch in delight. The laughter of the boys drowns in the heap of her anguish, felt betrayed by the only one she’d known to be on her side.

The fight in her fades, when Johnny takes her arm to escort her out with not so much as a word. No, the moment he’d taken the side of his mother so hellbent on making her look bad. So she is a ghost, a shell of a woman who does as he pleases, following him when the world is moving around her in a still motion.

She turns her head to watch the loud scene of the family, rowdy and out of their seats and yelling over eachother in disarray. Some watch Johnny and how he has her by the arm, some seem timid, some bicker with one another, and she can only watch like an outsider looking in.

It isn’t until they’ve made it out to the drive way’s gate, down the windy gravel path through the garden, that she’s realized all that’s happen. When the pouring hot rain sizzles against her warm reddened skin and the lightning flashes across violently about the sky. The same burning tears still stung her eyes, and Johnny had begun to look over her with some mug, and she still felt the shame, regret, a forfeited sense of control. As the storm breaks out in unbridled chaos, with it, the fragments of calm that had been keeping her glued together all that time.

“Johnny?”

He only smiles, he can’t help but find the amusement in it all. Watching his mother get riled up about his choice in women and Rebecca’s intoxicatingly sweet bite back.

“Listen, darlin’, this ain’t personal. It’d be best if you’s went home.”

There it is, the sting she’d been looking for. Her body quakes with emotion, weakness, a hurt pride. Like she’d been fooled, just a pawn in his little game.

“How dare you.” Her voice low and broken, she looks to him from below through shrouded vision, blinded by tears and smudged makeup. “You told me I was special, not some stupid girl!” She screams, slamming her hands into his chest. “Do you have any idea how much of a fool I looked? A hoodlum? Huh?” She backs away from him, spinning around and throwing her head into her hands as she cries. Shaking fingers peel themselves away from her eyes, watching him through her tunnel vision. “I hate you!” She lashes out to him before collapsing to her knees in the dirt. “I hate you so fuckin’ much!” Between strangled sobs she screams into her shaking hands, watching him with his back turned to her whilst he makes his way back up the drive and into the house.

“So fuckin’ much.”

—

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭! - 𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

@yixxes @bdudette @nerdykat101 @kaymarnun @casually-in-love-with-madari

If you’d like to be added to this taglist for future chapters, please feel free to let me know!

[a3thernet]

By the Wings

Pairing: Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x afab f!reader / eventual Simon "Ghost" Riley x afab f!reader - LIGHT GHOAP down the road get on board people no use of Y/N

word count: 1.4k

CW for story and themes: pregnancy and all its trappings, canon spoilers for MW3, likely out of character shenanigans, long wait time between uploads, this is going somewhere.. maybe, angst, smut

part one

Sound, muffled and hazy, as if misremembered fills the air. Celia, your friend from spin class has pulled you to the pub on a Friday night.

“The place is always crawling with lookers.”

The selling point she always uses. Each conversation dancing around the nature of your singlehood poking a bruise still purpled, swollen and tender. You’d finally acquiesced to find that she wasn’t, in fact,  lying. The place was positively crawling with attractive men. You suddenly feel awkward and self conscious, the overconfident facade you’d assembled when dressing for the night seemingly left behind in the uber.

“I’ll just run to the restroom,” You mutter and Celia, already swept into a loud conversation with people she knows doesn’t even seem to hear you. You are pushed this way and that as you shuffle through the crowded space, it reeks of cigarettes and whiskey. You slip into the dark damp halfway leading to the gender neutral bathroom and stumbling backwards with an audible “oof” when you collide headfirst with a solid mass of muscle.

He’s caught you and his face seems caught between pissed and pleased upon further examination. 

Eyes like oceans.

You blink yourself awake and you lay settled beneath the massive comforter for an additional fifteen minutes, listening for the sound of the machine running downstairs and groaning at the smell of the brewing pot of caffeine. You close your lids tight once more, trying to will yourself back into the pub and let yourself drown in those eyes again. The effort is fruitless, the dream is gone and you’re late to log in. It’s an effort to haul yourself from your comfortable horizontal alignment and slide the chunky slippers onto your feet. A chirp and the thump of feet ascending stairs at a breakneck pace are the only warning you receive before your massive long haired feline is weaving between your ankles and curling the plume of his tail around your bare calf. 

“I know, you’ve never been fed a day in your life Marv,” You roll your eyes at the theatrics of the mouthy animal as he hounds your steps to the bathroom, leaping onto the countertop as you wash your face and knocking over your makeup brushes while you are incapacitated. You swat at him with closed eyes and sudsy hands, satisfied when the thump that tells you he’s taken your vaguely threatening hands seriously.

It’s a misty autumn morning, fog hovering above the grass of the garden like whorls of cotton candy. Fragments of sun reach the curved tips of verdant strands that glitter in the light. The coffee pot beeps to signal the ends of its cycle and the first sip, more cream than substance. Marv is finally settled high in the basket of his cat tree, contented low purring is the soundtrack for the morning.

You settle into the plush bench beside the bay window and flip open your laptop, sighing when you discover there was an update overnight. Enter the bitlocker, reconnect to the wifi, pull out your phone for the VPN token. 

60 unread messages

“I mean what the hell happened last night?” You grumble as you begin the process of sorting your inbox. 

Marv is scrambling from the tree and up the stairs to his safe haven beneath the guest bed. 

Odd. He isn’t a cat who startles easily, unless-

A knock at the front door.

A glance at the clock at the corner of your desktop tells you it’s only 6:10. Who the hell would be here this early?

You tug at the handle, the hinges whining before you receive the greeting.

Your name, in an unfamiliar voice.

The stranger at the door has a stern face, jaw and lips lined with wiry scruff and eyes the wrong shade of blue. His skin is sunken, pulled taut against his cheeks and hollow round his eye sockets. You stand there for a moment, peering through the opening of the door and watch him like a spooked animal, your robe drawn tightly across your body.

Something odd happens to your hearing when he says your name again, lilting upwards and you nod like an idiot and what you can only assume is a vacant stare.  There is a buzzing when he says “Captain John Price.” For a moment you swear all you can hear is your heartbeat, the thrum of blood in your ears. 

“Are you alright?”

“Bleedin’-  lass, you ken?”

No.

“I-I’m fine.” You reply, stilted - the voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.

“Can I come inside?”

You stare blankly at him for a few moments, the hairs prickling at the back of your neck when you stumble backward to open the door further. “Of course.”

His boots are still on when he steps past the mat. “Shoes off.” You’d tell him if your lips could form the words and “Can I get you a tea?” emerges instead, certain you appear some bumbling fool standing in the center of the room, suddenly confused in a space you’ve occupied for a year and a half, dressed in your robe and slippers.

Captain John Price looks enormous in the small living room of your flat, towering over the old hand-me -down china cabinet pressed tight to the wall, seemingly uncertain of where to settle the mass of himself. You gesture broadly at the loveseat adjacent to the larger sofa and scurry to the kitchen to rummage through the cabinet above the microwave for the electric kettle Celia brought with her on her first visit.

“Oh I don’t drink tea,” You’d told her, immediately shoving your foot in your mouth. 

Celia, never put off by your quick mouth, gives a wide grin in reply. “It’s not for you, bug.” Booping your nose with a condescending finger and dropping it on your counter. “It’s for me, and all your new friends.”

You grab a tea bag from the drawer beside the stove. 

“Are you local, Captain Price?” You ask from over your shoulder, desperate to escape the gnawing sense of dread currently clawing its way into your guts.

Perhaps it’s just a social call. 

You know better than that.

“No.”

Silence hangs in the air, thick with the anticipation of the drop. It’s like watching the clouds roll in from the sea, churning the waves and thrashing the shore with foam before the first low thrum of thunder makes its shuddering arrival. 

“I’m sorry to barge in like this, when you aren’t expecting company.”

“No, no,” You wave your hand as though to dismiss his concerns, the gesture translation more frantic than intended. “It’s no trouble. But.. how did you find me?”

He takes a sip from the cup as you watch - your eyes meeting over the glazed ceramic rim and there is something knowing there. You lean against the arm of the oversized leather couch across from him, too antsy to sit and too anxious for the real reason for the his arrival. You grip your now cooling mug with clammy hands. “How can I help you, Captain Price?”

The cup is set delicately onto the coaster of your side table with a click and the massive man leans forward  - elbows resting against knees, his fingers tented beneath the beard at his chin. “It’s about Johnny.”

There it is.

You heart is still in your chest and your head is swimming. 

“Where is he?” You croak from a mouth now vacant of any moisture. Suddenly the when and the why and the how of this call is forgotten. Your vision blurring along the peripheral and seeming to hone in on his every feature, the minute details - the furrow to his brow, the downturn of his mouth and . Captain John Price attempts to swallow, adams apple bobbing slowly as he tries to collect his words. 

“We lost him.”

“Lost?” 

As if there were any other use of the phrase.

“He didn’t make it. He was killed in the field.”

“Oh,” Is all you are able to phrase, it’s ineloquent, a gust of air - insufficient to convey the forest of thoughts and feelings you find yourself being drowned within. The mug in your grasp is held so tight the handle breaks loose from the whole in your fingers.

“He had you down as next of kin.”

That startles you more than anything else he could have said next. 

“What?” you choke, “Me? Why?”

Captain John Price looks wounded, having to say anything further, his cobalt gaze melting into something piteous when your palm moves almost instinctively to cradle the taut skin below your navel. The ceramic handle drops from your hand to thud against the rug.

There is little else to discuss.

[zeppeli-reelstallbun]

A Jury of One

<- previous - Chapter 1 - continue ->

navigate the full work on reelstallbun masterlist

[PAIRING] Gyro Zeppeli x Reader (She/Her AFAB)

[SUMMARY] Do you tell them? Should you explain why you kept your gender a secret? Did you even really need to? No… Gyro and Johnny had proven long ago they were your friends, you didn't need to keep this big of a secret from them for this long… but surely they have things they don’t tell you either.

It wasn’t the kind of thing you could decide in just a few minutes, but thanks to your tendency to ‘worry about things later,’ you were now worrying about it later.

YOU ARE NOW WORRYING ABOUT IT AT PRESENT

[WC] 3.4k

[!!!] Same as prologue + more smoking, alcohol, and language. Reader smokes a bit y’all (lets go substances!)

[AN] still doing blinkers for this part bc fuck it, why not combine the total (might regret this) nothing else to say, have fun folks.

The inn was small, rustic in a way that made you feel like you could curl up and fall asleep with a cozy book if you were visiting under different circumstances. The walls creaked with age, scent of wood and dried herbs lingering in the air, mixed with a faint trace of smoke from the hearth. Johnny was already inside, having made himself comfortable as he chatted to the innkeeper about rooms.

