#he is giving grey hairs before I’m 25

[jackattack20writes]

It’s really fun how Kubo clearly has it out for me specifically. Like I do not care if ships I don’t like are canon in anything. I don’t care that Naruto ended up with Hinata, Percy ended up with annabeth, hinny, the bs with Blair in yugioh gx, eremika, the deletion of jadewalker, just the rebuilds in general, none of that matters to me cause if i want the ships i like 99% of the time fanfic/art is just better.

But fucking Kubo.

He just won’t stop.

So i can’t stop thinking about them and just accept them as non canon. They exist in this schrodinger’s canon.

Like what the fuck man? Why is your “recap of the key moments of Bleach.” Just a fucking IchiRuki AMV? The canon relationships get like two frames with the leads and they’re fucking group shots! Like what the fuck?

This is like if Sarada had blonde hair and whisker marks. Honest to god I swear the last scene of the anime isn’t gonna be the footprint it’s gonna be it’s a tragedy in impact font covering the screen.

[always-just-red]

I NEED some angst+comfort with Zayne PLEASE. It could be anything, the reader being run over in front of him, him being stressed about work and being mean to the reader... Literally anything

This was my first request, so thank you so much! I started this last night with a cup of tea and an "I'm sure I can manage some angst for Zayne, why not?" sort of attitude, and it culminated with me evil laughing to myself at 3am. Enjoy I guess? 😭

Reserved

Zayne x Reader ❄

Summary: You've been looking forward to this dinner with Zayne for a week, but it seems he has other priorities.

Genre: angst, SO MUCH angst (but sshhhh... we save it with some comfort... 👀)

Warnings/Additional tags: established relationship, fluff, uses of y/n, reader is feeling neglected, Zayne gets a tiny bit mean

| Word count: 1.2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Zayne… c’mon. Let’s go.”

You feel like a child, whining for what feels like the hundredth time in the last half hour, but you’ve little else left to do. You’re perched on Zayne’s desk, having long ago lost respect for the sanctity of his workspace, and you pout as you stare down at the phone in your palm. The screen is lit up by a reminder you’d set a week ago: Reservation. The Cerulean. 8 o’clock.

It’s 8:25, and you’ve snoozed it five times already— each time more pointedly than the last.

“Just a minute,” Zayne mumbles.

“You said that an hour ago!”

The man hums in acknowledgment, but he doesn’t look up from his computer. His face is bathed in the ghoulish light of the screen, his glasses shining as he dips his head— just a fraction— to glance at the paperwork spread before him. You give him his minute: let second after second tick by, though you mark each one with an idle tap on the desk’s cold surface.

A murmur: “Stop that, please.” His patience is thinning too.

You’re feeling petty, because you’ve been listening to the patter of his keyboard forever and it’s driving you insane. You purse your lips and tap louder. One second. Tap. Two seconds. Tap. Three. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Stop it.” Zayne’s hand catches yours, his grip soft, but his face stern.

And he still won’t look at you.

He releases your hand, and his dutiful fingers are back to their post, pattering away. With a huff, you come away from his desk, stalking past him to the window, where you fold your arms and study the barren street below. The view is obscured by the dark and the drops of rain that carve hazy trails down the glass. You can just about make out a couple, emerging from the hospital’s entrance. No uniforms. A patient and their other half, and they’re leaning on each-other— no— pushing each-other, competing for the cover of an umbrella that’s much too small. They’re laughing, you think.

Your chest aches.

“Zayne,” you press.

His chair rolls back, wheels harsh on the floor, and he’s standing, logging out of his computer with a final, few clacks. “I’m done,” he snaps, but his tone says otherwise. He tugs his coat from the back of his chair. “We can go.”

…

You sit on the edge of the wet pavement, rain seeping from your hair and soaking the fabric of your clothes. You should be cold, but you’re not. You’re nothing. Your eyes are cast downwards and all you see is grey, though it’s illuminated by an orange glow.

Behind you, light bleeds through the windows of a busy restaurant. Zayne is still in there, playing diplomat. Playing doctor: always trying to fix things.

Your phone buzzes, and you slip it from its home in your coat pocket. There’s a message: having fun? Then another: ur welcome, miss bodyguard.

Rafayel. He knows a guy who knows the guy who owns this place, so you’d called in a favour. You and Zayne had been drowning in work for a week: him, overwhelmed by new patients at the hospital, and you, out hunting the wanderers that had put them there. Linkon is getting worse. Everything is getting worse, and you just wanted one, single night for yourself.

Well, not just yourself.

The monotonous drum of the rain breaks to the creak of an opening door, but you don’t react. “Y/N?” Zayne sounds far away. “Where did you— Y/N!?”

Footsteps echo on the pavement behind you, splitting puddles, and the orange light is gone. You’re trapped by a shadow that’s talking, speaking your name, but you pretend you can’t hear it. Let him say it a hundred times. A thousand; you can wait.

“Just a minute,” you lilt, your voice dripping spite.

You’re going to sit here for an hour.

“Y/N…” The doctor is oh so patient. “Please get up. You’ll catch a cold if you—”

“Good!” you spit, rounding on him. “Then why don’t I check myself into the hospital? Maybe then you’ll actually think about me once in a while!”

Zayne is towering over you: a small, wet, pathetic little thing, but you still make him draw back. His virescent eyes are wide, his lips parted ever so slightly. He almost always knows what to say, but this is an exception.

After a long moment, he moves around you. Slowly, he lowers himself to sit at your side.

“Do you have any idea,” you start, staring out across the slick road, “how selfish you make me feel? How much I hate myself when I… when I ask you to…”

The confession catches in your throat. It hurts, but you force it out anyway:

“What you do is so important, Zayne. You’re saving lives. You’re giving people back to their families, their loved ones, and you’re amazing for that. I think you’re amazing for that. But I miss you. It feels like I have to share you with the rest of the world, and I know I have no right to ask it, but sometimes? Sometimes I just… want you to be mine.”

