#fic ��� jigsaws

[moondirti]

jigsaws

— surgeon! simon riley x resident! reader

angst. anxiety. panic attacks. neurosurgical procedures. medical setting. mean simon. d/s undertones. 3.3k wc

There's a reason no one likes working with him.

Tough. Censorious, or hard to please – whispered wearily by nurses with permanent distaste etched into their crow's feet. He scathes anyone not accustomed to his abrasive exterior; a talus pile of whetted rocks, poised to flay you open should you take the plunge so confidently. Rubs your skin raw, brutally worms his way into your flesh, infamously bars rescue, allowing only saltwater to cradle your open wounds in the aftermath. Nothing about his criticism is comforting, not in the way an attending's support should be.

It sounds inflated. Excessive. Your intern year, you let the horror stories float you by as though they were nothing more than dust motes in an old room. To be expected, no? Hospital's are brutal for even the briefest of visitors, let alone a man who's worked here twenty years. In hindsight, you see that it's a type of discredit only the very fortunate can claim; inaugural residents and medical directors, those who do not have to deal with the virulent terror himself. You know better, now. Really.

Still, it feels as though you're being punished.

The air in the operating room is heavy. Clotted by a thick sense of unease. It's never like this, usually. Though the smell of burnt bone, blood, and remnant antiseptic is always a force to be reckoned with, you've gotten very good at shunning your nose for favour of your other senses. To tune into the vital monitor's beep, or the distinctions between this lump of amorphous tissue versus that lump of amorphous tissue. Reinterpreting them based on the plans you revised while scrubbing up, focused fingers around delicate tools prodding. Cutting.

Reliable perception is fine work. You've honed your personal ability the best you could.

The first lesson Dr. Riley teaches you, and rather gratuitously at that, is it takes just one person to throw it off kilter.

There's an impossible itch right where your mask hooks over your ears, latched nastily onto your scalp. Nothing you can address physically (sterility before comfort), though you're aware that its source isn't so easy as to scratch away. Figurative, then. An unwavering neg, pointed by a pair of cold eyes in your periphery. You're tempted to look up, throw off his stare with one of your own, but you think he wants you distracted.

So, you shift your weight and centre the electrocautery to another portion of abnormal growth. It comes apart like stale bread.

You haven't felt this micromanaged since medical school, when professors would loom over your shoulder and mark the clumsy way you sutured incisions shut. But where your grade had been on the line then, it's a person's life now. You seem to be the only one privy to that fact, or perhaps the one surgeon who cares.

Because Dr. Riley watches you over his wire-rimmed specs, grunting ambiguously under his breath like you can't hear him standing just a foot away. Maddening in that it's quiet, idle. To question it would be putting the burden of critique on yourself. To let it continue–

Sweat pools beneath your collar. The spotlights don't help, either, heat lamps on your roasting nerves, highlighting the wet sheen of your temple to whoever cares enough to notice (just him). Focus feels a vain pursuit, attention zeroing in and out of control. You're caught in the violent dance, swept away, water beneath your feet, between the operation and everything else. Everything else, like the ground that suddenly pushes too hard beneath you. The walls, stretching further and further away. There'd be nothing to catch you should you fall – a possibility that gains traction by the second, your vision spotting with exhaustion.

You almost lose it before a flash of green reels you back in.

It's instinctual. Entrenched response to a colour that only ever means one thing. Looking up at the neuronavigation, you watch as the silhouette of your apparatus veers dangerously close to the patient's motor cortex, highlighted in nausea-inducing neon for maximum visibility. Dr. Riley's presence darkens the space next to the screen, a point of singularity that consumes anything within its event horizon. Though it's the last thing you want to do, you coast a hesitant look over to him.

A surgical gown is meant to be ill-fitting. You find he fills the fabric in a manner antithetical to that design, shoulders stretching it tight across his neck, tree-trunk arms drawing tense pleats around his joints. Even his cap, wrapped smoothly around his forehead, ripples with every shift of his brow. Doubled-up gloves warped to the contours of his hands, thick fingers and knuckles. You watch the way they twitch, distorting the latex like a swift fish underwater, and swallow the stone lodged in your throat.

"I can't read your mind, Doctor." Your attending snaps when you take too long to elaborate. His voice is rough, a sucking chest wound in the sterile air of the OR – too raw, natural in a way these halls don't see. You squirm uncomfortably in the force majeure. "What's the hold up?"

"Um-" You pull away from the glioblastoma, your patient's head remaining tightly in place by a positioning frame. "I'm concerned about resecting this part. It's all wound up in healthy tissue, right up against the motor cortex. A wrong move could cause permanent damage."

Dr. Riley doesn't move. Instead, his blank stare flicks down to the surgical site, digesting the truth for himself. The anesthesiologist beside you holds her breath. You wish you had it in you to do the same, but your lungs already wheeze for oxygen as it is.

Somewhere, dim and timid in the recesses of your mind, it occurs to you that this isn't normal. No attending should actively foster an environment where help is punished, especially not while being paid a hefty salary to do exactly that. A dour attitude is one thing – everyone has their days – but you know nurses with greater burdens that boast smiles and little stickers on their ID badges, running on three hours sleep while dealing with bedpans and lewd comments all day. Your search for guidance, then, is certainly not the worst thing in the world.

(No matter how stern the look he gives you is.)

"You need to make a decision. Hesitation in the OR can be just as fatal."

Great load of good that does.

But it was to be expected. Pre-op, you sat down with him to discuss the acceptable margins, and got as much out of that conversation as you did this one. Review the imaging. You've been given the functional mapping for a reason. Never mind that it was standard procedure to check-in regardless; he handles you like you're a child playing dress-up, waving around tools too complex for your grubby hands to operate. Asking him anything is validating what he believes, like kindling wood into a roaring fire. Your mouth smacks to the taste of ash.

The discoloured mass growing off your patient's brain seems to glare back at you. Ugly, yellow, and stained in a coating of blood, severed from its sisters that now lay dead on an adjacent table. It kills you to let it stick, to progress to hemostasis with an increased risk of recurrence. Should this individual ever come in again, their pain would be on your hands – a real possibility you cannot reckon with, for all you know how devastating a toll it would have. The last time it happened, you promised yourself you would never allow it again.

(A mistake that even the greenest of medical students know not to make. Promises are null in this field. They'll blow out like bad tattoos, ink smudged under skin. Patients die, families grieve, doctor's bear the guilt – to fool anyone about it would be doing a greater disservice. Conciliation is not your job. It is not a duty you owe.

Not even to yourself.)

"I… I think we should stop here to avoid any potential issues." You resolve, lips pursed painfully tight. Your hands shake, bullet of emotion ricocheting within your ribs. Your nerves are shot, you tell yourself. It'll take time to compose them, time you don't have. Better to shelf this, then. You're doing the right thing by wrapping it neatly for another day, if that day should ever come.

Dr. Riley huffs.

Or, not.

"CUSA," He clips to the scrub nurse, who shakes as they place the tool into his impatient hand. It's all you can do to watch in horror as your attending commandeers your case, addressing the portion of concern with offensive expertise. The activity on the neuronavigation doesn't so much as blink as he emulsifies the target tissue, tumored cells dissociating from the surrounding matter like butter.

And it isn't a learning opportunity – hardly anything at all when he washes the area in saline solution, manoeuvre over as quickly as it started. Instead, your attention sticks to the casual disrespect he felt was necessary. Snubbing your insight like it was dirt beneath his shoes, too competent to even address your error with words. Humiliation rips like a wave up your neck, washing your ears and cheeks in balmy warmth. Underneath it all, settled like wet sand on the shore, you find that it is not your bruised ego that's left, but rather a wilder, darker thing.

Shame at having failed him.

(How obnoxiously redundant.)

"Think you can manage the duraplasty, Doctor?" Derision distorts his expression into something crueller than his usual indifference. You hate to think it suits him.

"Yes."

It's only an hour later that you're granted the chance to break down.

After wound closure, scrubbing out and postoperative discussions with the patient's family, you think you'd have moved on. Things like this happen – it's what necessitates post-graduate training in the first place – and you're certainly not irredeemable for having faltered on the line. At least, that's what the logic delineates. It mutters its assurances like dogma in your head, insisting that because it is rational, it is right. Any other day, you would be inclined to listen to it.

But that's the thing about being strung out beyond measure. The only sentiment with teeth, sharp and stubborn, is anguish. Indignity. Self-turned anger. You replay the scene like something new will come of it, a silver lining or a divot to pin the blame in anything but yourself. The scalp staples back into place, the dressings wrapped tight. The hibiclens soap lathers up to your elbows, your skin itchy as it dries. The family is thankful, little tears dotting their eyes. The storm passes, waters rippling into quiet calm. And still–

In the wake of it all, you're irrevocably changed. Raw.

There's a little closet for occasions like these. You're relieved to find it empty, void of anything but rusted buckets and mildewed mops. It's a welcome crowd, certainly, borderline claustrophobic compared to the wide floors of the OR, and you sink to the floors within the tight, comforting embrace. Immediately, hot tears spring to your eyes, rabbit heart racing along hollowed ribs. Emotion rushes your throat, tumultuous and messy, piling half-formed grievances on top of one another until they form an intricate, prodigious beast.

Impossible to tackle, worse to tame.

Could you have done anything different?

Is there a reason why he hates you?

Are you cut out for this?

Is this worth never getting a good night's rest?

Do you deserve any of the opportunities you've been given?

Would they be better off in the hands of someone more competent?

No answer claims any. Unresolved, they wriggle underneath your flesh, feeding on the muscle keeping you intact. Tunnelling through your marrow, soft matter fattening them up. You feel as though you're shifting to accommodate them, anatomy morphing into an ugly sack of dermis and maggots. True reflection of a degraded conceit.

The dark, at least, remains omnipresent. Clean against your skin, or purifying, in some odd way. If there is no witness to your misery, then perhaps you can pretend it doesn't exist. That it doesn't affect you as much as it does, or how you won't be thinking of it during every case to come–

A knock rattles you out of your reasoning.

"Hey." Kyle's voice is soft on the other side of the door.

You make your best effort to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, warbling a quiet come in to your chief resident. Fluorescent light intercedes on your little sanctum, spotlighting your crumpled frame. The pitying grimace that twists his face is enough indication that you did not do a good job at hiding your affliction. You must look pathetic.

"We missed you at lunch."

"Wasn't hungry." You sniff, taking his hand to pull yourself up.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse than you could've prepared me for."

He snickers. It alleviates some of the weight off your chest, this. Conversation to remind yourself that there is more to the world than your angst.

(Only some.)

"It'll get easier, I promise. He's harsher on the juniors."

"I think that's not for you to say. Tell me, has there ever been a superior who didn't absolutely adore you?" Your voice sobers to a close resemblance of Laswell's. "Good work on the diagnosis, Dr. Garrick. I'll admit, I wouldn't have caught that myself."

The man in question lightly shoves your arm, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Okay, hush. I get it. Still–"

"You don't have to do this, you know." You smile until it gets too much to sustain, then turn to gather your white coat from behind the front desk. The note of positivity his companionship brings is fickle. Appreciated, but not enough to balm the sore blisters of Dr. Riley's rebuff. That'll take the weekend, likely, holed up in your room with nothing but a cuppa and old How I Met Your Mother reruns. "I'm fine, really. I'd rather just continue about my rounds and forget he exists."

But Kyle sighs. Sighs, and bites his cheek in that same way he does when he has to deliver bad news to intakes.

You blanch. "Don't–"

"He came looking for you in the mess hall. Something about the report." The unsteady composure you've built within yourself immediately dissipates, as though it were nothing more than an absorbable stitch. "You know better than to skip out on post-op briefs."

Your voice is weak when you speak again. Breathless. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you, darl. But he wants to see you in his office, now." Kyle's face is sympathetic. It doesn't do you much good. "I'll cover your rounds in the meantime."

"Thanks."

And despite your true gratitude, the words ring as empty.

"Sit."

Like a marionette suspended on string, you do as you're told.

Dr. Riley's office is barren of any personal adornment, cast in the same austere template initially given to him. There's a leather couch tucked prim under the window, throw pillow flat on one end. A wire file organiser sits atop his desk, papers fighting for space between the flimsy bookmarks. Pens in a cup, a stapler by his keyboard. All ordinary, inconclusive belongings, that which you sift through like a ravenous creature, slobbering for clues at the life your attending leads.