Though you didn't spot him at first, you could almost instantly feel Gyros presence behind you like a shadow that refused to be shaken off. You’d hoped for a few moments of alone time while Johnny got the lodging, maybe even a chance to unwind before facing Gyro, but there was no avoiding it. You could smell the faint aroma of liquor on him as the weight of his words echoed in your mind—We're gonna need to have a little chat, bella. Just us. The hairs on your neck stood up at the thought.

Johnny tossed a look over his shoulder, smiling his usual grin, but there was something in his eyes now. Like he was hiding something.

“Two rooms,” He announced over the murmur of patrons in the lobby, sliding the money over when the innkeeper gave him the keys. “One for me, one for these two.” He looked back at Gyro with a smile. “They only had two left, first come first serve.”

Your face dropped as he continued.

“Like Auggie said, figure I don't owe you that much since I didn’t actually steal first. Besides, I have to take the ground floor of course.” He gestured down to his legs, shit eating grin plastered ear to ear. “You gonna be okay without me?”

This. Bitch.

It's not like he knew exactly what he was doing, but still.

You glanced at Gyro, his eyes fixed on you and lips still stuck in that smug smile of his. “I think we’ll manage,” he said softly, voice carrying a note of something more intimate than the words suggested.

Again, Johnny didn't seem to notice; he grabbed his key and headed off without a second thought. It was then you exhaled a breath you didn't know you were holding, thankful for at least one stressor to leave the situation.

But, you should have known it wouldn’t last. The moment Johnny was out of sight, Gyro moved in, free hand gripping your wrist just light enough to feel like it was more a suggestion than a demand. He didn't yank you, didn’t force you, but the pressure was unmistakable. “You and I,” he started, voice low and deliberately calm, “are going to go to our room and talk now. Ok?” Something in his gaze was as unyielding as ever, but now it felt as though you were more vulnerable. You were trapped, even.

He didn’t wait for an answer. Hand still holding you, he led you up the stairs, wood creaking beneath your feet. The crowded murmurs of the inn seemed to swallow up the space around you as he guided you to the second floor, and you didn’t speak as he stopped at the door to your room.

It was dim inside, you noticed, only lit by the soft glow of the streetlamps creeping in from the window. The bed was made, though outrageously low to the ground, and your attention was caught by the curtains blowing gently in the breeze. It smelled faintly of dust, and it took everything in you not to sneeze at first. The air felt heavy for other reasons, however, and it was beginning to feel like it was something you couldn’t ignore.

Gyro stepped inside first, hand still lightly wrapped around your wrist as he pulled you in with him. The door closed with a soft thud, leaving you completely alone, the weight suffocating you.

Each beat of your heart was now pounding in your ears. “You might not be good at hiding things,” he began, dropping your wrist and turning away from you. “But I’m not the type to push too hard… not unless you make me.”

He was going back to the door. “So here’s the deal. You make up your mind while I get us dinner. Either leave, leave both of us right now or lock the door so I can’t come in and I’ll never utter a word… not to Johnny or another soul. But- just- don’t give me a reason to find another way to get the truth out of you.”

He paused, grabbing the door handle. “Or tell me what exactly you’ve been hiding and why, and I’ll let it go.”

You wanted to speak, wanted to say something to get him to return to the Gyro you knew three weeks prior… the Gyro who casually threw misogyny around like you were one of the guys. But it was too far beyond that now. You knew that.

Besides, he had shut the door before you even had time to process the thought.

——

You didn’t hesitate with your decision, you kept the door unlocked.

When Gyro returned, you couldn’t help but notice your mouth watering at the smell of the food in his hands. The look on his face suggested he was more amused than concerned, and his words confirmed that hypothesis. “Well you’re still here which means you decided talking was better than running-”

He set the plates down with a light thud, eyes drifting towards your body slumped upright on the bed, bandana still in place. He let out a light chuckle, leaning back against the doorframe.

“Y’know,” he started, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “it’s funny. You’ve been with us this long, but not once have you eaten in front of me and Johnny. Every meal? Alone.” His eyes glinted with the implied accusation. “I won't tell him until you want to, but you seriously didn't think you could hide it forever, did you?” He paused, narrowing his eyes while scratching his neck, and added, “I figured you were keeping something a while ago, but…” He trailed off, voice dropping lower, like he was still processing the realization.

You let out one final sigh, reaching up to untie the fabric that obscured your face and hair. It was as if everything you’d been holding unraveled in a single go, the charade finally coming to its end as the locks fell to your shoulders. Well… almost everything.

“Yeah? Well, I haven’t been able to fucking smoke in front of you either,” you snapped, voice dropping into a rougher tone you hadn’t heard from yourself in weeks. You sat up, pulling a cigar from the front pocket of your jacket. You couldn’t help the dry smirk that found itself on your lips as you leaned back into place, eyes locked with his expression of shock. “I know you just brought me dinner, but is it too much to ask for a light?”

Gyro froze for just a moment, eyes narrowing at the request. But then, it was as if his legs moved themselves, body unable to deny your request as he began to search through his pockets, taking a knee to meet your height at the bedside.

You could feel his gaze wandering as he idly searched for his matches, and you could practically see his face work through his own emotions on the subject. What surprised you the most, however, was the way his eyes were beginning to make your pulse spike. ‘This is real now,’ they were basically screaming to you, ‘there’s no changing the way I’ll look at you from this day on.’

He exhaled slowly as he brought his hands up to ignite your cigar, expression still a mix of disbelief and amusement. “I had a feeling for a while, you know,” he muttered under his breath, as if he were speaking something blasphemous.

“I know,” you reassured instantly before inhaling a long drag, taking care to blow the smoke away from his face.

It was still dangerously close to yours, after all. The bed you sat on—if you could even call it that—was ridiculously low to the ground. A futon, more than anything else. This was the reason Gyro had taken a knee beside you as he searched his person, you recognized. What you had just noticed, however, was the fact that he hadn’t moved from the bedside after lighting the match. In fact, he had fallen down onto the floor even further, now sitting back on both of his knees in front of you. His eyes studied you, like he was still looking for the truth.

You didn’t want to give him any more satisfaction. “What, are you disappointed?” you asked, breaking the silence and taking another puff of the cigar.

“No,” he whispered instantly, “just wouldn’t have guessed you were a smoker.”

His lopsided smile was back as soon as the words left his mouth. You couldn’t help but fall victim to the contagiousness of his charm, a similar grin sneaking to your cheeks unintentionally. You sat up in that moment, tossing your feet onto the floor in front of him so the two of you could speak face to face.

“Would you rather I had been lying the whole time?” You quipped as you leaned forward.

Silently, the man cocked his head. He narrowed his eyes at the cigar in between your fingers, sighing as he held out his hand. You scoffed as you extended it to him.

“How were you not lying the whole time?” He asked as he brought it to his lips.

You noticed he also practiced the courtesy of blowing smoke away from others, not that you were trying to pay attention to his habbits. You nervously scratched your forearm as you breathily replied, “well… you guys did just assume.”

“But you never corrected us-” he cut himself off with a grimace, “you went out of your way to appear like…that. Don’t fucking start with that excuse.”

You winced at the pause, at the careful phrasing. “Can you even blame me Gyro?” You snapped back, voice more tense than intended.

“No but-”

You cut him off. “But I should have told you?”

He didn’t quip again right away, which admittedly you might have done. Instead, Gyro let the silence sit for a moment, taking a slow breath with clenched fists. After what felt like an eternity, he simply replied, “You should have.”

He was calm, too calm. You needed to be careful, you realized. What could you even say in response to that? He was right, and you probably should have… if your gender was the only factor to consider. What excuse could you give other than the truth? Could you even tell him that? No. But you could use fragments of it.

“Gyro, when we met,” you started, taking a needed breath before continuing slowly, ”I didn't think we were gonna become… this… at first. Not just you, Johnny as well. We were traveling together by happenstance, and you didn’t even like me when I first tagged along. Johnny is more my friend, and I don’t think it's harsh to say that. You would have left me out dry if it weren't for that boy—I didn't think you needed to know.”

Yeah, you could have phrased that better.

“Fuck off,” he snapped at first, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. Another sigh, “I get it, I do. But there was a moment you realized you were staying. I can get not wanting to tell me,”

He cut himself off, but it was pointless. You knew how the sentence was going to end. ‘Why not tell Johnny?’

You tried to push the irritation in your voice aside, after all, you shouldn’t be upset with him. You thought carefully about what to say as he took another puff of the cigar. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to breach the subject for a while, Gyro. Did you ever think about that?”

You could have been kinder with your tone of voice—those last six words were admittedly a bit harsh.

“That's rich. Sure, I can pretend to buy that.” He understandably quipped back after exhaling with a roll of his eyes. “And if that is the case-”

You cut him off before he could continue, emotion taking over. “You think I haven’t noticed you noticing?”

“What?”

“I asked if you think you’ve been subtle about it, Zeppeli.” You tried to keep your tone calm, level headed, as if not to implode when he inevitably pushed for more.

“So what, you were just gonna keep dancing around it then? How long have you known?” He replied.

“I should be fucking asking you that, Gyro. God, how long have I just been making a fool out of myself?” You said, reaching your hand out to ask for your cigar back.

“That doesn’t matter and you know it.” He noted sternly, brushing his fingertips against yours as he returned the small roll of paper.

You closed your eyes as you brought it to your lips, but you hesitated, instead opting to explain yourself. “Doesn’t matter? You've been putting me through this crisis for weeks, Gyro. I just didn’t want to bring it up in case I was misreading things.”

“No? Don't try me with that bullshit. Why not just tell me?” He pleaded, voice getting tenser.

“Because no one can know!” You finally admited without realizing, “Im in the race under a pseudonym and its not your fucking business to ask why yet. I can’t-“ your breath hitched, tears beginning to form in your eyes as you recalled the reason for your anonymity. You weren't going to cry over this, not in front of him, so instead you indulged in another hit. If Gyro wanted to say something, he could say something.

But he didn’t. Not at first. Why did you tell him that? The phrasing implied that you would be open to him asking in the future. Did you do that on purpose? You exhaled, passing the cigar back before the man could ask for it. Once the smoke had cleared, you found the courage to look back at him, meeting his gaze. There was something else in his eyes now, you hoped it was a begrudging sense understanding.

“It doesn’t matter,” he started softly through gritted teeth, eyes shut, “but I’ve had a pretty good feeling since the Diego fiasco, before he took the eye, before we… you know… went reptilian. I’d still say much earlier than that though. I wasn’t certain until this afternoon.”

It was your turn to let the silence linger now, did he expect congratulations on his subpar detective work? Please let this be it, you thought, please don’t ask anything else.

“I shared something I didn’t want to. Now its your turn to return the favor.” Fuck.