You’re looking down, now. Hugging your knees— burying your face, so he won’t see you cry. There’s rain and salt in your mouth, and you wish he would say something. Anything. 

You have to wait a few seconds, but then you feel it: something heavy being draped over your shoulders. His coat. Then his arm is around you, drawing you close, closer, until you’re nestled against his chest.

“You have every right to ask,” he soothes, his tone so warm when it’s compensating for the rest of him. “I am yours, Y/N. I will always be yours.”

“But your work—”

“Can wait,” he finishes for you. “I know I forget that sometimes. And I’m sorry. But you?”

He lifts your chin, gazing down at you with something you can only describe as adoration.

“There is nothing in this world more important to me than you.”

Your heart flutters at the words and the feathery touch of his thumb on your cheek, wiping away a tear. It’s futile in a downpour, but it still makes you smile. Rain is spattering on your forehead, some dripping from his now-soaked hair, and you laugh as he tries to dry your face with his sleeve.

“You’re important to me, too,” you manage between chuckles, “and I’m sorry, too.” Your cheeks are flushed, even in the cold. “Let’s go home, yeah?”

“No.” A statement: not up for debate. Zayne untangles your limbs from his as he helps you stand. “We have a reservation.”

“We had a reservation. They gave away our table, Zayne.”

“Did they?”

There’s a hint of smugness. “Wait… what did you—”

He nods at the restaurant, and you follow his glistening gaze to where a waiter is holding the door— a menu clutched above his head, shielding him from the rain. He’s looking back at you. Waiting.

“Rafayel isn’t the only one with friends in high places,” Zayne smiles, leaning down to speak into your ear, and it makes you shiver. “The head chef is a friend of mine. I saved his brother’s life, you know.”

[roostersbby69]

0.2 | For old times sake

Summary: Bradley hasn’t gotten any action with his wife. They didn’t have kids, not because of their jobs, but because she just didn’t want to anymore. Bradley had a very high sex drive, and his maid that his wife hired might just give him a memory refresh of how good sex is.

Warnings: age gap,(reader is 25 and Mr. Bradshaw is 36)

Pairing: Rooster x maid!reader

Word count: girl I don’t even know

For old times sake masterlist. Full masterlist.

Sunday couldn’t come fast enough, Bradley doesn’t know why he found himself anticipating for you to come back in your short shorts and tan legs to clean his house.

It was currently 2:00 and he caught himself checking the time almost every five minutes.

You did a great job on Friday, for your first day, the house smelled great, the air seemed cleaner, and his overall mood had lifted.

“You need to get on the yard work today.” Isabelle walked into the room and set her hands on her hips.

Bradley swore she always acted like a child in situations, it wouldn’t kill her to say please.

He looked at her and nodded, “I’ll get on it.” He turned back to the game and closed his eyes.

He heard her scoff and grab her bag from the floor before slamming the front door shut.

He opened his eyes and groaned, he checked the time and read that it was 2:05. He squeezed his eyes shut and peeked one open, hoping it would be 3:00, nope 2:06. Shit.

He put on some shorts and his old sneakers before going out to the garage and grabbing the lawnmower. It was a smaller hand held one since they lived in a crappy neighborhood.

He yanked it out and took it to the back yard inside the fence. He attempted to crank it but it sputtered and shut off.

“Damn it.” He groaned and walked to the garage again to look for some gas.

He rummaged through the junk inside, from old Christmas decor, old photo boxes, and old furniture.

He heard a car pull up and lifted his head in curiosity, surely Isabelle hadn’t come home this early. At least he hoped not.

He saw a smaller car pull up beside his blue Bronco, that Isabelle hated, and turned the vehicle off.

He didn’t recognize this particular car, it better not be someone dropping off yet another package for Isabelle.

His gaze softened when you hopped out of the car, today you had on light pink shorts, almost similar to the white ones you wore yesterday, they were equally as short, your hair was up once again in a clip, and you wore a grey tank top.

You hummed as you shut the driver door and opened the back to take out your bag. You locked your car and made your way to the front door and knocked,

Bradley snapped out of his daze and stumbled over the junk to get out of the garage.

“Hey!” He called and got your attention.

You spun around and clutched your heart, “Oh my goodness! You scared me.” You sighed once you realized it was just Mr. Bradshaw.

“Sorry.” He snorted and walked out of the garage, “You’re here early.”

You nodded, “Yeah I just finished classes and I live a couple minutes away so I decided id just come straight here. I hope that is okay.”

He shook his head, “Not a problem at all.”

“What are you doing?” You asked and craned your neck to look inside the messy room.

“Oh, I’m just looking for a gas can for the law mower.” He turned around and scanned the room again.

“Is that it right there, behind that pot?” You set your bag down and walked over to the side of the garage and peeked behind a pot.

The red tank stood out and Bradley smiled, he walked over to you and grabbed it and hoisted it up.

“Sure is, thank you.” He lifted it over your head and down to his side. You watched as his biceps tightened and relaxed against his wife beater.

“No problem.” You shrugged and smiled.

“You can go ahead and do whatever you need to do, I’ll be outside cutting grass and doing yard work.” He walked to the house and opened the door for you. You followed him and nodded.

He shut the door behind you and watched as you removed your shoes and set your bag down in the same spot as yesterday.

Today there was a heap of laundry that needed to be done, you sighed and grabbed the backer and sorted the colors out onto the floor.

Bradley cheered to himself once the lawnmower started after he filled it up. He peeked up into the glass door to see you hanging up one of his shirts. It looked so big compared to you. He shook his head of these thoughts and began to push the mower across the yard.

-

It was hot today, you were even sweating just walking around the house. You couldn’t imagine Mr. Bradshaws state outside in the heat.

You grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and walked out of the sliding glass door to see him wiping the sweat off of his forehead with his wife beater.

You caught a glimpse of his hard abs and the patch of hair that ran down beneath his shorts. He wiped his eyes and dropped the shirt back down and caught sight of you, barefoot, short shorts, tank top, red face, and a a sweating water bottle in your small hand.

You walked to the edge of the porch and called down to him, “I brought you a water bottle, I know it’s hot out here.” You sweetly held it down to him.

He walked closer and gently took it from your hands, “Thank you.” He opened the cap and you watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed as he downed the entire bottle.

He cleared his throat once he finished and screwed the cap back onto the empty plastic.

“Where’s your wife?” You rested your elbows into the railing, he tried his very best to not look down to your breast which were pushed together deliciously.

“I think she had a meeting today, should end around 6:00.” He checked his watch and nodded.

“Oh ok.” You nodded and looked at the yard which was halfway cut now, “The yard looks good.”

He was surprised at your compliment, Isabelle never complimented when he did work or something for her. “Thank you.” He found himself smiling up at you.

“I better get back to work, got a lot to do.” You extended your hand and he didn’t realize what you wanted in it, “I can take your bottle and throw it away for you.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” He scrambled and handed it to you. You laughed and his heard beat faster and harder.

“That’s ok.” You took it and turned back to the house.

He watched your hips sway and caught a good view of the side of your ass as you turned to slide the door shut.

“I’m a dead man.” He muttered before he started the mower back up.

The house looked perfect, the blankets were folded neatly on the couch. The laundry was folded onto their beds, the dishes were washed, the candles were lit, and the grass was cut. Thanks to Bradley.

He walked inside and admired the house. Isabelle never cleaned this good, sure she picked up, but she never cleaned. He slowly shut the door behind him as his eyes were still gazing at the practically sparkling room.

You walked into the kitchen with a laundry basket on your hip and smiled at him, he had grass clippings on his arms and clothes, his hair was sweaty as it dripped down his face, and the veins in his arms and hands were popping out.

“The house looks great.” He complimented and took his shoes off.

“Thank you, I just cleaned some towels and put them in the bathroom so you can take a shower.” You sweetly said as you set the basket down and opened the dryer to start folding the warm clothes inside.

He almost fainted, you were so thoughtful, never in a million years did he think he would be experiencing something like this. He nodded and thanked you as he walked to the fridge and got out yet another water bottle and downed it as he shut the door.

You shook your head and smiled before getting back to finishing up the laundry.

It was 4:36 right now and Mr. Bradshaw had mentioned Mrs. Bradshaw got home around 6:00.

You still had plenty of time to finish up, you would probably get to leave earlier too.

Mr. Bradshaw walked out of the hallway to his bedroom with clean clothes on and wet hair.

“I hate to do this,” he said as he set his dirty clothes into the hamper, “but I’ve come with more dirty clothes.”

You laughed and shook your head, “It’s ok, It’s what I’m here for.” You took the hamper and threw the clothes into the washer with some detergent. He watched as you clicked the dial and started it.

He walked to the fridge as his stomach growled, he grabbed some sandwich stuff out and turned to you. “You want a sandwich?” He held up the bread and ham.

You smiled, “I’d love one.”

-

“So, you’re in the Navy?” You asked as you sucked some leftover mayonnaise off of your finger.

Bradleys dick twitched as he watched your plump, pink lips suck on your finger, he wished it was his between those lips.

He nodded and swallowed, “Been in it for over ten years.”

Your eyes widened as you sipped the coke he brought you, “I wanted to be in the Air Force, but my mom wouldn’t let me.”

“Whys that?” He took another bite of his sandwich and watched your face as it thought for a second.

“I think it’s because I’m her only girl and it just isn’t what she wanted for me.” You shrugged.

“You have siblings?” He asked. He probably shouldn’t be asking personal questions about you, but you didn’t seem to mind.

You nodded, “I’ve got three older brothers, Tommy, who’s twenty seven, Michael, who’s thirty, and Jeremiah, who’s thirty five.” You counted them off on your fingers.

He nodded with every word and his eyes widened, “Parents were busy.” He didn’t mean to say that out loud, but he broke out into a smile when you laughed once he said it.

“They wanted four boys, but they got blessed with me.” You smiled and took another bite of your sandwich.

He smiled and watched you look outside the window and chew, in thought.

“You have any siblings?” He snapped out of his daze and looked at you.

“Nope, just me.” He shook his head and sipped his Gatorade.

“That’s not bad, siblings can be annoying.”

He nodded and played with the crust on his bread, “I’d like to have a brother, but I’ve got a good friend who is just like one.”

“That’s sweet.” You set your sandwich down on your napkin and took another sip of your coke.

He nodded and finished his second sandwich he had made a few minutes ago. Bradley had a big appetite, he was a bigger guy. Not big. But more muscular, and taller.

“Your house is nice.” You complimented after a short break of silence.

“Thank you, Isabelle picked the house out. It’s a little too big for us.” He looked around.

“You have any kids?” You dropped the question.

He cleared his throat, “Nope.” And shook his head.

“How come?” You raised a brow and looked at him, “Sorry that’s none of my business.”

“No, no it’s okay, uhm, Isabelle never wanted any. She never liked kids.” He shrugged.

“Oh,” you looked down at your lap and thought, “I love babies.”

He picked his head up and looked at you, “Oh yeah? You want any when you get older?”

You nodded immediately, “Yes, I want all boys. Just like my mom wanted.”

He smiled, Bradley always wanted kids of his own. He could always picture himself as a dad, raising a bunch of kids into little spitting images of him.

He knew it was what his mom would have wanted for him, he just never got the opportunity.

“That’s nice.” He mumbled as he crumpled up his napkin and stood up. He read the clock, 5:30, Isabelle should be on her way home now.