Ironically, the one thing that offers any inference is an empty photo frame, faced towards the rest of the room, away from him.

You don't like the uncomfortable feeling it inflicts.

"The family." He levels a bored look to you, that which hardens the longer you take to address his ambiguous question. In the harsh lights of the operating room, his eyes looked nearly black. Now, sunlight paints a clearer picture. Taupe and sepia, flecks of various browns brightened by the pale blue underline of his mask. "Doctor."

Floundering, you search for the clouded memory of your discussion with the patient's relatives. It ripples, faintly, between your revels in self-pity. If you needed any censure of your disordered priorities, that is surely enough.

(Funny how he continues to criticise you, even unintentionally.)

"Good. Hopeful. I told them you managed to resect the entire thing, and detailed the plan going forward." It's as though your hands are compelled to move by electric shock, charged full of destructive energy. You rub your face, twiddle your thumbs, scratch the armrests of your chair; trying any measure to defuse the bomb you feel ticking beneath your chest. "They give their thanks."

All the while, he remains steady before you.

A moment of tense silence clears. "I just submitted the operation report." He says, derailing the conversation to what you suspect has always been its purpose. "I mentioned your inability to close the surgery."

You damn near choke on your spit. He notices, of course, and raises a challenging brow.

"I- I'm sorry, but that isn't what... I was perfectly able to complete it." Your protest carries none of the strength you will it to. As is always the case around him, you're made to sound like a defiant student, instead. Pouting and stomping your foot, inflating your strict sense of justice to an occasion that does not call for it.

"Oh?" You know you're not crazy for thinking that way, either. He speaks in faux conciliatory tones, brows knitting together as his argument waters down to one he thinks you can digest. "Would you rather I have said you refused, then?"

You shake your head, staring down at your lap. You really, really don't want to be here. Is it worth it, then? To stand your ground when the worst that will come of his misstatement is an inquiry from above? The strength has long since left you. Now, it is a matter of bloodletting. Leeching the struggle before it festers into something greater, a malady you cannot control.

"No."

"Make up your mind, Doctor." He hums, grabbing a protein bar from his drawer before standing. He doesn't have to round his desk to tower over you, but he does. Heat radiates off him in waves, blushing your neck so that when you look up at him, owlish, your face flares with stockpiled fervor.

You wonder if it could be read as desire.

"You know best." Shutting down has never been so disencumbering. Acquiescence, upending an ivory flag with the knowledge that you don't have to bleed any longer.

His lashes flutter. When you blink, they seem closer than they were before.

"That's right." Dr. Riley practically fucking purrs, chest rumbling thoughtfully at your chosen response. A pressure settles between your legs, bloating desperately into that bundle of nerves that inhibits all reason. "So next time, if you have a problem with the way I do things, you'll address it to me directly instead of snivelling like a bloody prat. That way, maybe I'll explain it to you, too."

A nod is not enough.

"Yes, Dr. Riley."

He cocks his head, fiddling with the wrapping in his hands. His fingers are scarred, brutish, though they tear the foil with all the precision in the world. Your acceptance does not feel nearly as final, expectation thickening the space between you. The title startles to your tongue, then. Novel. Unsure. You haven't called anyone it since secondary. You do not know whether he'll take to it kindly at all.

"Yes, sir."

But his eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased, and it more than fills the hole he harrowed out from you earlier. Your reaction to the approval should be documented, given a name and listed somewhere on the DSM-5.

(Nothing about it feels healthy.)

"Good." He pushes off the edge of his desk, tapping a knuckle to your chin. Instinctively, you open your mouth. The protein bar fits between your teeth, pasty and dry, but his pulse vibrates near your lips and–

You bite down anyway.

(But oh, does it feel good.)

[masterlist]

[sourtomatola]

Villainous trio drabble

1700-ish words (based off this pic) @villainoustrioau @crees-a

Solar grunted with the turn of a screw. His latest project was almost done, but now, he was feeling like getting a cup of coffee.

He was already standing when he stretched his endo as far back as he could bend. His door shut in that moment, making him jump from the sudden break of his conversation. Eclipse Sulked in tiredly, dragging his slippers across the floor and barely giving Solar a glance.

Eclipse was the one who was apart of the group without his own will involved. Solar felt bad for him, but understood that it was the reason Jigsaw had built him. His lanky lumbering body hunched in exhaustion as he wordlessly dragged himself to Solar’s desk, crawling underneath. He grabbed the sol pillow that the mechanic had left there for him and curled up. Comfort wasn’t his priority, he just needed rest and silence.

Solar paused his quest for coffee and walked back to his desk, where Eclipse settled in. Solar said nothing, knowing that Eclipse was often exhausted from the constant chattering and singing Jigsaw subjected him to. Solar held out his hand and gave his counterpart’s back a gentle stroke.

Eclipse tensed up for a second before carefully relaxing and letting out weary sigh. Solar continued to rub his back gently, careful to not chip his paint or cause anymore new cracks to his casing. He knew the Ruin Virus was tough on the guys body, and was only trying to offer quiet comfort. Eclipse accepted it thankfully, or at least didn’t have the energy to argue, and just fell asleep under the desk.

Solar stared at him a minute, marveling at how well built he was, despite the ruin virus. Jigsaw really built him strong, no doubt knowing what the virus would do to him. Solar silently wished he could have given Jigsaw an alternative way to control Eclipse, but he had none, and there was no cure.

He stood up and let his fans vent a moment in a relaxed sigh before he made his way back to the coffee maker. As he poured himself a cup, he could hear Jigsaw in the other room, chittering in giggles and other mutterings. Solar knew this meant he was charging now. While most animatronic’s charged much like they were sleeping, Jigsaw got a bit quirky.

He heard the sound of claws scraping against the floor and glanced into Jigsaw’s room. He let out a sigh, seeing the other type of daycare attendant model laying on the floor, instead of the couch he usually slept on. The broken animatronic’s endo exposed fingers scuffed noisily against the floor.

Solar leaned against the wall, watching his little leader writhe and flinch in his sleep. He swirled his coffee in his mug before taking a sip and setting it aside, making a choice. He stepped back into his leader’s room and gently scooped up the shorter animatronic, gently placing him on the couch.

Jigsaw’s bell on the end of his hat chimed, making Solar pause, staring at the familiar blue nightcap. Solar’s eyes narrowed at the hat, thinking of the one he kept close because of it’s own significance. Specifically, the passionate killing of his own Moon.

He didn’t regret it. Not one bit. He had many regrets, oh, so many, but he has never once lost sleep over that nightcap trophy in his room. If anything, seeing the unmoving stares made him rest deeper.

He made sure Jigsaw was comfortable before standing again and grabbing his coffee on his way back to his lab. When he got there, he glanced under the desk to see Eclipse Undisturbed. Satisfied, he sat back down and got back to work.

Occasionally, Eclipse would let out a soft moan in his sleep. Solar reached his leg over and rubbed Eclipse comfortingly with his foot, like a dog under the table. Eclipse would settle and Solar would unconsciously continue to gently comfort his counterpart, the rhythmic rubbing motion easing them both in a peaceful routine.

Solar got up to get another bolt from his supply box, scooting his chair away to keep it out of Eclipse’s way. He heard the taller bot moan again, but he tried to pay it no mind. He heard another moan as he was away from his desk, but ignored it until another came, accompanied with a low growl.

Solar looked back at the desk to see Eclipse squirming in his sleep, groaning and clawing at the floor, his fierce claws leaving deep gnashes in the cement ground. Eclipse started to pant, a sure sign that his hunger was growing. Solar tensed at the realization.

“Uhhh...Jig?” Solar called softly to the other room. He hoped their leader would hear him and get his creation the substance he needed to avoid any unforeseen incidents.

Eclipse woke with a start, making Solar flinch. The Lanky animatronic let out a soft snarl as he started to look around his cushion. He was looking for something to eat. Something to kill.

“Jig!” Solar called louder. “Jig! Need some food in here!” He yelled.

Eclipse’s eyes shot to Solar, making him tense up. The metal beast lumbered out from under the desk and stood up, still hunched over. Solar knew his current position. It wasn’t a slouch. It was a hunting crouch.

Solar knew he didn’t have the blood that Eclipse was carving. He knew that feasibly, he wouldn’t be a victim of Eclipse. Eclipse wasn’t just a rabid animal, biting at everything anyways. The virus did enhance his feelings though, including hunger, which was dangerous in any sense.

“JIG!” Solar yelled louder.

“Oh Solar solar, sing my name~ It would not make me hurry faster, all the same~” Jigsaw giggled as he swayed into the room.

Eclipse’s tense posture relaxed slightly, but he still growled roughly. Solar’s fans sped up with relief, letting himself vent as Jigsaw brought in a bag filled with red raw meat.

“There you are dahling, have a good nap?” Jigsaw asked as he came over and scratched under Eclipse’s chin.

Eclipse gave out a low warning growl, despite not having the ability to do anything about it. He Physically couldn’t bite the hand that fed him. He instead tried to reach for the bag, but Jigsaw pulled it away from him.

“Ah ah~ Act like a dog, and you get treated as one.” Jigsaw snickered. “Now then, sit.”

Eclipse’s growl grew louder, frustrated.  “I’m not a dog!” He snarled.

Jigsaw’s face didn’t change from his pleased smug expression. “Sit.” He commanded again and held up the bloodied bag, giving it a taunting shake.

A small bit of drool left Eclipse’s lips as he stared at the bag. He quickly wiped it away in frustration before clenching his fists and falling to his knees harshly. He was still quite a bit taller than Jigsaw. He stayed on his knee’s until Jigsaw rose his eyebrows expectantly. Eclipse huffed angrily, but sunk back into a sitting position with his legs folded flat against the floor. Now he sat just a touch shorter than Jigsaw.

Eclipse’s fists clenched into his pants, almost seeming to tear them, but not quite. Solar silently hoped he wouldn’t have to fix them if he did.

“Theres a good boy!” Jigsaw praised and gave the humiliated starving bot a gently pat on the head. He opened up the plastic bag and pulled out a misshapen bloodied steak. Eclipse tried to grab for it but Jigsaw stopped him again. In embarrassed frustration, Eclipse slammed his fist to the ground, letting out an angry roar. Solar flinched but grabbed for his coffee instead of complaining.

Jigsaw just grinned as he calmly watched eclipse Expression of fury over his situation. He waited for Eclipse to settle down for a second before he began to hand feed Eclipse the steak.

The beastly animatronic scarfed down the meat ravenously, his hands catching the blood that leaked from it. He then licked away the blood from his own hands, searching for more blood to feast on. He looked to his master’s hands before grabbing Jigsaw’s wrists and licking the blood from them next, refusing to let anything go to waste. Jigsaw giggled from the tickling licking sensation but stood still, letting Eclipse lick off all he could.

Blood seeped between Jigsaw’s joints. He didn’t seem to mind, but Eclipse growled at the escaping drip and put his lips to the joints to try to suck the blood back out. Jigsaw’s expression turned from pleased to smug as he watched Eclipse effetely kiss his fingers, every joint, desperate from more blood to quell his hunger.

Solar quietly drank his coffee as he watched their ritual of master feeding his servant.

At last, Eclipse pulled back, looking to the floor in humiliation of his behavior.

“There now, are you satisfied?” Jigsaw asked. Eclipse refused to look at him but nodded. “Would you like to go back to sleep?” Another nod. “Well then, I’ll leave you to it then~ I’d like some alone time as well. Sleep tight~”

Jigsaw left the room with a wave, humming a tune to himself as he did. Solar watched Eclipse sit quietly for a moment, seeming to let the shame seep in and settle. His hungry growls gone, leaving the room in silence again.

Instead of standing up again, Eclipse merely crawled back under the desk, facing away from Solar as he curled up. Solar picked up his project and set it on the desk above Eclipse before sitting down. Neither of them moved for a minute before Solar once again reached out his foot and gently stroked Eclipse’s back.

Eclipse let out a tired sigh before relaxing again. Solar glanced to his mug of coffee that he had left across the room. He rubbed his tired optics and took off his goggles, deciding to forsake his coffee. He leaned forward on his desk, staying seated but relaxing his faceplate in his arms on the table in a resting position. It wouldn’t hurt to shut his eyes for a bit as well.

Underneath the desk, he felt a clawed hand touch his ankle, gently grasping it, thumb rubbing against his joints and plating. Solar smiled sleepily before the world went back.