“What else do you want me to say?” You snapped. “‘Good job on your observation skills, Gyro, I’ve been a girl this whole time?’ What, do you want a prize for figuring it out before Johnny did?” You knew you were just being defensive, but there wasn’t much controlling you to stop it.

The man in front of you just sighed, disappointed, “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

“Gyro,” You pleaded as he stood up, turning to walk away. Was this it? Was he going back to Johnny to explain the trio was now down a member?

He halted, turning for the table instead of the door. “Is August even your real name? In the race under a pseudonym, hm? So I assume not.” He grabbed the bottle of whiskey he’d purchased earlier, using his other hand to pick up the flask he’d tossed aside.

“Gyro,” you started again, getting ready to launch into some semblance of an explanation.

He cut you off this time, turning around to look down at you. “What I’m saying is… there’s more to this than you being a woman and you know it. How am I supposed to believe anything you’ve told us in the past month,” he took a step closer to you before looking at the bottle in his hand, “are you even old enough to drink this shit?”

‘You didn’t share something on par with what I could tell you.” This was all you could think to say.

“What?”

You sat up, going into an explanation, “What you said about sharing something you didn’t want to. That was something I deserved to know. You deserved to know my truth in the first place. We’re even now, as far as I’m concerned.”

A Grimace. Silence. He tossed the flask on the bed, dragging the table and stool over to you. “So, if I share something else, you’d be willing to tell me more?”

It was your turn to question his words. “What?”

“Trust is a two way street… and whatnot.” He said, shaking his head at himself as soon as he closed his mouth.

It must have been the way he said it, if not the way he reacted to it, you couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped through your lips. He smiled, taking a seat as he waited for your response.

You weren't ready for that yet, besides, you were enjoying the break in tension. “I’m old enough to drink, I didn’t lie about that. Are you young enough to pour?” You asked through your smile.

“Oh I’m not that much older than you, am I, regazza?” He said with a ‘tsk,’ opening the bottle of liquor while leaning forward.

You laughed, choosing not to respond as he slid the glass towards your extended hand. He pulled it back at the last second, however. “We need to lay some ground rules first. No?”

“Ground rules?” You questioned.

“Well for starters, how much of this do I feel comfortable keeping from Johnny?” He set the glass back, casually out of your reach.

“I wasn’t ready to tell you yet,” you started, babbling.

“Ah but you said it yourself,” Gyro cut you off, “he’s more of a friend than I am. You know you’d get a warmer reception if he were the one in this room right now.”

You said nothing, it was true.

“But you probably also knew he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut about it, especially not with me.”

You nodded. He wouldn’t.

“But still,” the man continued, “he’s my friend. So we do this under one condition.”

You sat back, willing to hear him out. “Which is?”

“You tell him by the next checkpoint.”

“By the end of the race.” You instantly retaliated.

He shook his head. “By the next two checkpoints.”

You scoffed, shaking your head at his stubbornness. “He wouldn’t even need to know if it weren't for you.”

“You probably would have told him weeks ago if it weren't for me.” He said instantly, softly, with a look in his eyes that made you feel… guilt?

You clenched your jaw, knowing that he wasn’t just spewing bullshit. You probably would have told him if Gyro weren't in the picture.

“Two checkpoints,” you agreed after a moment's silence, taking a breath to come to terms with Gyros logic, “I’ll tell him I’m a girl but nothing else. Anything else is sworn to secrecy. Those are my terms.”

He smiled as he nodded, silently agreeing, amused. “You never answered my question.”

What the fuck did he want now? “Be more specific.”

Another ‘tsk’ slipped through his teeth before he answered. “A secret for a secret. I'm being generous here, I have a feeling I deserve to know more, bugiardo.”

You rolled your eyes. “If you pass me my drink, fine. A secret for a secret, Gyro.”

He smirked, leaning on his elbows as he slid the glass towards you, smile growing wider as he reveled in the opportunity you’d created.

Squinting, he watched your face closely, as if getting ready to observe your reaction. With just four words, his usual dramatic timing, and a shit eating grin, it was his turn to subvert your expectations.

“That’s not my name.”

——————

Aaand yeah i already want to write more

Idk how many more dialogue buffers i can write, how do y’all do this

Critique welcome, still new to this whole thing after all !!

[aklxojjk]

The Restaurant’s Cashier

Waking up you knew that today was either going to be a nice and relaxing day or an anxious filled day. Every sunday you and your family visited a restaurant called Texas BBQ, where your family would take turns ordering for the whole table. Two Sundays ago was your mom, last Sunday was your brother, this Sunday it’s you. With a heavy sigh and a stretch you rose from the bed already stressing about the day ahead of you. It’s not that the cashier is mean or anything of the sort, you just had anxiety and having to memorize all your family’s orders plus having to speak up and not stutter when ordering was… hectic. You put slippers on and slipped into the bathroom, already dreading the thought of ordering food.

Gaming most of the morning away you realized that it was almost time to go to the restaurant and you had about 10 minutes to pick out an outfit, do your makeup, and put jewelry and shoes on.

“Wow, I’m just so prepared every time huh,” you said as you rushed towards your closet finding a nice comfortable pair of shorts and a long black shirt and began to change right there on the spot. Immediately after half putting the shirt on you stumbled over to your makeup stand, scattering some mascaras over your stand to find the perfect combo you always use.

‘my fucking god where is that shitty mascara at’ you though out loud for a second, eyes lighting up as you found the combo you always use. Something about this mascara made your lashes look 3 times bigger than they actually were.

“Hey, you ready?” your brother asked behind the door, respecting your privacy.

“Yeah just lemme finish my makeup and put my socks on,” you said with a raised voice knowing he could probably barely hear you from behind the door. You finished putting on your mascara and just added a bit of glitter under your eyes and some strawberry chapstick on your lips. You slipped your socks on as you opened the door, tripping over the frame.

"IM READY" you yelled, with your whole family yelling back "IM READYYYY" in response. Silly family things.

On the car ride there you tried not to mention that it was your turn to order because maybe that would make the other forget and it would ease your anxiety a bit.

“So mom wants the grilled fish with fries, I want the BBQ ribs with a side of uhm…fries i guess? dad wants popcorn chicken,” your brother said, not even looking at you, too busy admiring the usual roads you always take.

“popcorn chicken… you copying me?” you say looking at your dad with an eyebrow raised.

“I’m not really hungry so yea.”

you looked away already noticing the restaurant in the distance. It was super close to your house so the rides were always quick. you stepped outside, sighing your anxious feelings away hoping that maybe there was no line and the lady up front wouldn't ask a billion times for you to repeat yourself.

“I’ll go get the table” your mom said leading the way as the rest of your family followed close by.

‘Donald Trump if you can hear me… please save us’ is the only thought going through your head as you march down what seemed like an eternal pathway.

“Hi.” you greet the cashier; the same old woman as always.

“Hi darling! what can i get ya?” the old woman says happily, knowing you and your family always come to visit on Sundays.

“I would like a-” your eyes flickered between her and a worker in the back; he was staring you down with a pleasant smile as he continued to cook.

“uh 2 popcorn chickens and a… lord” you already forgot the order.

“Take your time now darling, there’s no one behind ya in line” the sweet old woman said laughing a bit, you glanced at the worker in the back again, noticing his eyes still lingering on you.

“Righttt okay, one grilled fish and one bbq ribs with a side of fries” you said with a smile, slightly shy from the man staring at you. He was definitely something.

“Alright that’ll be… $60.78” she said, turning the card machine towards you. You honestly didn’t even check if she got the order right. you just prayed she did as you couldn’t take anymore of the man’s eyes on you, seeing them trail up and down your body.

“I forgot the drinks…” you said giving her an anxious smile.

“Oh come on now sweetheart! you and your family come by every sunday, I already put it in,” the lady says with a smile as you shyly put the card in.

You couldn’t manage to form a reply as you looked up to see if the man was still staring. To your surprise he wasn’t, which made you think that maybe he didn't truly mean anything by it.

“Alright and would you like a receipt?” she asked and you nodded immediately, knowing that if you didn’t ask for one your dad might send you straight into the seventh layer of hell; he had a thing for receipts.

“Thank you ma’am,” you said as you grabbed your receipt nodding at her in a polite manner.

“You’re welcome sweetie, and next time just call me Nancy.” the old lady nodded back, turning around to give the order to the kitchen.

As you found your usual table— which was on the other side of the wall directly adjacent to the ordering counter— you and your family sat out of sight from the kitchen. you fidgeted with your fingers wondering if you got the order right and if she heard everything okay.

“Check if she got it right,” you said to your dad as he immediately started to check the receipt.

“Always in this damn restaurant!” he says with a bit of anger but not loud enough to warn the other customers and employees around.

He glanced at the receipt, “she put only one popcorn chicken. And she got 4 fountain drinks- you know your mom only drinks water,” he says rolling his eyes.

You let out a big sigh, rolling your eyes as you harshly picked up the receipt. You didn’t really care that she messed up. You felt a bit guilty since she was a bit old- not her fault she couldn’t really hear your low and anxious voice. You walked back to the front counter, looking at your receipt as you fidgeted with it.

“Hey ma’am this is wron-“ as you began to look up, you noticed that the woman is no longer there but that man from earlier is standing there.

He didn’t say anything, but just stared at you with a blank face.

“Oh my bad I thought you were the old lady.. uhm she got my order wrong.” you said, glancing from the receipt up to his eyes then down at the receipt again in an attempt to break eye contact.

“Tell me what she got wrong,” he said in a clear voice, trying to be heard over the sounds of the kitchen behind him.

“uhm it was 2 popcorn chickens and 3 fountain cups instead of 4. One drink was just water.” you made eye contact with him immediately feeling your cheeks lightly burn.

Honestly you had no thoughts in your head except two: this man is attractive and you couldn’t focus on anything else. You stared into his eyes as he was tapping away at the machine, fixing your order up. This was the only time you could examine his features without him catching you.

He was on the taller side and looked about close to your age with dark hair that was a bit on the longer side for a guy, but was clearly well maintained. His facial features were striking, which explained why you wanted to keep staring at him at every chance. He had a muscular build that was not initially noticeable due to his mundane work outfit, but that became apparent once you realized it was there.

“Eight dollars,” he said nonchalantly in his little southern accent after he was done fixing the order.

“Oh right,” you mumbled under your breath, taking your card out as you went to pay for the extra meal they originally forgot to put in.

“Here you go darling,” he said, handing you a new receipt.

You thanked the man and turned around, wanting to return to your table immediately.

“Hey hold on,” the man shouted as you turned back around and stood in front of him, “you forgot the other receipt.” This time he had a smile on his face as he handed you a third receipt.

“Ohh sorry,” you apologized for running off so quickly and grabbed the receipt, turning again to fill the water cup for your mother.

As you made your way back to your table you stopped by the soda machine to pour water into the cup. As you watched the water pour you realized, ‘wait two receipts?’