He made sure to clean up and not leave a mess behind, he watched as you threw away the coke cans as he wiped down the table so it looked just as spotless as when you did it earlier today.

“Thank you for today, here’s this.” He handed you yet another white envelope.

You smiled and took it from his hands, “Thank you, Mr. Bradshaw.”

He was going to correct you and tell you that you could just call him Bradley, but he kind of liked the way his last name rolled off of your tongue so smoothly.

“Anytime, sweetheart.” He smirked and watched you grab your bag and head for the door.

“See you Tuesday.” You waved your fingers and slipped out the door.

“I’ll be here.” He muttered to himself and waved as you closed the door.

—————————————————————

Part 3.

Authors note: Ahhh! They’re finally talking and learning more about each other! This is going so much better than I thought it would, I’m so excited to write the next chapter. Bye bye Isabelle.

Don’t be shy, leave a comment!

[lovekz]

the rizzler

syn : ran brings his brother to get his hair done. big mistake

warnings : horrible rizz, ran is rindou’s #1 hater, could be seen as chubby reader, ran and rindou act like the true brothers they are, cringey ig

~

“rin!” ran called loudly, dashing up the stairs to his brother’s room.

rindou was in his room with his headphones on, playing his video game with his brand new controller.

he often tunes ran out from his shenanigans because he just can’t stand him sometimes.

also because ran broke his last one by body slamming him into the floor one night.

so ran does the only thing he could to to gain his little brother’s attention.

jump on him and throw all his weight into him.

“ran go away!” rindou groaned, trying to push the elder off him.

but of course, ran is heavier despite his lanky body.

ran giggles, resting more of his weight on top of him with a grin.

rindou shoves him off successfully after giving him a purple nurple, resuming his game.

ran plucks one of the headphones out of his ear just so rindou could hear him.

“I have a hair appointment at 7 and I don’t wanna go alone.” ran sighed, draping himself over the end of rindous bed frame.

ran’s hair grew longer than he could handle by himself, so he began going to the hair salon to get it done.

rindou suggested he cut it, but ran complained that ‘he wasn’t ready to make new memories’

ran doesn’t know Rindou will cut it himself before he turns 25.

“so ask kakucho or mitsuya.” rindou grumbled, squinting his eyes to focus.

ran glared at his brother, before letting out a loud and obnoxious sigh.

“if only I had a brother to go spend time with me while I get my hair done.” ran exclaimed, looking at rindou with a frown.

and ran doesn’t miss the little ‘if only’ that leaves his brother’s mouth as he plays the game.

so he had no choice.

“wow rin! thanks for saying you’ll come! be ready by 6:30 sharp!” ran exclaimed, dashing out the room before rindou could refuse.

-

ran drags his brother into the shop, a big grin on his face.

rindou is wearing wide leg grey sweats and his black hoodie, a disappointed scowl on his face.

he could’ve been at home upping his character level but no.

ran wanted to be annoying today.

“I’m here with a special guest!” ran called out, walking to the back of the room.

there’s shuffling when they get to the seats, and someone pops up from the back door.

“finally! your 10 minutes late ran.” you complained, fixing your apron.

rindou looked up at the feminine voice, locking eyes with you.

you were gorgeous.

the way you stood, your eyes, your teasing smile, and your nose fit just right.

god knew what he was doing when he created you.

“yeah, my brother’s a ipad kid. said he couldn’t come without a sandwich and his ipad.” ran chuckled, nudging him.

you laugh at ran’s little joke, though it wasn’t that funny.

but rindou would replay that joke again and again just to hear your breath taking laugh.

he’s gotta get your number by the end of the night.

“well hi. I’m ran’s stylist. you must be rindou?” you introduced yourself, holding your hand out.

ran has spoken about him? he knows it probably isn’t good, but he’ll shoot his goddamn shot.

he repeats your name slowly in his head, flashing you a smile.

“that’s me. nice to meet you, I love your name. I got you a sandwich as an apology for being late.” rindou replies, giving your hand a light squeeze.

you say a polite thank you and get started on ran’s hair, detangling before beginning to wash.

while you wash his hair, rindou watches from the side.

‘those must be heavy.’ rindou thought to himself, tilting his head.

he imagines you at home with some bad back pain, no help from a strong, flexible man with big strong hands.

“does your back hurt?” rindou questions before he can rethink it again.

you stay silent for a bit, thinking to yourself while you scrub Ran’s scalp.

“uhm.. no not really. I try not to bend too much when I comb through the hair.” you explain, completely oblivious.

rindou sees that you didn't understand or see what he was gesturing towards, so chuckles to himself.

ran understands what was happening, so he shoots rindou a look to tell him stop.

but he was the one that wanted rindou to come, so rindou was going to do whatever he wants.

“I didn’t mean that. I meant your breasts, not to be disrespectful.” rindou says politely, looking at you with doe eyes.

you laugh at that, and rindou’s heart flutters.

one more laugh and he might just have to use the bathroom for a bit.

“sometimes, after a hard day at my jobs.” you respond, not offended at all.

ran’s giving him that look again, and rindou ignores it.

he nods at you, stretching his limbs and leaning back into the seat.

“well I’m really good with my hands, you can let me know if you ever need a massage anywhere.” rindou winks.

ran puts his hand over his face, immediately wanting to send rindou home.

you roll your eyes playfully, and decide not to respond to him.

when you comb out ran’s hair and set him under the dryer with leave in conditioner, you begin eating the sandwich ran mentioned.

rindou kept shifting his eyes over to you, trying to ‘lure you in’ with his body language.

“something you have to say rindou?” you questioned, putting your sandwich down with a sigh.

rindou shakes his head, resting a arm on the armrest of the chair.

“all my pickup lines have been taken. how about you?” rindou asked, tilting his head.

you stifle a laugh, squeezing your eyes shut.

ran begins to play a voice line from spongebob.