Art for this

[tuiccim]

Wrecked (Part 7)

Pairing: Alpha Billy Russo x Omega Reader

Trigger Warnings: References to infertility, love triangle, excessive drinking, smut, Omegaverse canon possessiveness

Summary: When Frank Castle found his way to your small town bar, you thought you had finally found your Alpha despite being a "wrecked omega" but when his best friend, Billy Russo, blows through town, your world tilts on its axis. You thought you found your happy ending but was it just more wreckage for your life?

A/N: Thank you to my beta reader and hype princess, @whisperlullaby

Wrecked Masterlist

Standing in the doorway of your bedroom, you stare at the empty spaces that were once filled with Frank’s things. His nightstand held only the lamp. His side of the closet and space in the chest of drawers were empty. In the bathroom, his toothbrush was gone and that was the stupid thing that broke the dam. You let the tears fall as you strip the bed. You had to get his smell out of your sheets or you’d never make it through this. Frank was gone. He was always going to leave. Now, you have to suck it up and deal with it. 

Gathering up the things you would need to see you through proved fairly easy. You kept supplies in stock just in case. You pulled out your favorite comfortable clothes. As you grabbed them out of your dresser, a flash of white caught your eye and you picked up the folded note from Billy. You reread his message and your heart aches. If only his protestations could be true of an Alpha. You don’t think you’ve ever been as attracted to someone in your life. Dropping the note on the top of the dresser, you continue your preparations. Pulling fresh sheets out of the closet, you start to make up your bed but as you move pillows and smooth wrinkles you pick up Frank’s scent with each motion. Your stomach rolls and you throw the pillow in frustration. 

Your mind drifted to the other bedroom and the bed covered in Billy’s scent. A throbbing begins between your legs at the thought of being with him during your heat. Would he be gentle or rough? Would he act feral or reverent? Or would he be a mix off all of it? 

Resolutely, you gather your things and move to the other bedroom. At least having his scent surrounding you would bring you some comfort. You place your things around and throw extra blankets on the bed, building yourself a nest. Laying down, you breathe deeply and feel your inner Omega calm as his scent envelopes you. It’s so strong you could swear he scented the sheets purposely. 

Several hours later, a knock on the front door rouses you from the semi-comfort you had found in the bed. Before you could even manage to untable yourself, Cecily calls out, “Hiya. I used my key. Don’t get up! I brought you some extra supplies.” After a few moments you hear her in the other bedroom, “Where are you?”

“In here,” you call, settling back in. 

Cecily comes through the bathroom between the rooms, “Are you okay? Why are you in here?”

“I… Frank’s scent is on everything in there,” you shrug. 

“Gotcha. Has it started?” she asks, referring to your heat. 

“It’s not too bad yet. I’ll be fine.”

“It smells like Billy in here,” Cecily sniffs. 

You just shrug again, “What did you bring?”

“Oh, I left it on the other bed. Hang on,” she turns back. 

When several minutes pass without her returning, you call out, “Cec? Did you get lost?”

“Uh, no. Coming,” she reappears with a large bag filled with snacks, drinks, and some self-care supplies. 

“This was really nice of you,” you give her a small smile. 

“Well, ya know, I owe you one… or two,” Cecily smirks. 

“You don’t owe me anything,” you shake your head. “We both said things we regret.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Cecily says as a slow grin spreads across her face.

“Robbie and Jordan?” You ask, propping yourself on your elbows to stare at her. 

“They’re really good guys and they told me about them and, ya know, intrigued me. So, we’re going on a date next week.”

Knowing Cecily is not usually one to take things slowly, you narrow your eyes at her, “Why next week?”

“I wanted to wait until your heat is done. I mean, someone has to run the bar and…”

“And what?”

“It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other a little. Maybe develop something that isn’t just attraction. Forming a pack, I don’t think they’ll care much that my parents are Betas,” Cecily shrugs to play off the vulnerability she had just displayed. 

“I think that's a great idea. If you can handle working together at the bar, you can probably handle a relationship- ow!” You wince as cramps hit you. Your body is protesting the lack of male attention. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. Are you okay if I go back to work?” Cecily eyes you. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll get through this and see you in a few days. Don’t worry about me,” you insist. 

“I will. I’ll check in on you tomorrow. Let me know if you need anything,” she smiles as she heads to the door. 

“Cec?”

“Yeah?” She looks back to the door. 

“I’m glad we made up.” 

“Well, ya know we can’t live without each other. You’re my person,” Cecily blows a kiss as she leaves. 

You smile but grimace when the cramps hit again. You reached for some pain reliever. It would help some. At least, for a little while. 

–

You woke up the following morning, groggy and grumpy. Sleep had only come the night before after another round of pain relievers and a handful of melatonin gummies. It had been filled with a mix of unsettling dreams and intense yearning that made your body scream for touch. Getting out of the bed, you head straight for the shower. Sometimes letting the water run over your body can give momentary relief. You stood under the spray until the water cooled too much for comfort and your stomach was grumbling for food. Wrapping yourself in a towel, you walk back into the bedroom and nearly scream. 

“Hello Gorgeous,” Billy smirks from the chair in the corner of the room. 

You stare at him for several seconds, bewildered at his appearance but then your inner Omega took over and you crossed the room in only a few strides. You ignore the tray of food and the bouquet of flowers next to him and reach for him. Dragging him to his feet by his shirt, you pull him against you and meld your mouth to his. You begin undoing his belt but his hands cover yours and he breaks the kiss. 

“Should-”

“I swear to God, Billy. If you don’t fuck me right now, I will never let you touch me again,” You seethe. When it looks like he’s about to speak again, you drop the towel you’re wearing. “Now,” the word comes out hard but then you put a sweet pleading into his designation, “Alpha.”

His mouth takes yours hungrily as he pushes you towards the bed. His shirt is discarded quickly, and his pants are undone in a blink. It’s your hands that push them past his ass as he positions himself between your legs. He takes no preamble, knowing your heat is in full swing and you are more than ready. The thick head of his cock breaches your entrance and he growls as you seem to pull him in. Your body arches into him, finally having an Alpha inside of you puts you into a haze and all you can do is beg for more.

“Please, Alpha, more!” You whine. 

“I’m gonna give it all to you, my sweet Omega. Fill you up and fuck you out until you can’t tell where you end and I begin,” Billy says as he steadily presses in. 

“Yes, fuck,” your voice melds into whimpers as he begins long strokes. You wrap your arms and legs around him, pressing him close as he fills you just how you need. Billy holds himself above you on his elbows and his hands reach to caress your face. 

“Look at me, ‘Mega,” he commands and your eyes fly open. “Look at your Alpha. I will always be here for you when you need me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Alpha,” you whisper, eyes wide as you stare at him. 

“Good girl,” he whispers as his hips pick up pace. Your mouth falls open as you feel your orgasm building. Billy watches your face enraptured. He doesn’t relent, pounding into you at just the right angle until you scream, all the pent up frustration and need releasing from you. Your body is wracked with spasm and after spasm as Billy finds his own end. When his knot locks into place inside you he smiles as your eyes roll back in your head and you arch again. He lowers his face to your neck and noses at your mating gland, filling his lungs with your scent. 

His cock jumps inside you when you do the same to him and again when you deliver a tiny kitten lick over it. “Fuuuck,” he groans. 

You pull away when he speaks but his big hand guides you right back. 

“Don’t stop, Gorgeous. Want your scent all over me,” Billy mouths at your gland, fighting his urge to bite down and claim you as his own. But he couldn’t resist scraping his teeth over it to see if it had the same effect it had on you when he did it to you that one night in the living room, and it did. You gasped and clenched around his cock. Encouraged, he did it again and then sucked on it. 

“Oh, oh, fuck, Billy!” Your whole body spasmed again. Your cunt clamped down on his still swollen knot inside you making Billy moan. 

Billy chuckles as he whispers in your ear, “So, when my knot goes down, would you like to do this again or eat and then do this again?”

“Can’t I eat while I sit on your cock?” You whimper. 

“Fuck, I love the way you think,” Billy maneuvers the two of you to the side of the bed and reaches for a cube of watermelon from the tray he had made. Holding it to your lips, he watches as you take the bite and then lick his finger of the remaining juice. He stares at you, admiration clear in his eyes, “How the fuck are you so perfect?”

“I’m not, remember? I’m wrecked,” you shrug. 

“And I’m broken. Guess that’s what makes us so goddamn perfect for each other,” Billy whispers intensely. 

“Maybe so,” you whisper with a small smile. You enjoyed hearing it and decided to just play into it. Play into this feeling that this was someone who wanted you, not despite your inability, but as part of the whole package. He fed you, bite by bite. Compliments and innuendo flowed through your quiet conversation. When you feel his knot release, you take the final bite from him and then flip him onto his back. 

“You haven’t finished your food,” Billy smirks. 

“I’ve had enough for now. I need this more,” you moan as you begin moving your hips. 

“No complaints here,” Billy grabs your hips as he thrusts up into you. He wants to watch your face every second, but gets distracted by the bounce of your tits, the sight of his cock splitting you open, the ways his fingers dig perfectly into your hips and thighs as you ride him, and his mouth runs as he expounds on how amazing you are. “Jesus, you feel good. Do you know how good your pussy looks swallowing my cock? So fucking beautiful. Yeah, that’s it, make that gorgeous face. Wanna see you come, give it to me. Fucking hell, I’m- fuck,shit-” Billy’s eyes suddenly go wide and he grunts harshly. 

You stop, staring at him with wide eyes, “Did I hurt you? What’s wrong?”

“Present,” Billy growls the Alpha command, his eyes darkening.

You comply immediately, lifting off of him and presenting yourself on all fours. You whimper, unsure of what is happening, “Alpha?”

“Mine,” Billy grabs your hips and slams into you making you arch at the pleasure. 

“Billy?” You whine his name as both an exclamation and a question. 

“I’m- fuck, rut kicked in,” he says the words as if it takes all of his control to get them out. His hips don’t slow the steady pounding he’s giving you. “Never… ah, fuck, you feel good. Never been with an Omega in heat before.”

“Were you, ah, were you expecting it?” You ask, curiously. Your fingers dig into the sheets beneath you in an attempt to hold yourself steady for him. 

“No, shouldn’t be happening. Fuck, I’m never gonna be able to stop fucking you. Do you know how good this fucking cunt is? Never gonna find another pussy this good.”

“Alpha,” you whimper as your orgasm builds. You weren’t sure if it was the relentless motion of his cock inside of you or the words that spilled from his mouth. 

“That’s right. I’m your Alpha. Come here,” Billy pulls you up so that you’re kneeling together as he keeps fucking into you. One hand grasps for your breasts and the other finds your clit to make circles. He buries his face in your neck, mouthing at your mating gland, licking, sucking, and scraping it with his teeth. He had to fight the base urge to bite down, to claim you as his, to take possession of what was already his in his mind, but he wanted you to choose it. He wanted you to ask for it. And he wasn’t going to stop fucking you until you did. 

You reach behind yourself to pull his face more firmly against your neck, “Billy! Alpha, it’s so good. I’m gonna-” The long moan you release as you clench around him is enough to send Billy over the edge. He could swear as his knot locked in place again that he saw stars. The pleasure of your body wrapped around his was so intense he had to fight every Alpha urge telling him to hold you down and mark you. Instead, he gently laid you both or your sides and moved his lips to your shoulder to help fight the intense urges coursing through him. 

After your heart stops beating so hard, you whisper, “I’ve never been with an Alpha in rut.” 

Billy’s chest rumbles against your back, “Couple of virgins before today, huh?”

You bark a laugh and cuddle against him more firmly. Billy breathes deeply of your scent as his fingers trail over every inch of your skin he can reach. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand his fucking idiot best friend. How the hell had he managed to keep himself together with you on his cock? He’d never gone into rut the entire time he was here? His friend was insane. Or so self-possessed with rage and revenge, he couldn’t see the perfection right in front of him. Billy’s actually glad his friend led him to you and he sure as hell was never giving you back. Without realizing it, he growls out, “Mine.”

“Possessive, aren’t we?” You tease him.

“Mmm,” Billy shrugs as his lips keep moving over your skin. 

With the haze of heat lifting a bit now that you had been knotted… a few times, the questions that should have flooded your mind seeing him in your cabin came to the surface. You had to ask, “Billy?”