Just now realizing you received two receipts, you took the second receipt out of your pocket. “text me ;))” it read with a phone number under it.

“holy shit!” you said, realizing that he did actually mean something by it.

As you were reeling from this surprise, you felt your hand turn cold. ‘Oh shit!’ you yelled in your head as you looked down and saw the cup overflowing with cool water. You walked back to your table with a full cup of water and a now cold hand, placing it down in front of your mother.

“Did they fix it?” your father asked while staring up at the restaurant tv, watching some news headline about a recent murder in the area.

“Yeah, here’s the new receipt,” you handed over the receipt to him making sure to keep the one with that guy’s number in your pocket. “I’m so hungry,” you said, trying to distract yourself from the realization that you were probably blushing in front of him and didn’t even notice.

Soon your food arrived and you immediately showered your food in a bunch of different sauces.

“jesus…” your brother said, looking at your food as if he wasn’t doing the same thing.

You hummed as you were about to dig in. “It’s not going anywhere bro,” your brother added as he watched you stuff your mouth with chicken and fry goodness.

“I know,” you said with a bit of food still in your mouth.

You didn’t speak much as you usually preferred to just eat in peace instead of talk. As you were casually sipping your drink, you kept noticing the employees walking by and glancing at you. ‘Ah fuck no’ you thought, hating the feeling of being watched as you ate. You tried to brush it off, thinking that maybe they were just checking if you were done eating to snatch your plate away. But when you were actually done you noticed no waitress coming by to take your plate, that's when you noticed the big ass sign that said “leave plates on table” so you were not tripping and they were definitely looking at you weird. You shrugged it off because you couldn’t really do anything about the staring.

You pulled out your phone and airpods to listen to music while you waited for your family to finish eating. Then you remembered the phone number in your pocket and sneakily pulled out the other receipt. You looked at the paper now in your hands as you typed the number into your phone. “cute cashier guy” you typed in as his contact name since you didn't ask for his name nor did you look at his name tag.

With stomachs now full, you and your family stood up marching towards the door, stopping by the soda machine to get some more soda before returning home.

“How was y’all’s food?” The man from earlier stood next to you restocking the soda lids and straws as you refilled your cup.

“It was amazing as always,” your brother said pushing you to the side so he could get his drink refilled.

“That's always good to hear! Y’all have a good day now,” he said, staring directly into your eyes.

You gave him a nod as you mumbled a thank you and ran off to where your parents were holding the door open for you. You took the door from your dad’s grip and held it open for your brother as he was now carrying his soda and a bunch of sauce packs he found. You saw the man point to his name tag. “Johnny” it read. ‘That's actually not a bad name at all, it's definitely moanable’ you thought as you smiled and walked away, waving at johnny.

As you ran to catch up with your family— who had long since left you there holding the door open like an idiot— you kept thinking about his name.

“johnny…” you said in a low breathy voice just trying to see how his name felt on your tongue, simultaneously wondering how he would feel on your tongue. In your head this sounded normal but your facial expression was definitely cringing.

Opening the door, you slapped your tummy with a big sigh and turned to your brother, “that shit was good,” you said smiling knowing he was gonna say the same thing.

As your parents pulled out of the parking lot, you started to think more about that guy. He was very attractive. Handsome with some nice strong arms that could probably pick you up with ease… you would like that. You pondered away looking at the sky and getting lost in your thoughts until you heard the car stop and realized you were already home. ‘damn,’ you thought, ‘that was so fast.’ you hopped out of the car and walked inside immediately wanting to text him.

You stepped into your room, plopping down on the bed with your phone in hand as you drafted up a text to send him. After debating for a while, you decided to go with something simple and direct.

“Hey :)”

*

Some weeks had passed since you first texted him and your relationship with Johnny had grown. He would often text you during work.

Johnny

hey I’m getting off work soon

wanna hang with me?

hmm dunno I’m kinda tired

Johnny

I’ll pick you up and buy you some food

all of a sudden I’m dressed and ready to go 😝

Johnny

I’ll be there in 5 pretty girl ;)

Not only have you guys been flirting but you also got to know him more. He was adopted when he was little by Nancy, who treated him like her own son. He had plans for the future (and he wanted to make sure you were in it). You had now been to about 5 official dates with him, but truthfully you had been spending more time with him than your own family. Every day you would wake up, text him, and then go see him. Nancy had asked you so many times if you were dating but you kept telling her that you were not a couple.

*

A few nights after that you received a text from none other than your Johnny.

Johnny

you up?

yea what’s up?

Johnny

uhm i have a smalll tinyyy question

just say it johnny

Johnny

would you be my girlfriend?

I know i shouldn’t ask over the phone but i just wanted to get it out, I really like you.

You gasped at the sudden question. Yeah you expected this but still it was shocking.

yea

you tried to act very nonchalant

Johnny

okay then send me a picture of your face.

what for?

Johnny

oh come on honey just send me a damn picture already

tell me what forr

Johnny

I just wanna have something to look at…

while doing… what 😇

You were no saint, you knew what he was implying but you wanted to make him spit it out.

Johnny

you’ll find out.

just let me know when and I’ll pick ya up ;))

Panic settled into you, ‘oh my god…’ you quickly rushed to the closet looking for something pretty but not try-hard, maybe some shorts and a hoodie. gotta work for it you thought as you looked at the hoodie.

pick me up in 10

Johnny

straight to the point

I like it.

You didn’t have many sexy undergarments but at least you had a thong your friend bought you a while back.

“That’ll do” you said, putting your shorts over the thong and putting on the plain hoodie, no bra.

You were lucky you had just showered or else you could’ve missed the chance to finally stand on business. You just had to spray a little perfume and apply your scented lotion now. ‘hmm this smells just like strawberries’ you thought when you got a whiff of your arm while fixing your hair.

“am i fuck-ready or what,” you said while looking at the mirror, staring your body down. You kept staring and a bit of worry began to form in your eyes.

“Maybe I should put a shirt on,” you said, tugging at the ends of your hoodie strings.

Not another thought could enter your mind before your phone went off.

Johnny

I’m outside.

You felt a shiver go down your spine, it was time. You quickly exited your room and made your way out the front door, seeing his car pulled up in your driveway.

“Hi Johnny,” you wanted to seem totally relaxed and not nervous.

“Hi sweetheart,” he said in a low voice as you entered the car.

No other words were exchanged. He only turned to face the road and started the car. You quickly realized this was the way to his house, you had been there before a couple times.

“Wait your parents aren’t home right?” you asked a bit worried you would have to be quiet.

With an eyebrow quirk he turned to you. “Why would that matter?”

“Wait, are we not…” you started but got cut off.

“I’m just kidding honey, yea we are.” he said putting his palm up waiting for yours.

You slid your hand on top of his and he immediately closed his grip and brought it over to his side. You can feel his hand trace circles over yours, he seemed extra gentle today.

Letting go of your hand he exited the vehicle and you could see him go around the back making his way to your door. You felt a breeze and turned towards the car door.

“we’re here,” he said, holding the door open for you with a charming smile.

“yay” you replied in a sad tone. You couldn’t help a worried expression from creeping over your face.

You were finally here and now you had to actually follow him inside. When you made it inside his house you paused to take in the house, not particularly interested since you had already been here before.

“Just give me a sec,” he turned around to put his keys on the key holder then take his shoes off.

You followed suit then took the time to sit on one of those fancy looking high chairs he had around the kitchen bar.

“soo uhm what did you mean by that?” you stared at his back waiting for him to look at you.

“You know what I meant,” he said as he made his way over to you, looking you up and down as if he had been waiting for this moment.

It doesn’t take long for his hands to find their way under your shorts’ leg bands. You enjoyed the new feeling of warmth emitting from his rough hands.

“do I?” You did know what he meant but you just wanted to try and seem flirty.

He scoffed in response to that, rolling his eyes and removing his hands from your thighs.

“I was joking~ come on” you took his hand in yours and guided it back to your thighs, already missing the feeling of them.

“you play too much,” with a single quick move, he snatched you up in his arms, making your legs wrap around his waist.

“Johnny, wait-” was the only thing you managed to say before he started to kiss you, getting a taste of the chapstick and smelling the perfume you showered yourself with.

The lotion made your skin smooth and soft as he rubbed one hand on your leg and the other found its way under your hoodie to support your lower back

“been waiting for this-” he bit your lower lip, wanting more of you, “-for some time now.”

He didn’t move you over to his bedroom just yet, wanting to savor you more. The taste of strawberry made him want to lick his lips after he was done with you. At this point your body started heating up, feeling a heavy blush overtake your face and your eyes fluttered with lust. The heat emitting from your body and the fact that you were wearing a hoodie did not go together.

“It’s so hot in here,” you exclaimed, breaking the kiss to fan yourself with your hand.

“So let's take this hoodie off. It’s 80 degrees, what were you thinking?” He chuckled, setting you down again on the chair and hovering his hands over the waistband of your hoodie.

He wanted to tease you- to make sure you felt desperate for his touch. He took his time lifting your hoodie, observing your expressions to see if you were still comfortable.

“Why are you taking so long,” you pulled your hoodie over your head, setting it down on the chair next to you.

His eyes were staring at your now exposed body with eyebrows raised and a small ‘o’ shaped mouth.

“What?? what's wrong?” you glanced down to see what he was looking at and immediately realized what made him become so shocked: you had no bra on.

“So ya came prepared, huh?” he looked into your eyes, a smirk on his lips as he took a hold of your waist and pulled you off the chair and into him.

He wanted to take you right then and there but he knew that he couldn’t just yet. You tugged at his shirt wanting him to take it off and he received your message loud and clear, taking his shirt off and watching you stare at his abs.

His lips attacked yours once more earning him a muffled moan that vibrated against his lips, his hands now exploring your chest and bare abdomen.

“You feel so good,” he paused and whispered in your ear before diving back into kissing you, his hands squeezing your hips.

His strong arms wrapped around you once again, pressing you flat against his body as if to eliminate any space that could’ve possibly remained between you. He started to walk towards his bedroom, enraptured by the taste of strawberry on your lips.

He stumbled slightly as he made his way to his room while carrying you, hitting the walls and corners on the way there. Neither of you really cared to let go of each other to let him see the obstacles in his way. He set you down on the floor and turned you to face the bed, standing behind you towering over your shorter figure.

“I feel so bare…” you looked down at your feet feeling a bit vulnerable.

“You look beautiful,” he said, finding the crook of your neck and kissing it gently with hands snaking around your waist.

His hands ran across your skin, rising from your waist to your breasts and giving them a firm squeeze, reveling in the feeling of your soft skin.

“I don’t feel it..” you crossed your arms over his hands, feeling too exposed.

He brought his hands down from your breasts to hold your elbows, sliding them down to your sides.

“I’ll make ya feel it,” smirking against the skin of your neck he now used your hands— which were being held by him— to make you caress yourself.