“no rindou. I’m not. I'm very much single.” you reply, taking another bite of your sandwich.

he so wants you to moan his name right now.

but rindou doesn’t dare to ask you for that, he simply nods his head and takes a bite of his own sandwich.

he goes to speak, but you stand up and walk over to ran as the dryer dings loudly.

damn ran being annoying and an attention seeker.

ran watches as you walk over to him, lifting the lid off the dryer and gesturing over to the wash station.

you rinse out the conditioner quickly, and take him over to your station.

“how come you’re single?” Rindou questioned, getting closer and sitting in the seat beside ran.

you pause in your movements of combing Ran’s hair, thinking about it lightly.

for a second, you realize you pause so you continue to run the comb through his scalp.

rindou waits for your answer, watching as you contemplate on what to say to it.

“I like my peace. too much toxicity in men right now.” you shrugged, before turning on the blow dryer.

ran was grateful you did, because if he heard rindou say anything more he would have to beat him with his wet hair.

the dryer stays on for a few minutes to dry ran’s hair, before it shuts off all together.

you began combing again and greasing it a little bit.

“you like music?” rindou asks out of the blue, leaning back into the comfortable seat.

you nod shortly, getting your straightener comb and beginning to run it through his hair.

the comb makes a small buzzing noise, filling the silence easily.

“last night I made a playlist of all the hottest singles. sadly you weren’t there.” rindou sighed in annoyance, tossing his hands over his eyes.

you don’t respond, but a loud ‘thump’ resonates through the salon.

the buzzing stops, and rindou peaks his eye open.

ran was standing up out of the seat, glaring at his brother with the cape still around him.

you were snickering to yourself, facing away.

rindou glares back at ran, removing his hands from his face altogether.

“go wait in the car, you sack of shit.” ran said, completely annoyed with all his little brother’s pickup lines.

rindou scoffed and stood up, grabbing his things and beginning to walk to the door.

he didn’t wanna fight his brother in front of you, let alone in a hair salon that you work in.

rindou turned around to flash you a big smile.

“well honey, all my pick up lines are out. but I’ll pick you up at 8 tomorrow! dress nice!” rindou called, before dashing out of the salon before ran could throw the hairspray at him.

you giggled to yourself, kinda glad ran had came with his brother.

-

by time ran finished, rindou was slouched in the seat scrolling through his phone.

he was half asleep with the doors unlocked.

ran got into the driver’s seat, slamming the door to wake him up.

rindou barely flinched, looking over at his older brother with a scowl.

“what the fuck was that in there? since when were you into girls?” ran scoffed, starting the car.

“since forever? what the hell?” rindou replied, sitting up and getting offended immediately.

ran mocks him, before muttering something under his breath.

rindou flips him off, turning to look out of the window as he daydreams about you.

it doesn’t take long to get home, making rindou immediately hop out the car and make his way inside.

he goes upstairs, strips himself of his clothing, and gets right back onto the game.

he makes sure his door is locked so ran can’t barge in again and disturb him.

rindou just hopes ran doesn’t decide to break it down again.

in the middle of his game, rindou gets a text.

he looks down at his phone, squinting in confusion.

[10:47pm] unknown : still up for giving me that massage rin? my back is killing me [10:47pm] unknown : and I can’t do tmrw at 8. maybe breakfast at mine tmrw morning?

rindou’s eyes widened, as he stood up and dropped his brand new controller.

“I got the fucking girl!”

ran heard him from downstairs, immediately making him regret giving you rindou’s number.

[chiefdirector]

Mirroring | Tim Bradford | The Rookie

Act One | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27

“So what was the big rush to go see Rosalind Dyer? I thought the plan was to keep our cards to our chest.” Nyla asked, breaking the silence that had filled the car for the hours.

(Y/N) thought about all the excuses she had made on the way to the Correctional Facility but quickly wrote them off, knowing that if anyone could see through her lies, it would be Harper. “It was Chen. We were listening to the bug we planted when she said that we were doing exactly what was expected of us. Dyer could have known that we were listening to Sullivan. It was predictable, we were predictable.”

“So you changed the game?”

“Well she certainly wasn’t expecting me. And if I had filed the paperwork, it would’ve taken days and she would’ve been informed beforehand.” (Y/N) explained, running her hand through her hair. “Can you drop me off at Union Station? My car is there.”

“Sure. But you’ll need the keys.” Nyla moved to open the glove box in front of the passenger chair, revealing the keychain (Y/N) had left on her tyre earlier this morning. “Leaving them on the tyre is just sloppy.”

“How did you-?”

“Bradford, you forget. I was you, I am you. Look, not to get sappy but I know you’re keeping Tim out of the loop. Whether or not I agree with it, which by the way I don’t, is not my problem. But if anyone can help, it’s me.” 

“Thanks…” (Y/N) trailed off, looking out of the window watching the city speed by. “Can I ask something though? How did you know where to find me?”

Nyla laughed, “Like I said, I am you. And we had pretty much the same idea. Except I called ahead.”

“That was smart.”

“Yeah, maybe you should really follow protocol next time.”

(Y/N) just hummed at Harper’s words, not willing to give Nyla that satisfaction of her verbal agreement. 

—

(Y/N) tried not to roll her eyes at the mountain of paperwork that had been stacked neatly on her desk, courtesy of Sargent Grey. On top of the stack sat two little post it notes, one standard yellow one from Grey himself, telling her to have the stack completed by 8am tomorrow. 

The other was a pink, flower shaped one. She recognised it as one of her own, stolen from the top left drawer of her desk. The flower was inscribed with a short message, I’ll bring lunch and we can talk. Not mad, I promise. Tim 

(Y/N) held the post-it for a moment, as she thought over the words before her. Of course he wasn’t mad, it was Tim. He had never been mad at her, sure he had been angry at situations caused by her, and she had him. But Tim had never explicitly been mad at her.