“Yeah, gorgeous?”

“Why are you here? I mean, why did you come back? Did you know-”

“Cecily called me,” Billy cuts you off. 

“What? How?”

“She said she was dropping off some supplies and found my note-”

“That’s what took her so long in the other room,” you say as that piece clicks into place. 

“She told me that you two had made up, Frank had left, and that you needed help. Or more accurately, to get my ass here cause you needed me or she would ensure my life would be a living hell from now on. Not that I needed any convincing. I drove straight here, used the spare key, and laid in wait for you again,” he laughs lightly as he uses the words you had thrown at him his last night at the cabin. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“I’ll always be here for you when you need me,” he assures. “My turn for a question. Why are you in this room and not yours?”

“Frank-” you pause as Billy pulls you more firmly against him and growls at the mention of another Alpha. You smile as you continue, “His scent was everywhere and I didn’t want that smell around me while I was dealing with my heat. So, I came in here since…” you trail off. 

“Since what?” Billy prompts.

“Your scent made me feel comforted. Like I wasn’t completely alone,” you confess quietly. 

He chuckles as he admits, “I guess it was a good thing that I scented these sheets.”

You laugh, “I knew you did that! You are diabolical.” His knot releases and you take the opportunity to turn over and face him. As you looked into the dark depths of his eyes, you lost your train of thought, the questions that had flooded your mind, your worries, all of it faded away and instead you basked in his admiration. He looked at you with a mix of awe and hunger that you had never experienced and you loved it. Your mind wanted to use the word love to describe the feelings coursing through you and you shook your head to rid it of that thought. 

“What was that?”

“What was what?” You hedge. 

“You jerked your head. Intrusive thought?” His long fingers caress your face. 

“Something like that. Are you hungry?” 

“In more ways than one,” he smirks before whispering in your ear, “I still want to find out how amazing you taste. Get my mouth all over that sweet Omega cunt. I want to drown in your scent. Have you sit on my face and let me tongue fuck you until you beg for my knot. Have your legs spread wide open as I lay between them and make you come over and over again. If I’m really lucky maybe I can get you to suck my cock while you sit on my face. God, there are so many things I want to do to you.”

“Maybe we should start a list,” you giggle. 

“Mmhm, but for now why don’t we go make some food?” Billy kisses you before you can answer and then pulls you out of the bed with him. 

–

The next two days were more of the same. Lots of conversations and even more sex, with meals and showers and sleep in between. Billy, you had learned, had a thing for shower sex and so you were happily enjoying him pounding into you as water streamed over both your bodies. 

“Oh, God, just like that,” you whimper. 

“I have a new item for the list,” Billy says as he lifts your leg higher to give him a deeper angle. 

“It’s going to take us years to finish this list at this point,” you laugh in between the moans he pulled from you. 

“Need to add fucking you in a bathtub. I’d get you to sit on my cock while we relax in a tub full of bubbles. I’d play with your clit so you’d come over and over again so I can feel you clenching around me. Make you come until you were absolutely overstimulated then dry you off, put you in bed, and fuck you one more time until you’re ready to pass out. Fuck, I’m just gonna keep adding to it so I have more excuses to fuck you,” he growls.

“It’s not enough that you’re balls deep in me right now, you have to run your mouth about all the other things you’re going to do to me,” you tease him. 

“Is that a problem, gorgeous? Should I stop telling you about all the ways I want to fuck you?” 

“Never, fuck!” You cry out as he begins pounding harder. 

“That’s right, Omega. You like hearing all the dirty thoughts I have about you. Fuck, all I’ve done is think about ways to fuck you since you served me that first drink. I wanted to bend you over the bar right there. I should. Take you to the bar and fuck you on it, on that pool table, on the safe, fuuuuuck,” he grunted as you clenched around him, nearing you orgasm. 

“You should. Maybe fuck me in that fancy car of yours in the parking lot, too.”

“Oh, yeah? What else should I do to you, my Omega?” Billy’s hips are pumping into you perfectly. 

“Lay me out naked on your desk at Anvil and fuck me until I scream your name,” you whisper in his ear.

“Fuck!” He roars as he begins pounding into you relentlessly. 

“Yes, yes. Alpha!” You cry out as you come.

“Never gonna get enough of you,” Billy groans as he loses himself in you. His knot locks into place and you shudder against him. His face is buried in your neck as he scents you. The urge to bite you, to mark you, to claim you as his own grew stronger each time your sweet body clamped down on his. 

A little while later, you were laying wrapped together and Billy looked at you as if some question was on his mind. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” You query. 

“I don’t know if I should ask. It might upset you,” he hedges. 

“I can’t promise it won’t but I’ll do my best to answer it.”

Billy takes a long look into your eyes, studying you, before asking, “Why do you stay here?”

“Here as in the town?” You clarify. 

“Yes.”

“I… I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself the same thing lately. Buying the bar shoehorned me into a place of… I don’t know the right word. Importance, maybe? It forced the town to see me as something other than the wrecked Omega. I’m the owner of the bar, I have a place in society, even if I did have to buy it. Lately, I’ve wondered what it would be like to go somewhere that I’m not the wreck, not the Omega whose family doesn't even want her. I guess because I’m scared. This place is all I’ve ever known and what if nothing changed?”

“New York is a big city. No one would question why you’d leave small town life for the big city. Especially if you were with me,” Billy comments.

You laugh lightly as you joke, “Are you asking me to move in?”

Billy caresses your jawline as he answers, “Yes.”

You scoff, “Billy-”

“I love you. I know it’s fast and you’re going to say that this is my rut or your heat talking but it’s not. The moment my eyes met yours, the first moment I caught your scent, every second I’ve been near you, I’ve felt it. And every minute after I left, I missed you. To me, you’re perfect and I love you,” he stares into you, waiting for your response.

You look at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was going to laugh and say he was kidding, or roll his eyes and call you stupid for believing him, or you'll wake up because this couldn’t be happening, a perfect Alpha wanting the wrecked Omega.

“Stop it. I see the wheels turning in that beautiful head. I told you that if you’re wrecked, then I’m broken, and that makes us perfect for each other. Do you believe me?” Billy whispers earnestly. 

You nod, scared that if you spoke you’d lose your composure. Instead, you press your lips to his and kiss him slowly. Pouring out all of your emotions into that kiss, you pull him closer. He rolls you under him and deepens the kiss while keeping a sensual pace. He settles easily between your legs and you writhe against each other as passion builds. You open your legs wider until his cock nudges at your entrance. With a gentle motion of his hips, he slips inside and you moan into his mouth. As his strokes build steam, your mouths part for you to cry out on a particularly deep stroke. Billy’s lips wander to your neck and you whimper, “Billy, I love you, too. I love you, my Alpha. Please.” 

“Look at me,” Billy requests. When you do, he kisses you and pulls back to look into your eyes. “Say it again.” 

It was a request, not a command and you complied immediately, “I love you, too.”

Billy kisses you again and then trails his lips to your mating gland. He nuzzles into it and you tilt your head to give him better access. When his teeth graze over it, your breath hitches and you whine, “Please, Alpha!”

“Say the words,” Billy urges without Alpha command in his voice. 

“Mark me. Claim me, please,” you beg.

“That’s my Omega. My Omega,” Billy whispers reverently as he bites down on your gland. 

Your entire body spasms with your orgasm. You pull Billy even tighter against you as he licks away the blood from your mark. He fucks you through the orgasm, his eyes trained on the fresh red claim on your neck as he does. When you come back to yourself, he reminds you, “Your turn, My Omega. Claim your Alpha. Mark me.” 

He guides your lips to his mating gland and tears seep from your eyes with the realization that he wants this as much as you do. You place a soft kiss on the spot and then bare your teeth and bite down. His exclamation and jerk of his hips as he comes inside you makes you clench around him. Just as you feel his knot lock into place, you feel the bond do the same. Emotion floods you as you realize you are feeling his joy and pleasure through your bond. When he pulls back to look into your eyes, you can feel the love you share tie together inside of you. It was unlike anything you had ever imagined and you couldn’t stop the tears that came. 

“I feel it, too,” Billy whispers as he kisses away the tears. “My Omega. My gorgeous Omega.”

Epilogue: Six Months Later

Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction​ for update notifications. All series and new stories will be reblogged to it. You will only receive notifications when a new part or story is out! Nothing else will be blogged to the page. I can’t thank you enough for your support!

[marlsswrites]

Summer camp AU, part 26!!

July 26th <3

Unpleasant - @jegulus-microfic - words: 628

First part Previous part

The woods were certainly... unpleasant. Due to the pours of rain they'd had the past few days, the ground was turned from dust to thick, brown, swampy mud. His feet squelched on the ground as the group trudged along. today they'd planned to get the kids on the zipline, but it was a walk to the other side of camp to get there. 

Chatter surrounded them with the occasional sound of a twig snapping as Regulus carefully avoided the roots plotting to trip him up.

The silence suddenly felt too loud, no words left James' mouth as he walked forward, not even a hum or an annoying whistle sang from his lips.

His head seemed to involuntarily turn to the side to scan over the other mans face, he was chewing onto his bottom lip and occasionally adjusting the gold ring that pierced through his nose.

"James?" He spoke up after he'd decided he'd been staring a minute too long.

"Hm?" James turned to look at him and almost instantly, the look of nerves wiped from his face as he gazed down at Regulus with his wide eyes.

"Are you okay?"

A beat, just one second. James face looked as if it had melted like a soft marshmallow on a hot stinging flame that was Regulus Black. The corners of his dark, slightly bitten lips tipped up into a caring smile as his eyelashes fluttered open and closed once, then twice as he smiled wider. Seeing James like this made Regulus so happy, James was so full of joy, sunlight, and safety it just gravitated Regulus towards the other man - not allowing him to even try to look away from the light that was burning a pattern of James Potters love onto his irises.

"You really care?" Looking slightly shocked, the brunette asked. It startled Regulus how startled James looked at the thought that Regulus cared about him, of course he did. 

"Why wouldn't I?"

James just shrugged, shaking his head as the whole world around them seemed to morph into only the very real smile Regulus gave when he looked down at the floor and the way James softly moved a curl on Regulus' head. "'was out of place." He hummed.

Regulus watched the floor as their feet walked in sync, James' red converse a sparse difference compared to Regulus' green ones. The youngers threaded with silver and black beads and kept neat, while the older one had tatted, discoloured laces and no longer white surface covered with doodles and initials of others.

S.O.B... sketched messily on the side.

R.L.L... neatly curled around the shoe.

P.O.P...

L.J.E...

M.G.M...

M.E.M...

He read through all the initials, it was rather sweet actually, all the people that James loved had clearly written that on there themselves. The shoes were worn out, tatty and old, yet that had a meaning to them that no one could ever replace.

Slightly immersed in his thoughts, Regulus missed a twig that rounded out of the ground as his foot caught on it. He slipped forward towards the ground, before a heavy arm wrapped itself around Regulus' delicate waist and tugged him up before he fell. He heard a laugh come from James, who's arm was still wrapped around Regulus' waist - honestly, if it were up to Regulus, the arm would stay there for a whole lot longer.

"Careful there love." He chuckled.

"I am being careful." Regulus snapped, avoiding looking at James' lips even though they were ever so close and at the perfect height. Screw that man, and screw him for slotting in with Regulus like a jigsaw piece, it made this whole situation even harder for Regulus. He's not even sure if they really fit together, or if they could just be two separate pieces from two very different puzzles, coincidently finding each other for only a short while.

Next part

[wendihoe]

Do you ever think about Lawrence? Like when he’d just been forced to amputate his own foot and he probably asked John about Adam. Only to never get real answers for literal years until he went back to the god damn bathroom and saw the corpse that he knew would be waiting for him. Ever think about Lawrence? Maybe holding out hope that the bathroom of outside of time and space like his own personal Schrodinger’s box. That if he didn’t go back maybe Adam would be there, alive.

[zer0point5ive]

i just know adam (saw 2004)’s myspace was crazy

[lilolilyr]

𝓙𝓲𝓰𝓼𝓪𝔀

fanfiction by BeachBum3668 ~ podfic recording by lilolilyrae

Summary: Sometimes, life can be a complex puzzle. But once you find the missing piece, everything falls into place.

Mirandy getting together, Caroline and Cassidy Priestly, sports, action, hurt/comfort, and lots of family fluff!