Wanting you to feel yourself. Wanting you to feel how good you felt to him. How your skin felt soft and tender under his touch. He brought your fingers up to your mouth so you could suck on them. You parted your lips and did as he wanted, sucking on your them until they were decently wet.

“Does that feel good?” he moved your now wet fingers to your right nipple, making you swirl it and play with it.

He used your other hand to massage your left titty, which made you squeeze your eyes in satisfaction.

“Yeah… it does,” You whimpered in response, allowing yourself to be vulnerable in his presence and arching slightly at the feeling of his body pressed up against your own.

He let your hands go, encouraging you to keep playing with yourself without his help. He held your hair up, wanting to have more access to you and began leaving a trail of kisses that started at the back of your neck and went down to the middle of your back then to your sides where he left a love bite. Unzipping your shorts, he slowly slid them down, watching them fall off to reveal your thong.

“Who would've thought you owned a thong huh?” he smiled cheekily, now sliding his hands up your legs stopping at your hips.

He lowered himself, bathing your hips in kisses and gentle squeezes. His rough yet gentle handling fueling a fire in you. He didn’t speak for a while before he suddenly spun you around and pushed you to the edge of the bed.

“Johnny—” you yelped, a bit shocked as he pushed you rather harshly.

He placed a knee under your own and pushed it to the side, wanting to get a better view while his other leg was placed on the edge of the bed for support. He lowered his body to give you a quick peck before kneeling down. ‘A munch has got to eat I guess’ you thought, smiling down at him as you watched him kiss up your thighs, the feeling of his teeth scraping against your skin sending shivers up your spine.

“If you move I'll stop. I wanna take my time with you” he said, sliding your thong down and chucking it to the side.

“That’s not gonna be a problem,” you confidently replied.

He smirked up at you, knowing you wouldn't be able to hold still at all. He stroked the inside of your thighs with one hand while he drew his thumb gently along your slit with the other, making you shiver at the cool sensation of his fingers. He wanted to make sure you enjoyed this whole thing. He began tracing your clit in the slowest, faintest circles.

“That feels… nice. I like—” your sentence was cut short when you suddenly felt his thumb press more against your clit and his soft strokes became more prominent. You rolled your hips, trying to chase his hand.

“yeah, you like that doll?” you felt his smile against your skin as his kisses came dangerously close to your pussy.

He moved his hand from your clit down to your entrance sliding his fingers in and out of you, his mouth open as he watched you squirm at the slow pace while pondering if he should just give it to you straight.

“Why are you going so slow Johnny,” you said while straining your body to get him to speed up, which he happily obliged to.

He began pumping in and out of you while he sucked on your clit, sending pleasure straight to your core. You whimpered at his fast pace and that skilled tongue of his, arching as you combed your fingers through his hair with a sigh of relief. The slow pace was agonizing and this felt so much better. The tip of his tongue began rapidly pounding against your clit. The room was silent except for the occasional wet sounds and moans that emitted from you. You tried to close your legs due to a tightening feeling forming in your stomach, which made him immediately stop what he was doing.

“Why’d you stop johnny?” you huffed in frustration with a displeased look on your face, not wanting him to stop.

“I told you not to move darling. You have to listen to me,” He went back to that same slow, excruciating pace as he circled your clit with his other hand stretching you out slowly, “but if you beg I’ll make ya cum real quick. Would you like that baby?” his head was tilted and he was smiling at you; he knew you wanted it badly.

“tsk.. please johnny… can you please make me cum? I’m begging you,” you begged with pleading eyes.

He chuckled in response, “yes ma’am.”

He loved the way you begged and the way his name rolled off your tongue. He immediately dove back into your cunt eating you out like it was his last meal. He gripped your legs to prevent you from moving which you were thankful for.

“Fuckkk,” you dragged that word out with a whimper, feeling that familiar knot in your stomach.

You whispered his name like it was a prayer, your high slowly approaching as you squirmed. You reached up to cup your breast, throwing your head back in pleasure. Letting out a loud moan you stopped moving, feeling your release finally arrive. But Johnny kept going.

“Keep going pretty girl,” he helped you ride out your high with his fingers as he went up to kiss you passionately.

“you’re so good at this…” you huffed, out of breath from your orgasm.

“And we haven't even started yet,” he stood up, taking his belt off and unzipping his pants.

He gave his dick a quick pump before stroking your slit with it. You jumped at the feeling of it, your clit still sensitive. He rubbed his dick against your clit a few times before slowly inserting just the tip, both of you taking in a sharp inhale at the feeling.

“Fuck…” He purred lowly.

He wasn’t particularly big but he wasn't small either, he was the perfect size for someone who knew what he was doing. You put your arms on his broad shoulders as his arms held your lower thighs. He placed them on each of his sides, leaving marks on them from how tight he was gripping you. He took it slow— inch by agonizing inch— watching with his mouth agape at your cunt stretching itself out for him. The tightness forced him to stuff himself fully inside you. He took this time to find your hand and interlace his with yours, wanting you to feel more connected with him.

“You’re really tight baby, you holding up all good?” he whispers in your ear, kissing your cheek followed by your lips.

“y-yea just getting used to you I guess,” you mumbled, avoiding eye contact; you’d rather not look at him as he’s stuffing you like a thanksgiving turkey.

“Good,” he started to slowly move, making sure you could get used to him.

His hand slipped away from yours, finding its way to your clit again and rubbing circles on it. You let out a muffled whimper as he kept touching you but you quickly covered your mouth.

“It's okay, let me hear ya pretty moans now,” he said looking down at you, trying to speed up his pace now that you were comfortable under him.

You let yourself be heard but kept your hand over your mouth, hiding your face from your boyfriend.

“Why are you hiding now, you’re so pretty,” he moved your hair out of the way.

Instead of pulling your hand away you kept it there, not wanting him to see your face.

“What are you doing that for?” He said with an eyebrow quirked, his hands moved to grip your wrists, pulling them to your sides making you be seen by him, “there you are…” you had no choice but to be seen struggling under his grip.

“yea I wanna see you, wanna see your face,” he was inches away from your face, just watching the way you moaned and how your eyebrows moved.

“stop looking so hard-” you playfully push him away, using the hand that was covering your mouth to cup your tits again.

“But you look so pretty baby,” he said while pulling you by the legs so he could close any distance between you, needing to feel you as much as humanly possible.

You felt your stomach tighten and put one of your hands on his shoulder, looking for something to grab onto. You were ready to feel your orgasm again, remembering how good it felt the last time.

“uh-uh baby. I need to get some pleasure too,” he said, removing his hand from your clit and increasing the speed at which he was pumping into you.

You pulled him in and switched positions so that now you were on top, “then let me make you feel good,” you had been waiting to say that, smiling hard at him seeing his shocked face.

“Okay then make me feel good my little cowgirl.”

You weren’t a cowgirl but you were gonna ride him like one.

“What feels good to you?” At first you were just dragging yourself on him. It felt good to you but does he feel the same?

“Give it a little bounce princess,” he looked up at you with a smirk on his lips, enjoying the view of you rubbing yourself on him and finding it pleasurable.

“Like this?” you were clueless on what made him feel good but you were trying.

You bounce on him trying to give him any pleasure you could. You kept bouncing, feeling his dick hit that tender spot inside you. You were messy and that's exactly how he liked it.

“Mhm keep going,” he let out a low moan, encouraging you to keep bouncing on his dick, but as you do it, it slips out all of a sudden.

“oh sorry…” you were a bit awkward but you redeemed yourself when you wrapped your hand around his throbbing cock, moving your hand from base to tip then back and finally slipping it back inside with a yelp.

He didn’t say it but that was pretty hot, he wished you would take his dick more often in the future, wrapping your small hands around him and pumping him before entering you.

“Talk to me johnny I wanna know how you feel,” you pleaded with your eyes, genuinely just wanting to know if he was enjoying this.

“Shhh,” he hushed you as one of his hands moved to your left boob, giving it a squeeze and the other hand squeezed your ass.

He was definitely enjoying himself having you on top of him; titties bouncing, a flushed look on your face, and your eyes almost closed.

“Mmm fuck I’m close,” he said moving his hands to your hips now gripping them with force, making you bounce at the speed that he commanded. He was thrusting up into you now with a sloppy rhythm, longing for that feeling of release.

“Me too,” you moaned, taking one of your hands that were supporting you down to your clit and rubbing and scissoring rapidly trying to chase your own orgasm.

“You’re so greedy,” he chuckled, seeing you so desperately trying to play with yourself, he slapped your hand away and rubbed your clit for you.

You both began moaning loudly as your orgasms were rapidly approaching. He came first, thrusting himself deep into you trying to pump you full of his load. He watched intently as you kept riding him, rubbing your clit and making you come undone on top of him, mixing your fluids together.

“So this was your first time, right?” he said, pulling your limp body close to his and rubbing your back with him still inside you.

“yea…” you said, kinda embarrassed he knew immediately.

He had now touched you in places only he knew.

“It’s alright, you did really well. It doesn't matter to me if it was your first time or not. I’ll always prioritize you first. Always, my little cowgirl,” he said, using his hand to lift your face and give your lips— which were glossy from all the biting and licking— a kiss.

You felt so tired you didn't even notice him pushing you down on the bed and bringing some wipes to clean you up.

You began to grow sleepy, rolling to your side as you yearned for the perfect sleeping position. He watched you roll around before eventually settling in and falling asleep, and decided to give you one final kiss on the forehead to let you know that he was there for you while you slept.

[sinsofbeauty]

Red Stained Sunflower Pt.2

Fandom: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre Game

Pairing: Johnny Slaughter x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Use of Pet Names, Suggestive Nsfw content, Mentions of Kidnapping, Obsessive/Clingy Johnny, Jealous Johnny, Small mention of murder

Requested?: Yee

Overview: Looks like you bailed on the little invitation Johnny had asked of you. It wasn’t because you didn’t want to, you actually got quite intimidated. Though that doesn’t stop him from seeking you out and making his intentions clear

A/n: So many of you wanted this to be a series, so here it is!! This is part 2 of 3!

Please comment if you would like to be tagged for part three!!! Enjoy!

Minors DNI!!!!

Part 1 - Red Stained Sunflower

“Hey Daddy?” You asked your father with the turn of your head. “How long are we gonna be in town for?”

He took a quick glance over to you before shrugging, “Oh maybe an hour or two. Just meeting with some old friends.”

You nodded your head and moved to look out the window. “I was talking to Maria on the telephone, she wanted to see if I could stop by the roller rink.” You replied to his comment. “Hope you don’t mind if I take a little detour.”

You were supposed to accompany Johnny out to the fields last night, but you decided to remain home instead. Now you were making arrangements with friends as though you weren't worried about the entire situation. You felt terrible, but you also couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by the circumstances. Yes, Johnny was appealing, and his words would make you want to explode. But LORD! Johnny Slaughter was intimidating.