Before, she had taken it for granted, but now, as she thought over her actions from today, she couldn’t have been more glad. Time and time again, she had taken the situation into her own hands, keeping her husband out of it. He understood, he always understood, but now (Y/N) could not be more grateful. 

Nyla had told her how panicked he was this morning, finding an empty bed and a silent house. She should’ve woken him, left a note. Anything really

Sighing, she shook the thought away, pulling her focus to the stack of paperwork before her. Although she didn’t work for very long until she was pulled away by the smell of a burrito bowl and a chair being pulled up beside her. 

Quickly, she turned to face Tim, apologies rapidly spilling from her. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. It was really stupid. It went against what we agreed. I’m so sorry, I should’ve told you.”

Tim looked at her softly as she rambled on, before placing a couple of forks on her desk. “Did you not see the post-it? I’m not mad. Harper spoke to me when she got in… explained it all.”

“Oh?”

“She said what had happened, and you were right, I would’ve stopped you. Or at least gone with you. And Dyer would’ve expected that. You needed to keep her on her toes. But you could’ve left a note.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” (Y/N) promised. “I’ll leave a note when I go.”

“It’s a big adjustment for us both.” Tim sighed, hating the words that he was saying, no matter how true they were. “You’ve changed, (Y/N), and so I have. We were expecting everything to go back to the way it was, and it won’t ever be again. But we can change together.”

“Together.” (Y/N) repeated, smiling softly at Tim. 

"Besides, that's the only thing that hasn't changed. How much I love you." Tim let the gentle silence hang in the air for a moment before changing the subject. "So, tell me what you found out."

(Y/N) leaned forward in her chair, grabbing her lunch as she began to recall her visit. "Right, I don't think we were right on the motivation. I don't think this is revenge, or the next move in whatever game she's playing. I think she wants something."

"Like what?"

"She said 'freedom' but she knows she won't ever be released. So it could be a code, or the name of some group or something. I haven't made it that far yet."

Tim hummed through a mouthful of food, barely chewing before he swallowed. "What if it's not a thing at all. What if she's lobbying for freedom in the metaphorical sense?"

"The woman is crazy, babe." (Y/N) took another bite before placing her fork back down onto the desk. "God knows what she means. Maybe she wants her soul to be free, your guess is as good as mine"

"Like redemption? Please." Tim scoffed, “You don’t know just how insane she is, but there is one thing that is consistent, she is so proud of herself for what she has done to repent anything.”

“Maybe she is finding freedom with someone else, like she did with that Caleb guy… the one who attacked Lucy.” 

Tim took a moment to consider what (Y/N) had said, weighing up the implications of what that could mean. Rosalind Dyer was proud of herself, so much so it would be her downfall. Her pride had gotten her caught for her crimes, as well as continued pain even into her incarceration. 

She had to land on top, she couldn't comprehend losing. And not only had the LAPD beat her, they had humiliated her in the process. So she chose an easy target, someone vulnerable to mind games as they tried to adjust to a life they had once known, a life that had changed and progressed without them.

This wasn’t about (Y/N) at all, it wasn’t about anyone who had betrayed her, or pushed her towards Rosalind’s grasp. This wasn’t about any of them. It was about all of them, the entire LAPD.

His thoughts raced a mile a minute, crashing to a stop when he felt (Y/N) gently shake his shoulder. “You okay? I lost you there for a minute.”

Tim’s hand clamped down on top of (Y/N)’s. “I know what she’s going to do next.”

27 | 29

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Hit Me With Your Best Shot

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Chapter 2 - A Spoonful of Sugar

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After a bad breakup with a mediocre ex, Rory decides to move back home-- Sort of. Rather than settle back into her mom's flat in London, she accepts her dad's invitation to move to his house out in the country. But unfortunate circumstance has John's former protege, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick moving in as well, after finalizing a divorce. It wouldn't be so bad, if he wasn't stupidly handsome and extremely annoying about it. But she can learn to live with him, can't she?

Contains: OC x Gaz, Lorelai "Rory" "Scout" Blackmoore-Price, Age gap romance (Scout is roughly 25), Annoying old men, Schemes and Plots, Mentions of John Price's many divorces, Poor decisions, Guns, Inadvisable Flirting

~6.7k - 18+ Only - MDNI

Billie was still free, and agreed to meet for coffee in about an hour, so Rory grabbed her bag, shoving her laptop in it in case she got there first (She hadn’t done the walk into town yet, and wasn’t certain how long it would take to get there), and headed out without a word.

It was a nice afternoon for a walk anyway, through the pleasant countryside that surrounded Hereford. It was one of the things she was beginning to like best about living there, that country and town basically butted up against each other. London was grey streets as far as the eye could see, and she’d never minded that, but there was something so unbelievably pleasant about a walk through fields, with birds and insects singing in the brush.

She got to the coffee shop about a half-hour ahead of time, so she ordered a coffee and a big ginger cookie, and set up in a corner where she could keep an eye on the door. She got a little writing done, before someone approached. She glanced up, frowning at an earnest, freckled face. “Can I help you?” she asked, before he could say anything.

“Um. Yeah. I just saw you and— Shit, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t bother you.” Whatever introduction he’d planned, she’d set him on the back foot and scrambled him. “I just— You’re, um—”

“I’m Rory. I’m waiting for a friend, but if you give me your number, I’ll consider texting you later.”

“Yeah? I’m Ro— Gary. Gary Sanderson.”

“Hm, do I detect a military callsign?” she asked. On second glance, he was definitely military. There were scars on his knuckles and up his forearms, and a silver chain around his neck. He had a trim, muscular physique, broad shoulders filling out his t-shirt, and thick legs. Cute too, freckled and and brown eyed, with a long, angular face.

He blushed. “Yeah. I’m used to— Are you military? I’ve seen you on base, haven’t I?”