Stats: 70k words, no archive warnings apply, 8 hour podfic (ca. 30min per chapter)

Read or Listen on Ao3 • more podfics

You can also find the podfic audio folders without music, with music and with music and sound effects directly on Google Drive!

Header image sources: Andrea - family manip, special thanks to @lilithfolt for letting me use it! - Miranda - lacrosse - ambulance - Central Park; edits by me

My DWP tag list, lmk if you want on/off the list: @theconfusedgirlaround @mmcalmar @die-schwanenkoenigin @angel-march @thedevilwearspradasodamngood @les-begay-together @mirandyforever

[leighcest]

umm its been one year since the first time i watched saw (2004)!!! i made it five minutes thru and didn't get hyperfixated for another ten months but who's counting

[fredmundo]

Billy trying to figure out why Steve and Knight are never in the same room

Barbarian Youth - @thissortofsorcery

[zepp-l1n]

This Is A Life

Pairing: Platonic!John Kramer x (Apprentice) Fem!reader

summary: (Y/N) struggles with her new life. fic type - angst, hurt/comfort-ish, not-great father figure x sad girl, song fic warning - manipulative relationship, sad shit, canon level saw violence, based on a song with Mitski in it soooo, unhealthy outlook on life/self worth word count - 1,497 a/n: we out here writing for peepaw now, ig... Happy (late) holidays!

This is a life Free from destiny Not only what we sow Not only what we show

Life before working with John Kramer was easy. Disappointing, going nowhere, and lonely - but it was easy. (Y/N) got by, making wages she wasn't proud of, but she was "normal". Sure, she did some things here and there that were illegal, but it was life. It was what she had to do. That was, until John found her and put her through one of his games.

Since then, she had a new outlook on her existence, and those around her. Since then, (Y/N) had worked with "Jigsaw", Amanda, Mark, and Lawrence to help people find meaning and a will to live. It wasn't the safest job, but she now had a support system and a reason to live.

This is a life (Every possibility) Free From destiny (I choose you and you choose me)

(Y/N) would be nothing without John, without her new life. She knew that. She believed that. Without his games, life wouldn't mean anything and she would've been forced to watch as time went by and she was left behind. Here, (Y/N) could make a difference. Here, (Y/N) was worth something. So, when John asked (Y/N) to help him with a new game, she was happy to oblige.

Sitting in John's workshop, (Y/N) held in her hands part of an item her mentor had called the "Venus Fly Trap". She personally liked to refer to it as the "Death Mask", but John didn't like the name as it, in his words, "took away the true meaning behind it". Taking a flathead screw driver from off of the table, (Y/N) delicately fiddled with the collar of the machine. One wrong move, and the entire trap would set off.

"We'll need that ready by next Thursday. Will it be done by then, or do you think you may need Amanda to help out a little?" John spoke up. Glancing up at him, (Y/N) noticed that when addressing her he hadn't taken his focus off of his sketch book - simply kept adding more and more ideas for more and more games.

Carefully setting the mask down, (Y/N) took no extra time in responding to the older man. "I should have it done by then. Amanda... I don't need her help. She can work on her projects."

John nodded and gave a quick hum of approval. "Alright," he muttered as he got up from his chair, "Lawrence will have him sedated and prepared for his game Friday morning, so we need it to be ready to go - nothing wrong with it. His test has to be fair."

(Y/N) watched as he started to walk past her. She had planned to keep silent; do her job and let him leave. Sadly, her mouth had other plans. "Who is it this time? Being tested, I mean..."

John stopped, seemingly thinking about the question before answering. "Michael Marks." he told her. "But, he isn't what you should worry about. Just focus on the mask." John smiled at his apprentice, gave her a pat on the shoulder, and continued his way away from her.

So, she did just as he asked. Just like she was supposed to do. Grabbing the collar, (Y/N) muttered measurements to herself in the empty room, beginning to continue the build that would inevitably either save a man, or destroy him.

Not only what we sow (Every space and every time) Not only what we show (Now we know) This is a light (Many lives that could've been) Free from entropy (Entangled for eternity)

He hadn't survived. It was as simple as that. Michael Marks hadn't had it in him to save himself, resulting in his death, and the new job that (Y/N) was tasked.

"John... I don't know about this." she muttered to the man. In her hands was a file, much like the others she had received of participants John wanted her to kidnap. This was different, though. This was a kid. "I mean, he's 17, John. He's not even the one being tested!"

"His father needs to be." John spoke calmly. "He doesn't appreciate his son's life, and he uses his position as a cop to ruin others'."

"That's not Daniel's fault!" she cried out.

Raising his voice, John yelled back at her argument. "He will be put in the gas house, just like the others! Now, go collect him for me. Do it, or I'll have Mark do it for you, and take you off of the next few games. You have to trust me, (Y/N)! You either trust me, or you are not fit to be testing with the rest of us!"

Glaring at him, (Y/N) placed the file down on the table and replaced the space in her hand with the pig mask. "He's a kid, John." her voice wavered as she tried to reason with him.

John stepped forward, placing both hands on the girl's shoulders. "His father needs to be tested, and if that is by almost losing his son, then so be it. Amanda will be with him the entire time - you know this. Daniel will be as okay as he can be." The pity in his eyes only caused (Y/N)'s throat to close up more. Guilt, anger, fear, and a vast number of more emotions surged through her body, but she knew she couldn't let him down. She couldn't mess up John's game. She couldn't give him a reason to throw her away. She couldn't lose John.

Not only hands and toes Not only what we've known We find This life Somehow Alright

Leaning forwards, (Y/N) let his arms move from her shoulders, to around the red and black robe she was wearing. Her shaky hands grasped at the front of his shirt, not daring to let go. Small and gasp-filled sobs escaped her throat as he hugged her, trying to give her some sort of comfort before she had to go get the boy.

"It'll be okay. He'll be okay." he muttered.

This is a life Slow and sudden miracles View of other worlds from our window sills With the weight of eternity

Clawing off the pig mask, (Y/N)'s screams and cries finally escaped her. She threw it to the side, letting it hit a random item somewhere in the house John had chosen for the trap. Her hair was a mess, mascara ran down her cheeks, and she was physically exhausted. Leaning down, her gloved hands lifted up the limp body of the boy, and she continued her walk over to the corner of the room, maneuvering him so he wouldn't touch any of the others. After leaning him against the wall, (Y/N) paused, using one of her hands to press back part of his hair. "I'm sorry..." she gasped. "I'm so sorry, Daniel."

(Y/N) had felt guilty enough before but feeling him fight back and hearing his cries and pleas had only caused her emotional distress to skyrocket. Leaving him here didn't feel like he was going into a test like any of the others, it felt as if she was personally responsible for what could be his death. (Y/N) hated that feeling.

(Y/N)'s cries and apologies were quickly cut short by the feeling of a soft hand on her shoulder. Glancing back through teary eyes, she could make out Amanda's figure. "I'll be there for him the entire time. He won't get hurt under my watch, I promise." she took her pinky finger and wrapped it around (Y/N)'s while speaking. "Now, I think it'd be your best bet to go back to John and the others. They're waiting, y'know."

Slowly nodding, (Y/N) took one last look at the boy before walking to the other side of the room and retrieving their mask. She then moved to the door, gave Amanda a sad smile, and shut the door. As she walked away from the room, (Y/N) could still hear every mechanism whirring, getting the gun and locks in place for when the game began. There was no going back - she had done it. She had done it for John, just as he had instructed her. Once again she had followed his orders, as if it was the only thing she could do anymore.

At the speed of light This is a life

(Y/N) stood next to John, watching the police flood into the room. She had been chosen to wait with him. She had been chosen to help from his side of the game.

He chose her.

Watching as each officer raised their weapon and let out yells, (Y/N) simply smiled. As much as it hurt, John was right. They had to be tested, and she would be the one to watch everything go down with him.

This is our life.

[moondirti]

JIGSAWS [ surgeon! simon riley x f! reader ] — masterlist / each part can be read separately : dealing with cruelty is hard when stress has a crippling effect. simon gives you a place to find comfort, however unconventional

dom/sub. dubcon (power dynamics). adjustment disorder. sexual harassment and battery. dacryphilia. hurt/comfort. biting. marking. brief fluff. medical settings. 2.8k

"Fuck aff, ya useless pillock."

At 0600 hours, a belligerent intake is the last thing you need.

Fatigue works her wily fingers into you, kneading staunchly into your shoulders to add resistance for every step forward. The sun hasn't yet peeked over the horizon, pellucid blue sky outside somehow consolidating every misery from the past week. If your exhaustion felt impregnable during the bright stretch of summer, autumn encroaches vindictive, dreary winds intent on teaching you to count your blessings, next time.

"Good morning, Mr. Cook. I'm one of the daytime neurosurgical residents, here to see how you’re doing since your admission last night at... 2100, is that right?" The script, if not plainly artificial, is a cornerstone for when you cannot muster your own words. Too often, you opt to lean into its guidance – a habit you picked up the hard way during intern year. Control all variables. That way, if things go sour, you can be almost sure that the error did not lie with you.

But perfunctoriness doesn't always bode over well. Mr. Cook's face twists into something foul, sunken eyes assessing you spitefully from his cot. You should have known to affect a different approach. He called you useless after all, for what you assume is frustrated reason. No one likes spending their time here without answers.

Try cutting to the chase, then.

"I see from your chart that you came in complaining about headaches, fever, and nausea. I understand how tired you must be. If it's alright with you, I’d like to perform a quick exam to get to the bottom of things."

"Ye'd be wasting my damn time, girl. Jus' lookin' at ya, I can tell the only thing ye're good for s'wetting my cock."

You sip a startled breath, consoling the erratic stutter of your heart with oxygen and four fingernails curled into your palm. It's not a serious threat – that much is evident by the slurred cadence, the unfocused hands he waves accusatorially in your direction. The overnight resident hadn't noted any aggression on his chart, either; which suggests this is new. Exacerbated by his condition, else the pain has loosened his tongue.

(And Kyle knows better than to schedule you with the tough ones. It's noted especially in your file, documented as a corrective action plan in prim, red ink.)

Though the smile has long since slipped off your lips, you amass what sympathy you can, nodding like it'll do anything to dissuade his suffering. Useless. "A little civility would help things run a lot smoother, Mr. Cook. It's just a few questions that will give me insight to your malaise. I'll even forward those to a senior physician, if you would prefer more qualified care."

Just one face refines itself in your mind's eye. Deep-set brown eyes, prying behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Sentiment that teeters the tightrope between indifference and affection. The days have buried their thumbs into your obsession, urging it deeper, beyond professionalism. Nudging your lungs, finding place amidst life-sustaining organs to become one of its own. Now, veins wire through, supplying blood to what should not be encouraged, should not be sustained–

You think of him, anyway.

"A'll tell y'what." A blurry shape swipes for your face. You flinch, neck snapping back, before finding that the rest of your body can't follow suit, arm held in a vice grip by a set of gnarled fingers. Mr. Cook's hold curls into bone, urging a whole world of pain to match the terror storming through your head. Your blood pressure skyrockets. Stress whistles sirens behind your ears. "How 'bout you call a proper doctor in now, and put on a li'l show for me in th'meanwhile, eh?"

A multitude of scenes, each more harrowing than the last, unfurl at his implication. If you cannot wrench yourself from him, what's to say you can fight back should he decide to pull you closer? Oh god. Your wrist struggles, thrashing wildly, disregarding its wellbeing for the opportunity to screw out of his grasp. The clipboard clatters to the floor. Your heart palpitates arrhythmically, unsteady palpitations battering war drums on your ribs. Though you've been trained for this, you cannot regulate your response to adrenaline. The exercises given to you by your therapist scatter at the first sign of real turmoil. Your body shuts down. Things spiral out of your control.

But your assailant's condition is not usual. Where a healthy man would only grow more determined in your struggle, he lets his aggression get the best of him. Roaring, his legs kick from beneath tight-fitted sheets, arm shuddering with the force it takes to keep you tethered in place. Eventually, your panic grows too much for him to subdue. With a final push of your heel off the floor, you free yourself, stumble three steps back, and fall flat on your ass. Hurt, but safe.

Mr. Cook grumbles, moving on too quickly for someone who had been so passionate just moments ago.

Safe, safe, safe.