Your only concern on the trip into town with your father was the fact that you had essentially abandoned one of the Slaughter Brothers. How were you going to justify your absence because you were anxious? Private moments with him... Ugh!! You weren't sure how you would be able to face him after abandoning him in that way. Like, seriously. How were you going to explain to a man like him that the reason you didn't appear was because you're a virgin…?

Your heart was racing when you arrived to the roller rink. Even though you were still troubled by thoughts of Johnny, seeing the group at the rink's entrance helped you feel less concerned. Even if you weren't close to them, you had Maria there to keep you company, so it was well worth it to slip away from your father and his group of friends to spend time with your own. You immediately identified their faces. Connie, Julie, and Ana were all grinning and laughing as Leland and Sonny stood to the side. When Maria's eyes finally found you after searching, they completely lit up.

“Hey! Y/n over here!!” Her delighted voice echoed from across the street.

As you approach everyone, you wave and smile. They all appeared to be happy to see you, which gave you a strange feeling. Can't hold yourself to blame, though; you haven't been able to leave the house much because you've been so cooped up inside helping your father with his work.

“Hey guys!” You say, greeting them happily.

“Y/n! I’m so glad you could make it!” Maria gave you a nice warm hug in return. “You remember Ana don’t you? We brought a couple friends along if you don’t mind!”

“Oh no of course not! It’ll be fun!” You shrug your shoulders, waving your arm to brush off any doubt about more people. “Let’s go inside, yeah?”

Some of the group had their own skates, while others had to rent them when they entered the rink. Since you didn’t own any skates, you obtained a pair that fit you and sat down. Though you found yourself stuck tying and untying your shoelaces. Simply said, they weren't secure enough, and you didn't intend to break an ankle today. Before you notice someone roll over, you sigh and wipe your sweaty palms on your jeans.

“Need some help?”

In his sky blue shirt and navy blue jeans, which were fastened by a brown belt, Leland stood in front of you. The skates he had rented took the place of his shoes, and he was able to move around in them with ease. He was on the wrestling team in high school, and you somewhat recognized him from there. He also hung around with this little group of people. He was really kind to say the least, tall, strong, and fairly attractive for a young man his age.

Your eyes look up at the man who you nodded at with a smile. “Please, I’m having trouble tying them tight enough.”

The Texan smirks and bends down, taking one of your feet and pulling at the strings. “Let me know if it’s too tight, okay?” You nodded once more at his voice as he started tying your skates. Before moving on to the next, he questioned as to whether or not they felt snug enough for you. You felt good about it, and he was very considerate in making the gesture. “Alright, how do they feel?” He asked standing up.

As you rise up, you circle your feet before nodding your head in appreciation. “Perfect. Better than I could ever do. Thank you, Leland.”

His eyes squint when he gives a genuine smile, a gesture to your thankful remark. “Anytime. Say, I don’t see ya’ around here often. Do ya’… know how to skate?”

Oh dear God, you can't recall the last time you entered that rink. You probably haven't done it in months, and you weren't doing it frequently to begin with. You chuckle nervously while rubbing your hands together behind your back. “Uh… kinda? It’s been a while.” You admit to him. “I’m not the best skater but it’ll come back! I just get nervous when other people go fast past me.”

Just standing there made your legs feel like jello. You tried to move closer to Leland but all you did was sway back and forth. He chuckled at this, the male moving forward to grab your shoulders and prevent you from toppling. “I can teach ya’, practice makes perfect.”

“Says the one who was in the wrestling team.” You roll your eyes at him, making the man laugh in response. “I’d be on the ground more times than you’d like.”

“Hey! I’m a good teacher! We can go nice and slow at first, and you’ll still have a great time… in the rink, I mean. That sounded so weird…”

You giggled at his words, making his cheeks dust a soft pink. He was such a dork… cute.

“Come on guys! We’ve been waiting!” Exclaims Julie from the rink, making you and Leland look over.

“We’re coming,” You said, shifting past Leland with your wobbly legs as you made your way over. “I’m trying not to die. You guys are much more experienced at this.”

You almost went over with just one foot on that surface, but once you were stable, everything was good. Leland swiftly followed after you as you joined the others with a sigh of relief. Getting acclimated to the people and the surroundings took some time. You were still unable to go as quickly as Julie or Maria, who frequently sped by you.

“I’m gonna go around a couple times. Think you can handle it on ya’ own?” Leland asks, that genuine smile making you give one in return.

“For now. Go ahead, I’ll catch up eventually.”

After hearing your response, he quickly speeds away while teasing Maria and Julie about catching up. You chuckle, enjoying how this afternoon will play out. It was lovely to see everyone enjoying themselves. Being outside of the house felt wonderful. The gang laughed and joked as they skated around the rink. Leland was always there to catch you even if you were a little awkward and nearly fell a few times. He gave you a comforting smile as you both laughed despite how embarrassing it was. The group stopped to acquire some food after some time spent skating. Even though your heart was still beating from all the excitement, you were happy that you and your friends were having such a good time.

After a few hours, everyone departed the rink exhausted but content. You said your goodbyes and thanked them for an amazing time. You were relieved that you had chosen to go out with them as opposed to staying home or being barraged by your father’s older friends who wanted to talk to you.

“Hey Y/n,” Leland had said, catching you before you left. “I was wondering, I usually come around here at this time of day. Did you… wanna skate with me next week?”

You thought about it, and it didn’t hurt to meet some new people around. Even though he was closer with Maria, maybe a new group of people would be nice to hang around with. “Sure. Are you busy next Friday?”

“Great! Uhm… No, that should be fine. I’ll see ya’ then?”

You nodded your head, grinning as you left, feeling satisfied with the events of the day as you made your way back to meet with your father.

——

After a long, productive day, you were just finishing your shower at home. You check that your hair isn't excessively dripping before stepping out of the restroom while you're wrapped in a towel. No one was awake to bother you this late in the evening since your father was asleep. Your room was upstairs, turning left down the hall and another left past the bathroom across from it. Your father was immediately up the stairs to the right of the hall in his own room.

You entered your room and turned to lock the door behind you before turning on the lights. Despite the events earlier, your mind still wandered to Johnny. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. Once more, you were unable to remove him from your head. Another day without communication meant that you would have to make an effort to avoid having to give an explanation. You sigh and close your eyes before turning to head for your dresser. In spite of this, as soon as you open them, you jump and cover your mouth to stifle the surprised sound that escapes from you.

“Johnny!” Looking at the man who was idly sitting on your bed fiddling with his hair, you blurted out. Your heart was pounding furiously. What the hell was he doing here? How did he get in here? What is he doing here??? He just sat in the dark, waiting for you to come in like… like a weirdo!! “The fuck are you doing? Why are you in my room?!”

His clothing caught your attention because it was a little different from what he typically wore. He appeared to have just taken a shower because his hair was moist and combed back. His navy blue jeans were fastened to his hips by a brown belt, and his dark gray long sleeve shirt was rolled to the dips of his arms just above his elbows. He wore his worn-out boots, without gloves to protect his calloused hands, and grinned endlessly.

“Should really keep that back window locked. So much easier than havin’ ta’ lock pick my way in at night.” He spoke quietly, as if he knew your father was in the room next to him. Low, as if he knew what trouble sneaking in here could get him into. “Ya’ don’t look happy ta’ see me sweetpea. Did I do something~?”

“Well for one, you’re in my room… uninvited.” You drew closer to the man who was lounging on your bed, your brows furrowed at him, your nose flared. “And I’m in a towel…naked! What if I started changing because I didn’t know you were here??”

Your face instantly turned red as his smile grew larger. He wasn't even required to respond to the question. You snort before turning around and returning to your door to lock it. The worst-case scenario would be your father interrupting you two. Yes, you were a grown woman, but technically speaking, sneaking someone into the house would not look so inviting. Especially if it was the Slaughter boy.

“Jesus… just— why are you here?” You ask, turning back to the man who you didn’t realize stood in those moments you were turned around. He appeared... distracted. It seemed as though he was thinking about or bothered by something.

“Oh me? I jus’ wanted ta’ see ya’!” He said with the slight wave of his hands. “I wanted ta’ know whatchu were doin’, cause… obviously, it wasn’t me.”

“Yeah about that…” You trailed off, looking at the floor for a moment. It was… a nice floor. Maybe staring at it would help you think about how to tell him without feeling like a total idiot. “I just got… a little nervous.”

You looked up at the man as he surprised you with a chuckle. His facial expressions were unpredictable. He appears disturbed one second, then happy the next. Even just looking at him made you feel conflicted. Your hands were holding onto the towel that was about to fall down your body as he started to approach you. “Nervous hm? About what?”

You sighed as you cast a glimpse his way and fiddled with the towel covering your body. “I don’t know how to explain…”

“Come on now, ya’ don’t have ta’ be scared ‘round me,” Johnny gave reassurance while smiling oddly relaxed. Observing the shit-eating grin that emerged on his face, you gave him a little glare. “Okay maybe a lil’ bit~. But come on, it can’t be that bad!”

He makes you huff and shrug your shoulders in response. Why did talking about this seem so embarrassing? It was Johnny… In any case, he didn't have much to say about it. Right? You grumble, your mouth twitching slightly as your nose flares once more. “I didn’t come because… I was nervous about being a virgin.”

The last few words were mumbled, but it appears like Johnny heard them right away. At that instant, Johnny's lips curled into a wicked grin, which his hand moved to conceal right away. You shivered, a chill running up your spine at the laugh that burst forth from his throat seconds later. “That’s the reason? Cause, nobody’s taken yer lil’ cherry yet~?”

“It’s not funny!” You exclaim slapping his bicep, only to obtain another silly laugh from him. “It’s a sensitive thing! I have a right to be anxious about it!! Especially if… those intentions were indicated.”

“Oh honeybee, ya’ think I’d feel any different?” Johnny said with the shrug of his shoulders. “I mean— I’m a lil’ surprised! A pretty girl like you? I would’ve expected it to be long gone by now.”

“Well it’s not so you can stop teasing me about it,” You pout, crossing your arms with the shake of your head.

At that very time, Johnny was getting closer to you and dipping his head slightly. His eyebrows dropped, his gaze became unreadable, and his hands, which fiddled with his belt, twitched in anticipation as his voice abruptly shifted to a low tone. “How cute, and ta’ think, I’ll be the one takin’ it from ya’~.”

“Eh- You-…” You turned in defeat as the sentence that attempted to form failed miserably. You scowl and head to your dresser to look for something to wear. “God I hate you sometimes. I can just imagine how much it would hurt.”

Johnny smirked as he approached from behind you and gently grabbed your shoulders. “Oh I won’t hurtcha, much.” He replied. “I’ll go nice and slow for ya’ darlin’.”