“I’ve been there a few times to see my dad. I’m not— I’m a civilian. Definitely not in the service. I’m not quite nuts enough.”

He laughed. It was a pleasant sound, quiet and throaty. “Yeah, you have to be a bit crazy. I used to be gung-ho myself, but you know, you start realizing what you’re missing after a while. Everyone I know kind of… Got ahead of me.” His blush deepened, the colour sweeping up to his strawberry blond hairline. “Sorry. Yeah. Do you still want my number? Or did I just fuck this all up big time?”

“You’re fine. Here.” She scribbled down her number in the corner of her notebook and tore it out. “Can’t promise I’m looking for anything serious, but if you want to spend any time getting unserious, you know how to reach me.”

Gary’s grin was lopsided, but definitely charming. “Yeah? Cool. Uh. Yeah. I’ll get out of your hair. And I’ll text you!”

“You do that,” Rory said. “My friend’s here anyway.” She leaned to the side and waved to Billie, who had stepped into line. “See you around, soldier.”

Billie wiggled her eyebrows from across the room, indicating that she thought Gary was pretty cute. Rory had to agree, especially when he walked away. Military men had a lot of flaws, but they were rarely physical ones. And Rory could appreciate the work that went into the lean taper from his shoulders to his narrow hips, and she even better appreciated the thick thighs and nice ass as he disappeared through the doors.

Billie made her way over, holding some sugary, whip-cream topped confection with a straw poking out of it, a big smile on her face. “He was cute,” she said, taking the seat across from Rory. “Someone you know?”

“No, he just came up. He seemed nice. I gave him my number, anyway.” Rory broke off a peice of her cookie and chewed it thoughtfully. “You want him? I can give you his number whenever he texts me.”

Billie’s smile turned sheepish, and she glanced through the windows, brown eyes finding the soldier again. “Oh no, I don’t want to— He approached you.”

“Kind of got the impression he’s looking for more serious than he’s gonna get from me. I was just interested in a ride or two.” Rory shrugged. “If you think he’s cute, I’m one hundred percent fine giving him up. You don’t know me that well yet, Bill, but I’m kind of a, hmm, free spirit, and there are plenty of hot guys in this town. And they don’t have to be nice if I’m planning on keeping their mouths busy.”

Billie giggled, the bundle of tight curls on top of her head vibrating slightly with the movement. “Well, you can have the first ride, and just let me know if he’s worth it, alright? I’m not quite ready to dip my toes back into the dating pool.”

“Roger that.” Rory hummed. “Thought you and Gaz had been separated a while though.”

“Well, we have. But I guess I’m still hoping for a grand romantic gesture. We had a good thing going. Seven years together. It wasn’t perfect, but I don’t know. All the problems seemed to fade into the background when he was home.”

“Hm.” Rory nodded sagely. “Because of the fucking.”

“Is that what it was?” Billie asked faintly, pressing her hand to the side of her face, her expression indicating that she hadn’t thought of it that way before. “Holy shit. That’s exactly what it was.”

“I watched my dad fumble four marriages, I guarantee that Gaz pulled from his toolbox of relationship prolonging tricks.” Rory calmly ate another bite of cookie while Billie went through a minor crisis across the table, replaying sequences from her relationship with Gaz through a new lens. “If you do want him back, you’d better hold out for more than a grand romantic gesture. I’m sure he’s used those before. Like meaningful change. A commitment to couples counselling. Taking a bit of accountability.”

Billie nodded. “Honestly, I kind of thought you were going to talk him up. Being Price’s kid, I figured— I’m glad you’re not though. I think I needed to hear that. A lot of my friends don’t really get why I went through with the divorce. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure.”

“Well Gaz is pretty charming. If you don’t have to spend that much time with him I’m sure he seems just about perfect. But he’s not. He’s kind of a jerk. Self-centred.”

“Yeah. I like you, Rory. We should have started being friends ages ago. Where have you been this whole time?”

“London. Liverpool. Didn’t like my dad’s last wife, so I didn’t come around much for a while there. No one ever listens to me until it’s all over.” Rory closed her laptop and stuck it back into her bag, and picked up her pen, tapping it idly on the notebook cover. “I mean, I’m just as blind to shit when it’s about me. I was with a guy for a couple years there and I didn’t figure out he was a jerk until it was ending either.”

“Guess we all have our weak spots.”

They chatted for a long while, until Rory saw John’s truck pull into the parking lot. She winced, pulling out her phone. She’d set it on silent after Brandon had tried calling a few more times on the walk over, and had missed quite a few calls and messages from John. “Aw shit. I’d better go. I didn’t tell dad I was leaving, and he’s the worrying type.”

“How’d he—”

“Oh, he definitely has a tracker on me. I’d roast him about his invasion of privacy, but it wouldn’t change his behaviour. I just got complacent about checking.” She shrugged, packing up her things. “Let’s do this again soon. I’ve got a big deadline coming up, but I can still make some time. I’ve been told it’s a good idea to get out of the house once in a while.” Rory stood up and gave Billie a quick hug. “Thanks for making time for me.”

“Thanks for the reality check. I’ll see you around, Rory.”

Rory bought another cookie on her way out, figuring she could probably sweeten his mood with a baked good. She made her way over to her dad’s truck, smiling tightly in response to his stern glare. “Hi dad,” she said blithely. “Sorry, I turned my phone to silent because Brandon keeps calling me. Didn’t mean to worry you.”

John huffed. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Oh please, you knew where I was the whole time.” She climbed into the passenger seat and set her bag between her feet.

His jaw tightened and loosened again. “Yeah. Suppose I did.”

“So what’s the big deal?”

“You didn’t tell me where you were going, or answer any of my messages.”

“I’m a grown woman. You didn’t know where I was going or what I was up to when I was in London. We went months without speaking before. Why are you suddenly so worried about my safety?”