You force yourself to repeat only that as you straighten yourself out. Hone in the truth of the matter, and not what your body tries desperately to have you believe. Safe. It's just another patient with neurological deficits. Safe. You have reason to hand his check-ups to someone else.

Safe. There's a place you can go to sap this off your chest.

"I'll order a CT scan for later this afternoon. We will do our best to help you once the results come in. Have a good day, Mr. Cook."

Still, as you scuttle out into the white-lit hall, you feel anything but.

"Come in."

Dr. Riley's office is comparatively dark to the fluorescent rest of the hospital, brightened only by the warm light of his desk lamp. Though his curtains are drawn shut, beams of pink from the vibrant dusk outside sneak their way through, casting everything in a rich glow. The day has been long, leagues more taxing than usual. Stepping into the space offers brief respite, then, like sinking into bed to reach for better dreams.

He looks up at you, impassive. There's never any indication to how he truly feels – whether creeping adoration curls around his heart at the very sight of you, or if he reserves it for after hours – but you've found that the puzzle attracts you more than it pushes you away. You like feeling pinned under his scrutiny, a little lab mouse tested for its wit. Even now, with a whole host of real matters to discuss, you can't help but pick apart the minutia in his expression.

"Dr. Riley," You whisper, careful not to disturb the tranquillity.

"Yes?"

"Um, I'm so sorry to bother you–"

"No need for that." He clips, the liquid of his eyes shifting as they coast back to assess his screen. The monitor projects stark shadows onto his face, harsher than usual. Despite your... relationship, it's hard not to feel discouraged. He wouldn't look away if he were interested in what you had to say. "We're alone."

"Right." Clearing your throat, you shuffle through the glossy prints in your arms. Cross-sectional imaging from Mr. Cook's CT scans, annotated in your illegible hand. The aftershocks of your stress are evident in the writing; loopy letters boasting sharp corners, a liberal use of shorthand where it wouldn't be allowed. When you place them on his desk, you pray he doesn't take heed of it. "A patient who was admitted last night. Though the tomographs are nonspecific, I have reason to believe it might be a brain abscess. If that is the case, I'd like to schedule him for surgery as soon as possible, and I know you're in the OR tomorrow, so..."

He doesn't look up at you while you speak, opting instead to skim the analysis you've left for him in the margins. Only after a long moment's silence do his lashes quiver, a voiceless acknowledgement to your request. The details come later. Tomorrow morning, likely, assigned by Kyle upon clocking in.

"You'll serve as my resident."

Your lips part. Seeing Mr. Cook again, even while under the effects of anaesthesia, brings a queasy ache to your stomach. It's about the most unprofessional thing you could voice, however – more so than any nasty promise Dr. Riley whispers to you in private – so you settle on keeping it to yourself.

"Okay."

But he doesn't miss a thing. The warble in your tone catches his attention like steaming gore to a predator, jaw ticking as salivate floods his mouth. You should have schooled your emotions better, should have given it a good, long mourn before coming to see him – because if you know anything, you know that there's nothing he loves more than seeing you cry.

And now–

Now, it's too late to renege. You're on a fixed path, the only variable being a matter of time until when. The rush of it already devastates your throat, stone lodged in a white river rapid of sentiment. Warmth fogs your eyes. Prelude to collapse, tremors buried deep beneath the earth's crust come to light.

"Out with it." He says.

And your body serves him, better than it could ever serve you.

A sob breaks the dam, first – snarling, ugly thing, face screwing up in a vain effort to tamp the subsequent flow of tears. Your head feels heavy, weighed down by briny devastation and the culmination of your pressures. Yet catharsis never fails; immediately, you feel it unravelling, hiccups picking the presumably impossible knots in your chest until they are nothing more than strings, meant to eventually tie back up again.

So it goes.

But it doesn't matter here. Can't. Not when Dr. Riley scoots his seat back, clearing a space by his legs. Parting heaven's gates, a little sanctuary for the desperate. You run to it, crumpling to the floor to bury your wet face in his trousers, hugging the wide breadth of his calves. It is as though your troubles melt off your skin, wax held close to a flame. No cologne or scented-soap veils the true essence of him; him, who's able to pacify you with little word. Musk, traces of sweat, a sage and cedar-wood body wash that still clings to him, despite the day and several layers. You suck in a chest-straining whiff of it all, stitching your eyes shut to etch the smell into your memory.

"H-He was awful. Said I was... was good for n-nothing but bei-ing a whore." You sniff, curling tighter around him. A lab mouse indeed, basking in the hand that feeds it. His own – large, dry, warm – pets your nape, tugging a little at the baby hairs below your ear. Idly playing, as though your grief does not necessitate his full notice.

"Comes with the job, little thing." You know that. You know that – have heard it many a time from your parents, your therapists, your peers and higher-ups. Anyone who has ever been privy to your condition has warned you that the medical field is never stressless, that you'll spend years miserable until it grows to be too much. And he must feel your bristling, the discomfort his advice affords, for he moves on sooner than you can state your case. "Did he touch you?"

You doubt it's meant as more than a simple inquiry. Still, you fumble for the right answer. Though the one you tend to is yes, yes he did – a childish grasp for some cosseting – you wonder if he'll take your minor wounds seriously at all. Does it count if what you have to show for it are surface-level contusions? Or will it only warrant mention if you can match the fissures of his flesh?

Tucking your arm between your legs, you shake your head no. Dr. Riley's forehead creases, brows knitting together reflexively. The move must not have been subtle enough, because he extends an expectant hand, impatience igniting his tail. Bones work under the scarred skin of his knuckles, muscles rippling in the quarter-length of an exposed forearm. He doesn't need to say anything. Just sits there and waits, the ire emanating off him enough to urge you into lift your bruised wrist.

(Splitting to his will like brain matter to the knife.)

Anyone would look delicate when set against him, yet you marvel at the contrast nonetheless. It resembles porcelain, fine china in his grip. His thick fingers twist to inspect the splotchy discolouration, set there by Mr. Cook's hold.

"Does it hurt?"

"Only when– ah," You huff. His thumb presses into the tender flesh, recalling the pain you've worked all day to ignore. "you do that."

"Hm."

The words tumble from your tongue before you can catch them.

"Are you mad?" You ask, softly, then cringe as the question finds its place in the lull. It's an awkward echo, like the ocean gnawing desperately on shore, trying to make its mark in the sand. No matter how hard the spume and saltwater crashes, no matter the devastation it wreaks, it will always be pulled back, away from what it hardly affected.

(You used to liken him to choppy waters, feeling drowned in all his callousness. Yet as you wipe your tears with the back of your hand, your passions warring with each other within a vessel that cannot contain it, it has never been more clear that he is the earth. The ground. Unfixed, unmoved. It is an impossible endeavour for you, whose impact is as thin as the tides.)

More than anything, you covet an admission of his concern. Warmth to feel him in your corner, eternally there, even as your sight’s set on other horizons. With it, you'd be able to stand it all, you think.

"No." He says. "Brain abscesses can exacerbate aggressive behaviour. I don't fault him for that."

It needles right over where it hurts, mangling the softened muscle of your heart.

"Oh."

"But," Dr. Riley adds, guiding you to a wobbly stand. If he didn't plan on transferring you to his lap, you would have fallen right back down. As it is, though, he uses your fawn-like strength to nestle you across his thighs, brushing the flyaways from your temple. "Don't like seein' the marks on you."

Your cheeks heat. Pressing them into his collarbone, you speak against his pulse. It flutters, tandem to your breath. "I'll put a warm compress on it tonight."

"Better. Should only be mine you carry, pet." His voice vibrates through you, sound waves absorbing to become one with your body. Never did you think it could feel so good, yet as he continues to speak, you find yourself wishing that he’ll do so forever, eternal, so that you may weld together eventually.

"Sir…"

"Lift your head f'me." He whispers, nipping your jaw when you follow his instruction. Thin lips scratch your neck, chapped from the tight constraints of his mask and the dry hospital air. You dizzy to think of wetting them with your tongue, running the muscle along his cupids bow, sharp canines, dunking to map the inside of his cheeks. But that isn’t what this is; he’s made sure to clarify that, of all things.

So, you dip your head, neck arching to widen the canvas to his onslaught.

His groan is hot, ticklish as it fans over the area. You wriggle in his firm lap, coming to expect something much more permanent once he latches to your sweet spot. Practiced, trained to the hollow of your throat. Blood rushes to the capillaries sitting just under the skin there, bursting when it grows to be too much. Building pressure that takes away from your brain, your numbing extremities. Your cunt throbs, balmy and slick. He keeps a large hand anchored between your thighs as if he’s aware of what you’ll try to do without direction.

As a high whine pitches from your chest, and you darken to the shape of his maw, Dr. Riley doesn’t budge. He pushes further, rather. Digging his teeth into you, laving over the iron that surfaces. It hurts something terrible. If it weren’t so late into the night, you would doubtlessly be interrupted as a louder wail splits the sheltered office space, carrying through the labyrinth halls. Pain eclipses any internal worry, though. And perhaps that was the intention, mind buzzing with white noise once he pulls away.

Blinking, you clear the gossamer webs of delirium off your eyes. His mouth comes into view, first; swollen, tinted with a diluted wash of ichor, purpling with a bruise that no doubt mirror yours. You can only imagine what a mess he’s made of you, if the evidence of his own undoing is so stark.

The dual marks brings a dumb smile to your face.

“There.” He resolves, at last. It sounds like pride and feels a lot like damnation. “Good.”

You can’t help but agree.

(Even the earth will eventually erode away. Even the earth.)

[nigesakis]

adam survives, lawrence and him live together. adam doesn't know lawrence is an apprentice.

at first, adam thinks lawrence is just doing long shifts at his new job. theyve been through a lot and work can be distracting. but after a few months, maybe a year, adam gets suspicious.

lawrence cheated before, on his wife, and hes just a boyfriend. maybe lawrence only stayed with him out of guilt or pity. so he decides to follow him one day, see for himself. he knows how to do this.

he sees him drive to a warehouse, follows him in, sees corpses, blood, traps. everything he thought they had been trying to escape and that everything he had thought he knew was a lie

[j1g-s4w]

Do Something About It.

By j1g-s4w

A/N: I wrote this in like 5 hours while sitting in class and doing absolutely nothing at all. I kept thinking about what Adam must’ve felt and what he went through in those few days alone. Hope yall enjoy, it’s not my best work but it’s content 🌀

Word count: 3,680

Character count: 19,025

‼️WARNING‼️

This content is a little graphic. Talk of rotting bodies, pee and poo. If you are uncomfortable with reading about those sorts of things, either do I not read or read with discretion.

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Day 1

“Game over.”

The man looming in the now dimly lit doorway pulled the heavy door shut, leaving Adam completely swallowed in darkness. His ankle strained against the metal chain binding him to the rusty wall pipe, his right arm outstretched, reaching out to the hope he once had, and his throat raw from his screamed out sobs. His body went limp after a moment of begging and wailing for mercy. The shot wound in his shoulder was inflamed and swelling. As he lay on the now blood stained tile, he brought his hand up to his shoulder and grasped it tightly, hoping to stop some of the bleeding. The pain was like a sharp burn. It reminded him of his 6th birthday party, when Scott Tibbs, his best friend at the time, had stabbed him with a rusty nail. It was the same burning sensation in his new wound that he had felt once before. The same burning sensation filled in his throat, another feeling that he was all too familiar with. His mind drifted to the man who had left him that wound. His eyes began to pool, and he wept as he still held his shoulder. The pain was almost unbearable, but it was all he left to remember that man by.

“Lawrence..”

Adam continued to sob and his mind was left racing with thoughts of where Lawrence could be or if he was really coming back.

A few minutes passed, his sobs came to a gradual stop. He remained on the floor, staring up at the ceiling to allow his eyes to adjust to the pitch black bathroom. Lying in the dark like this reminded him of the many nights he’d lose power and would have to navigate through his dark and cluttered apartment. Adam was often exhausted from his ‘day job’ so the dark never bothered him much. Come to think of it now, he never really used that much electricity anyways. All of the bill always went to the damn dark room equipment. It was like a loop. Process the photos, make money off of those photos, and use that money to pay the bill to make more photos. He had forgotten to pay the electric bill quite a few times, and he had forgotten again about a week ago. Last night, when he had come home to process his newest pictures, he had fallen asleep at his desk, which he did often. Waking up a few hours later in complete darkness wasn’t a shock, but it was certainly annoying. He remembered grabbing his flashlight.. no batteries. He remembered hearing something. Grabbing his camera. That doll. And he remembered opening that closet. If he had just swung his bat as soon as he opened it, this could’ve all been avoided. He could’ve gone on with his life. The little life he had anyways.