“I doubt that,” Smiling, you respond before shutting the dresser door and turning to face Johnny. His eagerness was evident from the little shudder of his shoulders as his hands were now in his pockets. “You’re thinking about it too much.”

“Maybe I am~.” He says, slyly smiling while momentarily averting his gaze. “Ya’ know I can’t help myself doll. Even now, just lookin’ at ya’ makes me excited.”

You rolled your eyes after moving around him to your bed, placing your clothes on it with a soft pat. “I’m in a towel with nothing under it, of course you’re excited.” You say sarcastically.

“Well, ya’ did look good earlier today,” Johnny stated, making you freeze in place. He had a menacing smirk on his face when you turned to face him.

“You were in town today?”

“Jus’ happened ta’ be,” Responded Johnny with a shrug. “Saw ya’ walkin’ ta’ that lil’ roller rink on the side of town with ya’ lil’ friends.”

“Yeah, I had planned to go out with them that morning.” You spoke to him, fiddling with the towel.

Johnny moved a few steps closer to you while humming and tilting his head. “Oh I know! Ya’ looked like ya’ had fun, especially with pretty boy touchin’ up all on ya’.”

As much as how he seemed, his vocal tone also appeared to shift. He appeared agitated, as far as you could tell. You didn’t even have to mention Leland, he had been watching you that whole time. The encounters you had with the other young adult in question. He absolutely despised it. Just having the idea of how furious he would have been as Leland assisted you in any way he could. Was he… no, he couldn’t be.

“So, you’re telling me that you followed me and watched me with my friends today?”

The man's mouth twisted in annoyance as he let out a little giggle. “Curiosity got the best o’ me, I will admit.” Johnny said, his half lidded eyes looking away. He clenched his jaw and pursed his lips before turning to face you.

“Well, we’re just friends if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Sure– I mean, I have no problem with it! I mean if ‘e touches ya’ again,” Johnny lets out a laugh. “He never will, let’s jus’ leave it at that.”

“Oh? Is that so?” You ask with a smirk. “And to think, Johnny Slaughter is jealous of another man.”

“Jealous?! AHA– I’m not jealous!” He makes an effort to justify his obsessive tendencies, but it simply serves to highlight it. His eyes widen, “I jus’ didn’t like how ‘e was feelin’ up on ya’, how’s that bein’ jealous?!”

“You’re getting all defensive.”

“When??”

“Right now?”

“I’m jus’ sayin’ I’m not!”

You couldn't help laughing, which made the man snarl. It was cute how obvious he made it. Observing his vulnerable side manifest itself in this way due to someone else? Johnny's jealousy wasn't anything you anticipated. He was a man who frequently showed little regard for the actions or words of others. However, it was a different story when it came to you. He seems a little uneasy when his family would speak to you. The man appeared to be extremely possessive of anything he so claimed as his.

“Come on now, you don’t have to be scared around me,” You spoke.

Johnny's cheeks had turned a delicate shade of pink. He rolled his eyes at your remark and scoffed while shaking his head. “I ain’t scared sunshine,” He replied with his smile coming back. “If I was, I wouldn’t have snuck into ya’ house.” Your eyes widened in shock as the man grabbed your arm and drew you up against him. “I wouldn’t tell ya’ righ’ now, that yer my girl.”

“You don’t have me just yet.”

“Oh, I don’t?” Johnny lifts your chin and lowers his face to meet yours only a few inches away. “But ya’ want me, no? Jus’ lookin’ at those eyes ya’ want me.” Your eyelids flutter closed as he rubs his nose against yours. He was well aware of the fact that he had you. “I’ll treat ya’ like a princess darlin’, I’ll spoil ya’ so rotten that ya’ can’t get enough of me. Cause I want ya’, I need ya’.”

If this was a way for Johnny to swoon you over, he sure was doing it. However, you were curious to see how much further he would swing. He draws back his head and lets go of your chin as you open your eyes in order to tuck a hair behind your ear.

“You should tell me more.”

“Really?” Johnny says as his brows begin to converge. When he senses your seriousness, he smirks and lets out a tiny chuckle. “I’d kill for ya’, I’d die for ya’, I’m sooo head over heels.”

You smile, shaking your head. “You’re so funny.”

“Amused?” He hums, making you giggle in response. In return, pleased by the remark, Johnny snorts. “Needy lil’ thing aren’t cha’? Makin’ me all soft.”

“I thought you were excited.”

“Cheeky lil’ brat ya’ are darlin’,” Johnny scoffs. “If I wasn’t I wouldn’t be so damn close! Y’know– I wouldn’t be talkin’ fa’ someone who’s so red in the face.”

“You’re just as flustered as me,” You roll your eyes. “You should’ve seen your face when you got all jelly~.”

“Eh– I wasn’t–... sh-shut up.”

“Make me~.”

Johnny's eyes appeared to be playing cat and mouse with you. As if it wasn’t the third or fourth time he licked his lips this evening. His teeth were exposed in a ferocious smile, giving him an almost feral appearance. “Oh I could– but actually, it probably wouldn’t shut ya’ up sweetheart.” He takes your hips, making you softly gasp. “You’d be loud– no you’d be screamin’ honey. I’d make sure of that– oh I’d make sure, the only thing on your mind is me~.”

Johnny made a sound of interest as you placed your hands on his chest. The excitement he felt then was much greater. The way his hands drew you in his direction and the way they tightly grabbed your hips caught you off guard. Once more lowering his head, Johnny first brushes his cheek against yours before moving his lips toward your ear. His hands shifted, reaching your waist.

“Is that what ya’ wanted ta’ hear? How I’ll make sure those legs of ya’s are shakin’ when I fuck ya’ good? Hm? How I’ll make ya’ cum, over, and over on my cock? I can only imagine.” Your body tenses up in response to his comments, and he grins as a result. “Feelin’ ya’ squirm under me. That cute lil’ pussy clenchin’ so tight you’ll make my head spin. Ohhh darlin’, I wanna feel ya’ nails diggin’ in my back as I take ya’. Inch. By. Inch~.”

A subtle sound came from you. Considering that it was subconscious, you weren't sure if it was a whimper or a moan. Your thighs drove together as you made an effort to hide the sudden jolts that surged up through your abdomen. He... really did have a way with words.

“Awwwe~. Are ya’ gettin’ excited now?” Johnny had moved his head away from yours, taking one good look at your reddened face. His tongue ran over the top row of his teeth as he took one good look at your body. The rise and fall of your chest, your gaze struggling to meet his, and the mere sight of your thighs clamping together. Heh. How could he not notice? “It looks like ya’ are.”

You were startled, or perhaps more accurately, flustered. In that instant, Johnny made you feel just how you'd imagined when you'd read about getting hot and bothered in books. You were completely in shock as you stared at the man with your mouth open and nothing coming out of it. How could you respond to that? Could you… even respond? Observing his every move while remaining motionless, nothing came out of your lips, not a single word.

“Gotta question for ya’ doll,” He said, glancing at the wall for a moment. “Don’t have ta’ be shy now, I know what ya’ want. How about ya’ come down ta’ the fields like we planned, yeah?”

You swallowed thickly, seeing as he removed himself from you entirely. What a damn tease. “Tomorrow?”

“Preferably,” Responded Johnny. “Or ya’ plans with pretty boy can go bye bye next Friday, and ya’ can spend it with me instead.”

“You're still on that?” You say with a raised brow. “How do you even know we made plans?”

He growled and clicked the roof of his mouth with his tongue, his eyes moving away from you. “I heard ya’.”

“Heard me? Or you were eavesdropping?”

You and Johnny exchanged looks, and that glare gave you all you needed to know. Let’s be real, it’s a little odd knowing that he had been spying on you, but seeing him jealous was like seeing a spoiled little boy now getting what he wanted.

Johnny’s eyes fluttered closed with a sigh, crossing his arms in defeat. “Y’know— you… I— yer really gettin’ on my nerves!”

“Good,” You say with a small smile. “And I’ll think about coming tomorrow.”

“Oh there’s no thinkin’ honeybee,” Johnny said with a mischievous smile. “I’ll make sure yer there, I’ll steal ya’ if I need ta’— hell! If it means I need ta’ kidnap ya’.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Maybe if ya’ wait long enough, you’ll find out~.”

Part 3 is up!! >>> RSSF PT.3

@optimsluv @chernayawidow @yixxes @marriedtoeddie

[gloomwitchwrites]

thinking about the 141 when you get nipple piercings and they can’t touch your nipples for four months

For clarity, I do not have my nipples pierced. Don't ever plan on it, but we can imagine that we did and what the guys think. I did do a little research, and I saw a wide variety of healing times, so instead of four months, I kept any mention of the healing process vague. The concept is the same though. I had a lot of fun with this one y'all. Enjoy it. :)

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Presented in four double drabbles.

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, brief dirty talk, suggestive themes, swearing, fade to black

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

"You're not putting a shirt on."

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re at home. And I want to see them.”

“I’m putting a shirt on,”

John is quick, snatching the shirt out of your grasp. You start to protest, but John tosses it onto the highest shelf in the closet.

“You’re childish.” You gesture at the rest of the shirts on hangers. “And I have other shirts!”

John shrugs. “I’ll hide them all.”

"I fucking swear, John."

"Or tear them all up."

You smack his chest but John only chuckles. He’s having a go at you. A laugh.

"If I can't touch them, then I bloody well better be able to see them."

"You're ridiculous."

John carefully caresses a nearby path of skin near the piercing. "You got them for me," he purrs. "And I want to see them on display at all times." His hand settles on your waist, drawing you in. He leans in, lips lightly pressed to your ear. “Especially when my head is between your legs.”

Heat rapidly warms your neck, heading for your cheeks. John notices your sudden flustered demeanor.

“That sound good to you, love?”

You nod, and John guides you to the bed.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

"I can't touch them?" asks Kyle, sounding disappointed.

"Nope."

"Not at all?”

“Eventually. But not right now.”

Kyle frowns at your chest, his gaze on the shiny metal. "Do they hurt?"

You wince slightly. "Mostly sore. The pain killers help."

Kyle nods and then glances up at your face. "How do you care for them?"

You rattle off a list of things and then hand him the paper the piercer gave you. Kyle takes it, looking it over as you go over everything, repeating it verbatim.

The small frown on his face turns into an upward smirk. "I can help with this,” he says, voice almost sultry.

"You can," you say slowly, taking the paper and placing it on the counter.

"So I can touch them. If I help.”

"Not in the way you're thinking, Kyle," you scold, knowing exactly where his mind is drifting off to.

"But I still get to touch them?"

"Only to help me,” you correct. “Not for any other reason.”

He sighs, voice a little breathy as he speaks to himself. “I can wait to suck on those gorgeous nipples.”

“Kyle Garrick! I heard that!”

He snags the paper off the counter, hiding his grin.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“You’re having a laugh.”

“Am I?”

"I can't touch them?"

"Nope."

"Not even a little bit?"

"No, Johnny. Not even a little bit."

Johnny lays on his side facing you with one elbow propped under him. He rests his head in his hand. Johnny’s gaze is locked on to your bare chest and the new metal there. The piercings are only a few days old, and they’re fucking sore.

"They're sensitive right now," you continue, wincing slightly when you move, adjusting the way you recline on the bed.

"Aye. I see," he murmurs, leaning closer, gaze narrowing as he focuses on your new piercings. The middle of his brow creases as if he's intensely considering something.

"What is it?" you ask. "You look very serious."

Johnny's gaze doesn't leave your chest. "I'm thinking about all the ways I'm going to play with those beauties."

Heat rushes to your face. “Be fucking for real right now.”

His mouth morphs into a sly smile. Johnny’s gaze shifts from your chest to your face. “Need a distraction?”

“What are you on about?”

Johnny shifts, forcing your legs open as he slots between them. “A distraction,” he purrs. “From your soreness. And my thoughts.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon stands behind you, watching you in the bathroom mirror from over your shoulder.

"Do you need help?" he asks, gaze unmoving.

"I'm fine, Simon."

He is quiet a moment before he speaks again. "I can’t touch them?"

"Not for a month. Possibly more. Healing is different for everyone."

You hear his annoyed grunt but his gaze doesn't leave you. It remains firmly planted on your newly pierced nipples.

"How sensitive are you?" he asks, taking a tiny step closer. Simon’s hand rests on your waist as you gently clean around the piercing.

"I’m sore. Nothing terrible."

Simon's head dips, lips pressing to your neck as his arms drape around you. "I can't touch them." It’s not a question, more like he’s speaking to himself.

"Nope,” you murmur.

Simon’s sigh has a hint of a growl in it. "Just means I'll have to give extra attention to everything else." His hands descend, and you bite back a groan as he touches you.

Simon's lips press to your ear. "I'll give you attention everywhere.” One hand comes up to trace a line near the piercing. “Except here.” His hand drops away, returns to between your legs. “You’ll be begging for me.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@ferns-fics @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus

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@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @certainlygay @greeniegreengreen

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor au

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part 8: Nobody’s Son, Nobody’s Daughter

You hate how weak you are, sometimes.

That a text can ruin your whole day.

>> Hey. I hope you’re doing well. I miss hearing from you.

You’re fuming. Absolutely fuming. In under fifteen seconds you’re on your feet, face hot and heart pounding as you stomp across the old wooden floor.

“I’ll be right back.” You grunt to Johnny and Kyle, ignoring their wide, confused eyes and fast walking past them and out the back door.

The sun is up for longer now, only just beginning to set. It’s hot and hard to breathe, which only makes you more pissed off. Your skin prickles and blood rushes in your ears. You hate the way your hands shake. Your boot connects with the dumpster hard. It hurts, but you’re too pissed to really care. You just need it out of your system - the metal sending a ringing, gong-like sound bouncing around the back alley as you repeatedly slam your foot into it.

How dare he?

Miss hearing from you? YOU?

He ignores you for your whole childhood and teenage years - didn’t even try - and he misses hearing from you!? Couldn’t ever remember your age or grade when you did see him and he hopes your doing well!? Blew you off for his other kids for years and he fucking misses you!

How the hell did he even get your new number? Your mom, probably. The traitor. Fuck.

“Think that bin’s ‘ad enough, bird.” Simons voice startles you. He glances down at the dent you somehow managed to make. Your foot throbs when you put it back on the ground, shifting your weight onto the other one. One of your toes is bleeding, you think. You hand feel it soaking into your sock.

You look away, face hot from embarrassment now. “Didn’t know anyone was out here…”

Simon takes you in for a moment. Usually you don’t mind it - his intense silences - but right now it feels like being dissected. Like he’s pulling your skin back to reveal that squirming, tar-like creature aways simmering just a layer beneath. The pathetic little worm you try so hard to cover with a functional facade.

“Smoke?” He tilts the pack toward you. You wrinkle your nose - it’s a shit brand - but at the moment you wouldn’t care if it was made of actual shit as long as it had nicotine.

You pick one out and plop down on the weird curb that lines the opposite side of the alley. Simon sits beside you, raising his lighter toward you cupping his hand around the little flame to light your cigarette. It’s intimate, in a way, and if you had the emotional elasticity for it you might have blushed.

“Wanna talk about it?” He asks after a few drags.

You shrug. “Dads suck.”

Simon hums. “That they do.”

“It’s just like-“ You make an exasperated sound and run your fingers through your hair. “Like if you’re not around for fuckin’ twenty years, you don’t get to act upset when I don’t want to talk ever. Just because now I’m the one that set the boundary. It’s stupid. It’s mean.”

Simon nods along as you ramble, your voice trailing off eventually. You both sit there quietly, for a moment. This is the type of silence that you don’t mind. Enjoy, even. Just existing together. At first you thought he hated you, or just didn’t like much of anybody, but you’ve come to theorize that he’s the same as you. That he gets stuck in his head, too. It’s nice, having someone to sit with without the need to entertain them. To preform.

Your lip quivers even as you attempt to stop it by sinking your teeth in. A killing blow. It doesn’t work. You bury your face in your hands. “I don’t know why I’m crying…”

“Because you’re hurt.” Simon bluntly replies. It’s soft, though. As soft as a voice like his can be.

“He doesn’t deserve it.” You sob, messily wiping at your eyes. Your eyeshadow is probably smudged to hell now but you can’t bring yourself to care. Hopefully the others don’t ask about it.

An arm wraps around you, tucking you close. The surprise of it almost knocks you out of your crying fit entirely. Simon isn’t touchy. With anyone. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps his eyes forward while he takes a long drag, but that arm remains around your shaking shoulders with you pressed to his side.

It’s quiet, as it usually is when you close up with just Simon. The others took off for the night. Johnny said something about a date before dragging Kyle off arm in arm. They must have set up some kind of double date for the evening. John’s last appointment had to reschedule so he knocked off early as well. It’s nice, really, to be alone in the shop with Simon. He lowers the music, helps you with sweeping and the trash. Tells you the newest joke from wherever the hell he gets them. Popsicles, you think, based on his sweet tooth and the quality of pun.

“C’mon. We’re takin’ a field trip.” Simon tilts his head toward the street past the turn to your apartment. He still insists on walking you home, even if the sky is still relatively bright.

You look up, frowning. “Where?”

“You’ll see.”

You follow him down the quiet street. It’s warm and muggy as you go. You keep glancing up at Simon, waiting for some sort of tell. Some hint at where he’s leading you. In the back of your mind, you become innately aware that Simon is probably the only man you’d follow this blindly.

You nearly knock into him when Simon comes to a sudden stop. “Here.”

You look up, squinting at the tacky sign in what you can only describe as “intense manly man” font. Bold, blocky letters in bright orange with faux cracks scattered through the letters.

TANTRUM TANK

A mixture of stunned and curious leaves you quietly following Simon in. You press the spot between your brows to dissipate the confused frown. The lobby is pretty basic with a few decorations that mimic the style of the sign. Cracked facades and black walls. The room is lined with plastic chairs and a couple safety posters reminding patrons not to hit each other with the bats. A large television screen flashes between images of people in hazmat suits smashing various garbage and debris, pausing on a menu of times and prices.

“Simon!” A man appears behind the counter, face bright. “Here for your usual hour?”

Simon steps up to the counter, nodding in your direction. “Actually, I’ve got a plus one.”

The man’s brows raise and he looks you over, giving you ashort, polite greeting. You nod and smile back, pretending like you know why you’re here at all. You just watch as Simon briefly chats with the clerk who obviously knows him well. He’s a regular here, then. He doesn’t give anything away, just makes some brief, perfunctory small talk before taking a key and waving you after him. Why’d he bring you here, of all people?

Your heart skips at the thought of Simon wanting to do something with you, though. He brought you here because he wants to hang out - in his own way. He must do this with the other boys, too. Maybe one of them bailed on him or something. Part of you wonders if he didn’t want to come alone, but that doesn’t sound like him. Plus, you can’t say that its’ at all out of character for him to decide something and just do it with no other communication. You also can’t say you mind much. Not with him.

“You come here with the others a lot?” You ask as you follow him back to the room.

“No.”

You frown. Oh.

The two of you lapse into silence as you put your things away into designated lockers. There’s a sort of interim room before the actual rage room with storage and a few stacks of protective gear in various sizes. Simon’s quick about it. Practiced. He slips on the protective plastic suit quickly while you grunt and struggle with unfolding it. Your hair crinkles with static as you finally get the mass of plastic unfurled and step into it. Of course the one that fits you around is too damn long. At least the gloves fit.

“Simon?” You murmur, finally finding your voice - as weak as it comes out. “Why’d you bring me here?”

He looks you over for a moment with that same steady gaze as before. You’ve never felt seen like you do with Simon. Even with the others… they don’t see to the core of you like he does. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Some pathetic little part of you left over from your misunderstood teenage years.

“I ’ad a pretty shite father.” Simon says as he zips up his suit. “Taught me a lot of anger. I didn’t- I don’t want to be like ‘im. Don’t want people t’be scared…”

You stare, wide eyed, frozen in place. As if any movement would disrupt this new found honesty - would frighten the man away from confiding in you. It’s sudden and far more than you’ve gotten out of him in the months you’ve known each other. It’s too special to risk.

“Sometimes you’ve got t’get it out of your system. Better than breaking your foot on a skip.” He snorts, stepping forward and carefully pushing a pair of safety glasses over your eyes. One hand runs over your hair just for the briefest moment; another lightly pats your cheek before he turns on his heel, grabbing one of the bats hanging on the wall and making for the door.

You stare after him, shell shocked by both the admission and uncharacteristic physical touch. You involuntarily reach up to trace your fingertips over the cheek he touched.

Don’t want people to be scared…

A part of you breaks in the back of your mind. The obvious, unsaid ‘of me’ sits heavily on your tongue. Some distant image of what he might have looked like as a child. Small and blonde with those big dark eyes… You gulp down a tight breath and follow after him, just a little too close to crying at the implication.

Simon gestures toward a crooked, half broken office desk. “Ladies first.”

And oh, if that first swing wasn’t the best release you’ve had in a long, long time.

A/N: Sorry for being inactive the past couple weeks, I could literally write a novel with how much as happened irl🙃

Anyhoo next part y’all are getting lots of Price because that homecoming skin has got me fucked up

[sh4rkkks]

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 ♒︎ series

simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader

chapters-

chapter 1- the grudge

chapter 2- bullet wounds and messy bandages

chapter 3- they were teammates

*more chapter name releases soon*