Adam had always wanted to be a vet growing up, but he was never really good in school. Maybe if he had swung that bat, he would’ve still had a chance. Then this bathroom would’ve remained empty, painless, and quiet. But Adam knew he wouldn’t become a vet. He would’ve remained himself; pathetic, poor, and a voyeur. And that man. The blonde man who once stood at the opposite side of the room. He would’ve remained a nameless man who stood as Adam’s muse. His model and his work of art. His source of financial income and a secret he kept to himself. But that man did have a name. And he had a job, a wife, a child, and a secret of his own. Adam didn’t care though, at least not before. Lawrence may have only been a project to him, but now he wasn’t so sure anymore. The 6 hours that were spent together with him showed Adam that he was in fact a human, too. He may have been cold, maybe even condescending at times, but he knew Lawrence cared about his family. Adam had family too, but seeing someone act out of pure desperation and insanity just to see their family again made him question things. He knew he needed to reach out to his mom again. He thought about it a lot. But now, he meant it. He kept telling himself that once he got out, once he was free, he’d call his mom and apologize. Maybe he’d even apply to vet school.

There was a stray cat that would hang out in the stairwell of his apartment building. Every day and every night, anytime he’d see the cat, he’d give it a gentle stroke and then be on his way. In his head, he had named the cat Flash, but he knew that if he ever said it out loud, he’d grow too attached to the thing and he couldn’t afford a cat anyways. Now, he’d do anything to see that cat again.

His eyes had adjusted to the dark and he crooked his head up to look over to the door. How he wished that door would open to reveal Lawrence back with help, or someone who had just stumbled upon the place. Or even the damn cat. But the door stayed shut and the air remained stale and still. The pain in his shoulder hadn’t fully subsided, but he was now used to the pulsing and the sting. He sat up from the floor and his eyes were instantly planted on the corpse in front of him. The man that he had beaten to death. Panic had set it once again and he used all of the leg strength he had to push it as far from him as he could. The metal chain dragging and scraping the floor made him cringe and he could feel himself becoming angry again. He reached up the wall and rose to his feet to try and get a better grasp on what to do, if he could even do anything. His eyes were squinted, not a single drop of light anywhere, and the room was too dark to make out any real details. He raised his hands to his head and began to sway and pace slightly to calm himself down. He felt hopeless. It felt like hours had passed when it had only been 20 minutes. Adam sat himself on the edge of the bathtub and cupped his head in his hands. They were filthy. One stained a slight yellowish brown color up to the elbow and both covered in dust, dirt, and blood. But it just looked like a black stain now in the darkness.

While sitting in the silence, any sound, drip, or creek made his eyes shoot open with hope. 20 minutes turned into 30, then 40, then an hour. He had sat himself back in the corner on the floor and rested his head against the broken wall tiles. He doesn’t remember when, or even how he fell asleep, but he had woken up feeling groggy after a few hours had passed. There was no telling in what time it was or how long it had been now. When his eyes fully opened, he was hit with realization that this wasn’t a bad dream. He sighed heavily and the deep breath he took in smelled of mildew and rot. It was enough to make him gag, but he was able to hold down the urge to vomit. That would only make things worse. His body felt sticky and hot. He reached to the hem of his blood soaked shirt and pulled it up and over his head. His shoulder ached, the bullet was still nested deep inside, but surely the doctor who put it there knew what he was doing. Adam knew that his body would be too weak to fight off any sort of infection. He tossed his ruined shirt off to the side and brought his hand up to the injured shoulder. His breathing was now heavy, and the pain was getting worse. It felt like a burning welt or blister. The bullet was practically begging to come out. He took a few shaky breaths and placed his fingers onto the entrance of the wound. He sucked the air through his teeth, his fingers felt like fire next to his new bodily trauma. He held his breath and slowly but firmly inched his fingers into the hole. His eyes filled with tears as he choked for air. He let out a suppressed scream as he inched in deeper, finally feeling where the bullet had been lodged. Taking a few seconds to regain some strength, he takes another deep breath, but this time is unaffected by the odorized air and is too focused on this agonizing self procedure. He grabs the bullet between his finger and thumb and starts to pull. The pain is like nothing he had ever experienced before. His face was wet with tears and spit as he continued to pull and scream to fight off the pain. Finally, his fingers and the bullet withdrew from the wound and he was brought a feeling of slight relief. The pain was still present, but now it felt empty. No more pressure, and a hope that it may start to heal normally now.

Adam held the bullet tightly in his hand, not really knowing why. He took a few slow breaths and closed his eyes. The room was still hot and he was covered in his own blood, tears, spit and sweat. He longed to take a shower or even a nice bath. As a kid, his mom would always run him a bath after a long day of playing outside. His eyes shot open and his gaze adverted to the dark and dingy bathtub.

“As if.”

He knew he would never take another bath again. The thought of being submerged in water in such a small space; it would be like waking up in here all over again. Adam reached over to his damp, balled up shirt and used the very few spots without blood to try and soak up some of his sweat. It was really no use, he’d just end up sweating more. But he did anything he could right now to pass the time. But it didn’t even feel like time was passing. He felt like he was waiting for nothing now, but he still sat and waited. What else was there to do?

Adam still had the bullet in his grip and he brought it closer to his face to try and get a good look at it. It was slightly sticky from the slow drying blood all over it, but he didn’t really register that. As he stared at it, his mind went back to that doctor. The look of his face when he was sprawled out in front of Adam and wailing about his wife and daughter. He wondered if Lawrence meant to shoot him in the shoulder, or if it was a ‘happy’ accident. Maybe Lawrence had been so far gone in that moment, he didn’t care if Adam lived or died. But he did live, and he didn’t understand why.

Adam was never very religious, but right now, he couldn’t help but look at that bullet and wonder. If God wasn’t real, then why did he survive? Was it out of pure coincidence, or was someone or something ensuring his survival? No. He knew there was no way that any god would allow any of this to happen. Even though he had survived, he still has to live with everything that happened. He wrapped his fist tightly around the bullet and considered chucking it across the room. But he couldn’t do it. In his hand, he held the only thing that kept him connected to that doctor. To Lawrence. His only hope for freedom and survival now.

He threw his head back and leaned against the wall once again, still holding the bullet tightly. His shoulder was still pulsing, his face red from tears, and his whole body stiff and sore. All he could do was wait.

Day 2

Adam opened his eyes once again to still find himself in the same spot. The hunger in his stomach had become too hard to ignore and his bladder felt like a balloon. He reached his hand up to search for a pipe to help lift him off the ground. His body started to feel weak and it ached all over. He shifted his way over to the tub and unbuttoned his jeans so he could at least take a piss. His head felt heavy and the darkness started to play into his disorientation. As he leaned over the tub, the piss hit loud against the rusty metal. The heat and lack of ventilation caused the smell of fresh urine to infect the air, but Adam was too desensitized to notice. Once he was finished, he dropped back down to the floor in front of the tub and sighed. His head was pounding. Probably from fear.

Was Lawrence even coming back? How long had it been? He brushed the hair out of his face with his hand. The room was getting hotter by the second and he was drenched in sweat. The smell of the room had caught up with him now and it filled his nostrils with stale, thick air. It smelled now like piss, rot and iron. He put his hand on his mouth, gagging again at the smell but repressing any sort of need to puke.

All the attention was now suddenly on the door. A clatter was heard from the other side. Could it be Lawrence? Was he finally back? Was he finally going to be able to experience freedom again?

He waited..

Silence.

He waited a little longer.

More silence.

He was able to call out.

“Hello..?”

His throat was dry and his voice was raspy. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had water, but now it was all he wanted. All he wanted was water, a shower, that stupid cat and that stupid fucking doctor.

He felt angry and annoyed when there was no response. He grabbed a small piece of the broken tile off the floor and threw it across the room. He felt betrayed. Abandoned. Deep down he knew he wasn’t getting out of there. He reached down to throw another peice of tile, but his hand landed back on the bullet. He picked it up and examined it in his fingers. And he felt the sadness and pain raise in his stomach. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream. He wanted to get the hell out of that room. He clutched the bullet in his fist now and threw it. It made a clattering noise before it landed in its new permanent home, and the room fell completely silent once again.

As he sat there, now feeling helpless, he thought about the people who might look for him if they ever noticed. He wanted to believe that Lawrence would come back, but by the looks of it, he may have been dead. His body somewhere a few feet outside the door, decaying while Adam sits and waits for him. His savior who will never arrive.

His mother would probably never know. She’d continue on thinking her son just stopped calling. Stopped caring. The only person he could think of that might actually ‘care’ was Scott. He knew that Scott would only care though because he takes pictures for Scott’s band. One no-show and Scott would be livid. At least it meant a shot at hope.

Adam’s eyes felt heavy. There was nothing else to do in this room but sleep and think. And he couldn’t fight the mental exhaustion that pulled him back into slumber. His head was leaning on the bathtub edge and the hard floor started to hurt his ass. But he didn’t want to move. He could feel depression settling into him. His dreams were only a replay of the things that happened a day prior. Only in the dream, it was Adam that had sawed off his own foot. And it was Adam who had pointed that gun at Lawrence and pulled the trigger. Seeing Lawrence fall to the ground with a lifeless thud made Adam jump awake. The sudden movement sent a sharp pain to his shoulder, still agape and probably infected despite his makeshift extraction. His neck was stiff, but he tried to look around the room. Nothing had changed. The adrenaline in his chest died down and his mind was brought back to his bitter reality. Somehow though, the dream felt worse. At least in the room now, it’s quiet. And he’s alone.

Adam dragged himself along the floor and back into his corner, and sat with his knees now pressed against his bare chest. His mind was left wandering, constantly on the thought of what happened to Lawrence. He had made a promise that he would come back, so something had to have happened. As Adam thought about it, he thought that maybe the same nameless man who rose from the dead and locked him in this room, killed Lawrence too. But he could feel something in his gut telling him that Lawrence was okay. That he was alive. That feeling made him sick. He didn’t know how to truly feel towards that man now. He wanted to hate him. To resent him. But he still held onto that hope that maybe he’d walk through that door and maybe everything would be alright. Maybe.

Day 3

Adam had passed out with his head on his knees. When he woke, he was already used to the hazy sight and stink of the room. His neck and back were stiff, and the sweat that coated his body was thick and sticky. His felt dizzy, which helped distract him a bit from the pain everywhere else in his body. He let his legs fall down to the floor, and he sat there limp. Every now and then, he’d feel a sharp pain from his stomach. The man was starving. He rested his hands gently across his stomach and squeezed his eyes closed. Right then, Adam began to pray. He didn’t know who he was praying to, or what he was praying for. Tears started to seep from his eyes. All he could do was beg.

“Please please please please..please…please…”

His begging for mercy turned into sobs. He felt truly alone and afraid. He was afraid of dying alone. Being forgotten. It seemed as though he already had been. Lawrence wasn’t coming. No one was coming.

He felt useless. He thought about what that man on the tape said. Adam was ‘angry and apathetic. But mostly just pathetic’. Even now his anger was present, but had no energy to show for it. However his apathy had been changed forever. He had learned something from this so called ‘game’ and it was that everyone, no matter who, is a person. A human being with a life that must be cherished and taken care of. If he was able to learn, then why was he still being punished? Did Lawrence learn anything? No. But his game wasn’t about learning. That may have been the goal, but he did what he did out of desperation. He did what he did because he couldn’t handle losing. If he had learned something, then he would’ve come back for Adam.

The passing hours all blurred together. Adam had no clue how long he had been there now. He was ready to give up. His body was weakening and his sweat glaze caused him to start shivering. He grabbed for his shirt, still bunched up next to him and put it back over his head, aching. The blood was dry and caked into the shirt, but he didn’t care. His now cold body felt weaker than it ever had. He dropped his arms to his sides out of exhaustion and he let his head rest against the pipes behind him. He didn’t care to do anything else now. All he wanted was sleep.

Day 4

He hadn’t moved an inch since he had dozed off. His chest was barely moving as he breathed. He was still alive physically, but mentally he was already dead. He had let go of hope. In his half awake state, he thought he had heard someone open the door and maybe even a flash of light. But he convinced himself it wasn’t real. It was a dream.

But then he felt the touch of another human being. He tried to open his eyes, but the light from the flashlight was too bright for him now. He could hear the voice of a woman. Her voice felt familiar, but he couldn’t figure out how, and he didn’t care. He felt hope and happiness wash over him as she tried to move his body. He was far weaker than he had been previously, and wasn’t able to hold himself up well. He could still hear her talking, but wasn’t focusing on her words. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He was ready to be free again. He thought about his mother and how he would call her as soon as he could. He thought about that stupid cat- Flash. And how he’d take him in. For once, Adam felt excited about living.

It was all ripped away from him when he felt that plastic wrapping cover his face. It was like getting locked in that room again. He wanted to fight. He wanted to punch, hit, kick and scream. But he couldn’t. His body and mind were too far gone. He tried, but to no avail. In his last moments, the tape replayed in his head again. ‘You might be in the room that you die in. So are you going to watch yourself die today Adam? Or do something about it?’

He may have won his game, but he never did anything about it. He won because Lawrence cheated. And he lost for the very same reason.

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🌀

[wildlife4life]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @spaceprincessem @exhuastedpigeon @spotsandsocks @devirnis @lover-of-mine @sibylsleaves @hoodie-buck @loserdiaz @daffi-990 and @ladydorian05 Thank you all so much! I look forward to all your fics!

Alright, so yesterday I asked basically for permission to work on my Halloween fics instead of NFL Buck and many of you said to do it. So just for a short time, I will be pausing on NFL Buck. I promise it is still being worked on a bit, but most of my concentration will be on my Halloween fics, which I really hope I can actually get done before Halloween.

Also, I cannot promise that I will be posting much more for tag games this weekend. My daughter is having minor surgery on Friday that we are going out of town for (hospital where I am was a year out), so I will be making most of the weekend taking care of her. I will try my very best to post something, but no promises.

Now that I've caught ya'll up, I know I mentioned a possible werewolf buddie fic. Well that is not this today. Instead I am bringing back Jigsaw Buck, my serial killer fic based off the Saw films. Previous post can be found here.

Warning below the cut. Description of grotesque death and also Devon's suicide. ENJOY!

Pretending to care, to have those emotions that make him approachable and later ignored, is hard work. Buck slipped just a little once.  After losing Devon on the roller coaster.  Of course, Buck wanted him to fight for his life, to see how much better it could be after the game was won, but in end, it wasn’t enough. And that was on Devon. But his old fire captain somehow took his quick acceptance as a form of shock and sent him to department therapy. Buck hated therapists. They were of the few who had the power to peer past the layers, rip off the masks, and see the twisted bloody hunk of flesh that resembled what remained of his dead brother-in-law. Cold with no emotion to be found; just the void that demands the retribution of others. Thankfully (and somewhat unfortunately), Dr. Wells was too distracted by the shiny layer that is firefighter Buckley to actually do her job.  Sadly, she abused the small amount of power she held in her delicate, manicured hands and tried to sexually exploit the man she was supposed to help. When Buck dug around a bit and found her many other victims, well it was a good thing Dr. Wells had such a precise schedule. It was almost too easy grabbing her in the blind spot of her office’s cameras. Too bad the therapist spent most of her given time, screaming that she did no wrong. That those she exploited wanted what she forced upon them, that she didn’t abuse the power she held. And when those last few precious second ticked away, Buck stepped into the room, saddened by her reluctance to take the second chance, learn her lesson. “Game over.” He told her bluntly then turned away, unable to witness his masterful contraption drill into her skull. The whirring tool flung ringlets of bone, blood, hair, and brain matter across the room and onto the floor. The key to her freedom, sat unused in a box just a mere two feet away. The price…a single hand, relinquishing the power she held in it and a tool of her neglect.

Dr. Wells isn't the first or the last of Buck's victims. Spoiler: Eddie will be a subject to Buck's games as well. Mwhaha.

Tagging (no pressure): @callaplums @elvensorceress @eowon @rogerzsteven @hippolotamus @disasterbuckdiaz @thekristen999 @theotherbuckley @wikiangela @giddyupbuck @watchyourbuck @buddierights @cowboy-buck @jesuisici33 @fortheloveofbuddie @forthewolves @try-set-me-on-fire @eddiediaztho @eddiebabygirldiaz @thewolvesof1998 @lizzybizzyzzz @shortsighted-owl @homerforsure @monsterrae1 @911onabc @adiazhalloween @housewifebuck @honestlydarkprincess @bvckandeddie @arthursdent @glorious-spoon @bigfootsmom @athenagranted @rainbow-nerdss @gayhoediaz @gayedmundodiaz

[cease-your-release]

Another Not-so-Willing Associate

Out on the hunt for your next victim, your plans are cut short by a mysterious swine-faced figure. After a stress-filled chase and classic forest floor scuffle, you may just find yourself with a new business partner. (1,582)

Content warning(s): Minor violence, knife and blood mention, light neck cutting, chasing, wrestling

Part 2 of "Conundrum of Carnage" Part 1

Also on AO3!

You’re tracking someone down, walking far behind him on the street. After weeks of preparation, everything is in place, and all you need is the lucky soul. Eventually, when you get an opening and you’re close enough, you grab him and pull them into the alleyway-

When, suddenly, you’re forcefully shoved to the ground.

You stumble, but quickly recover and look up through your mask to see a large figure in a black windbreaker jacket and realistic pig mask, and that is definitely not who you were chasing after. The stranger that has interrupted your plans stares down at you, their grip still on the person you’d been stalking, as you look up at them from where you were laid out on the ground.

Your breath gets heavier as the adrenaline picks up, your heart pumping fast in your chest as hot blood rushes through your veins. You glance from the assailant to your meant-to-be victim, seeing him unconscious as the person holds them up by the coat with one hand like it’s nothing. You’ve had difficult prey before, some who put up a decent fight, but never anything like this. You don’t know who this person is, but they sure as Hell don’t look like a friend of either you or the sleeping body in their grasp.

With no hesitation you get to your feet, then dash past the stranger to run out of the alleyway and to the park across the street.

The figure, mostly likely a man, lets out a low, angered groan, releasing the unconscious person in his hand, causing them to just drop to the ground like a bag of potatoes. He turns and sprints after you, giving chase as you run into the park.

You hear the exclamation, and the ensuing footsteps, loud and heavy on the pavement. You practically dive into the wooded area behind the swing sets, not stopping or slowing despite the branches whipping your arms and legs through your clothes, not that the epinephrine coursing through your body allows you to feel the burn of them, anyway. As you weave between trees and hop over rocks, branches and foliage as you rush through the woods. The hooded figure continues to give chase, barreling into the forested area and crashing through the brush with absolutely no regard for himself, all with the sole focus of reaching you.

Though you’re quick, the figure catches up soon enough. You feel and hear the presence behind you, getting closer while you have nowhere to go but forward, but it’s not enough. You hope that if you just keep going, maybe he’ll get tired, or trip, just one wrong step is all it would-

Your frantic thoughts are cut short by strong arms that wrap around your frame, then the weight that brings you to the ground.

The man quickly mounts you and holds you down beneath his weight, pinning you to the dirt and leaf-littered ground, his hands wrapped tightly around your arms and holding them down. You fight the whole way, obviously, kicking your legs and thrashing your arms. It’s actually pretty difficult for him at the rate you’re going. Even once you’re truly pinned, there isn’t much room to move, though you still try.

He has to adjust his weight over you in multiple directions to keep you from moving too wildly, but the extra effort just seems to frustrate him even more. Suddenly, he wraps a large hand around your wrists and pins them above your head. “Damn it, stop struggling or I’ll snap your arms off!” His voice is deep and muffled by the pig mask covering his face, but the threatening tone comes right through.

You don’t recognize the voice right away, but you hear the command well enough, and that does make you stop, because he definitely seems strong enough to actually do it. That doesn’t at all stop the sheer panic, though. That’s when you see his free hand reach for the mask on your face, and start struggling again, turning your head away frantically.

The fact that you stop struggling doesn’t ease his tone whatsoever, he’s only growing more irritated with every passing second. He tries to grab at the bottom of your mask, to lift it up and off, but seeing your struggle in response causes him to let out an angry snarl, his hand releasing your wrists only to grab your jaw with enough force to make you wince. “Stop it, stop!” he growls, pushing down on your face to try and keep your face steady, “Don’t. Move.”

After a momentary grunt of pain and a short dizzy feeling, you blink your eyes open and think as quick as you can. You take advantage of your new lack of restraint, and in response to your hands being freed, reach up to pull his own mask off. It’s rather easy, given that it’s completely latex and the snout of the pig hangs down rather close. And once you get a good look, you gasp.

All at once, the rage immediately leaves his face as the shock of having his identity exposed washes over him. He freezes completely, with the exception of his eyes widening as he hears you breath of surprise. “��You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Mark Hoffman utters, his voice no longer muffled and now clearly recognizable, just like his face.

Your own mask is pulled off next, revealing yourself to him as well. But, instead of staying in the shock for too long, you quickly reach a hand up, revealing a knife now pressed to his throat.

Mark’s eyes widen further as the cool, sharp edge hit’s his skin, his gaze immediately going panic-stricken. He stares at you with complete bewilderment as he sees that the person he’s been chasing, and now has pinned down beneath him, is you.

“Get the fuck off of me.” You say coldly, but the fear behind it is undeniable.

He raises his hands in surrender, letting go of your face and keeping them visible to you as he starts to slowly lift himself up.

You quickly get yourself to your feet until you’re standing, keeping the blade on him the entire time and backing him up against a tree as he sits, scooting back on his hands. You rip your mask from his grasp and put it back on, staring at him. “I fucking knew you were working with Jigsaw. You’re stupidly obvious, you know that?”

Mark watches you as you put your mask back on, the shock starting to leave his expression as you finish speaking. “You knew?” he asks bluntly, with genuine bafflement to his tone.

“Of course I did. You walk around like you’re untouchable, I can practically smell the self righteousness on you.” You seethe, the anger clear in your voice. “Just like him, aren’t you? All of that ‘technically never killed anyone’ bullshit. Coming from an actual murderer, if you’re gonna do it, own up to it. Coward.”

He narrows his eyes at you as you speak. A myriad of emotions wash over him as he listens to your harsh words. “Self righteous?” He says incredulously, a sharp laugh escaping through his clenched teeth, “You know nothing about me. You have no idea.”

“I know enough.” You retort, pressing the knife further into his neck, breaking the skin just slightly. The small, almost undetectable cut that forms on his neck as a result draws a very thin, small trickle of blood to the surface. “And now, you’ve ruined my kill. I had everything set for that prick, and you messed it up! He’s probably already awake and running to tell the police about it. Not that it matters much to you though, huh, detective?”

That comment causes a scowl appears on his face. He ignores your question, because you’re completely right, and instead continues with a steely tone, “It wasn’t your kill to take.”

“Oh, but it was yours?” You ask incredulously. “Since when are you the one who makes that decision? You fuckin’ cops.. you think everything you say goes, and your moral code is the only one. You’re so full of yourself.”

His glare remains on you silently, a mixture of outrage and frustration evident in his heated stare and tense expression as his hands ball into fists.

You tilt your head at him then, forcing yourself to calm down with a deep breath. “It seems like we’re in a situation here, detective…” You muse, looking him up and down, though he can’t see that through the mask. “You know who I am, but I know what you are. You can’t snitch on me, because you know I’ll talk. So… I’d say you’re under my thumb now.”

The frustration and anger on his face falters slightly, his eyebrows pinching upward a little before he can collect himself. His jaw grinds, and he looks entirely unhappy with that predicament. “You wouldn’t.” he spits, but his voice lacks certainty.

A small laugh escapes you at that. “You’ve read my cases, you know damn well how much I would.” You snap back, leaning in a bit closer as your voice drops. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you on this fine evening, partner.”

The word comes off like a taunt, making his glower at you darken even further. But that’s about all he can do. You’re right, and he knows it.

Once again, the detective finds himself being another not-so-willing associate to yet another serial killer.

[kvetchinglyneurotic]

i'm getting back into writing original fic after my fanfic vacation and the good news is that having a lot more eyes on my work has made me less nervous about posting. the bad news is that i now remember the other reason i never really got into original fic circles online, which is that i'm lazy. what do you mean i have to introduce the characters and premise