“Because you’re under my supervision now. Your mother would never forgive me if something happened to you under my watch. And there’s always enemies popping out of the woodwork. If someone targeted you because of me…”

“Why not just tell me that?”

His knuckles tightened on the wheel. “Guess I should’ve.”

“Of course you should’ve. You’re so cagey about work stuff, dad. You have to communicate. If I need to be more careful, I need to know that. You can’t just follow me around or track me or have your dogs babysit me all day long. I’m not going to be able to stand long term exposure to them.”

“No? Don’t get along with the lads?” The disappointment in his voice was clear.

“They’re fine. We just don’t exactly have a lot in common.”

“They like you.”

Rory huffed. They might’ve liked her a little too much. “Of course they do. I’m damn delightful.”

He chuckled, some of the tension loosening from his jaw and shoulders. “Maybe you could come to the base with me more often. It would set my mind at ease if you took a job there.”

“Oh come on, dad. I’ll be fine. I’ll be more careful to keep you updated. I’ll come to the base if you get concrete intel on some big bad looking for revenge, alright?”

“Scout…”

“Dad.”

He sighed, remembering that his daughter was at least as stubborn as he was. “I’ll get you a gun.”

“Thank you.”

They pulled back into the farmhouse driveway. Soap’s blue sports car was gone, and likely so were Ghost and Soap. “Do you want to watch a movie or something?” he asked. “Could use a distraction.”

“Nah. We could play Song of Valour though. Been a while since I kicked your ass in a video game.”

“Don’t recall you ever kicking my ass, but sure, sounds like a plan.”

The sun peeked over the horizon, spilling gold over the fields, streaming through the mist that rose from the shadows and burned away in the thin, pale light. Rory pulled in steady breaths, feet striking the ground evenly, sweat trickling down her back. This was the best part of living out here, the utter serenity of the morning run. It was quiet in the city around dawn too, but there was an ever-present hum of traffic, no matter the hour, and the air always smelled slightly of petrol and rot. Out here, the air was sweet, and the world was quiet, everything shrunk down to her body, the rush of blood in her ears, the inhale and exhale, the crunch of gravel. Smooth and perfect.

It had been a few weeks since their talk— Rory had mostly busied herself double and triple checking her formatting and spelling and making last minute edits on her latest book, but she had gone to the base with John a few times as well. With both Gaz and Soap gone at once, he was stuck running drills, and he’d brought Rory in a few times to brush up on her own skills. Just in case, he’d said, but Rory suspected that the real reason was so that he didn’t personally have to throw recruits around. In all fairness, she was more than happy to do it for him. It was good to get the practice in. And range time too, brushing up on her rifle skills.

She suspected nothing would come of John’s worries. She’d kept herself alert when out in town, and she had spotted Ghost following her a few times (and probably missed several more), but nothing else out of the ordinary.

Gary had texted her a few times, before explaining that he’d be out of country for a bit. She’d sent him a few cute selfies to come home to, hoping to escalate from polite getting to know each other texts to something a bit less polite and a lot more fun.

She’d ended up texting Ghost a lot too, over the weeks. Mostly one word messages and the thumbs up emoji, along with pictures of any dogs they happened to see. She’d also sent him one of her cute selfies by accident (Gary and Ghost were too close together in her contact list), and when she’d told him to ignore it, he’d sent a very unclear No in response. She still wasn’t sure if he had been responding to the picture or the message after. She’d started sending him pictures of him when she caught him following her, which had opened up to him sending her pictures of her out in public. She had to admit, the old man was still good. There were pictures of her that she had no idea how he’d taken. And a few surprisingly nice ones that she stuck on her tinder profile to break up the selfies.

She made it back to the house just as John was stepping outside, coffee in one hand, cigar in the other. “Mornin’ Scout,” he said cheerfully. “How was your run?”

“Not bad. I’m still trying to get that six minute mile consistently. Can’t keep up the pace over the long haul, but I’ve been keeping the ten mile below an hour and a quarter, even with a quick rest at the half point, so, all in all, not bad. I’ll keep working on it.” She dropped down to the grass to stretch, taking a minute to just breathe first.

“Pretty good, Scout. Should get you on the track to run laps around my soldiers one of these days.”

“What, they can’t fight, they can’t run, they can’t shoot? Aren’t these supposed to be your elite soldiers?”

John laughed. “You can outdo the recruits, Scout. You want a tougher fight, I’ll put you up against Soap. You’ll feel a little less cocky after that.”

"Dad, if you're going to have a dog chew on me, I'd rather it be Yardstick than Soap."

"Don't be silly, Scout. Soap hardly ever bites anymore."

Rory laughed, sitting up to run through her stretches. "Hardly ever is too far away from never, in my opinion."

John laughed too. "Probably right about that. We'll get you sparring with the kids. Nitro still bites, mind. And you'll have to put Roach on his ass a few times before he fights back properly."

"Sounds fun. Been a while since I had a good mixed discipline spar."

“It’s what you get for not signin’ up.”

“Don’t think I’m that big a fan of getting shot a.”

“Could still get you a job on base. There’s civilian work. Don’t have to be a soldier.”

“I know, dad. Mum offered to get me into the London base or as some kind of parliamentary aide when I said I was leaving Liverpool. I don’t want work I didn’t earn.”

He scoffed. “You’re bein’ ridiculous. It’s about the only way to get decent work these days.”

“And that doesn’t strike you as fucked up?”

“Course it is. But you’d do good work, no matter how you got the job. You always rise to the occasion, Scout.”

“Well, either way, I’ve got my own projects cooking.”

John’s sipped his coffee idly. “You ever gonna share what you’re working on?”

“Absolutely not. Are you home for dinner tonight? I’ve got one of my projects wrapping up today, so I’m ordering celebratory takeout.” Scout hopped to her feet.

“Should’ve told me ahead of time. Got a date tonight.”

“Oh, did— oh shoot, Carrie, right? From base accounting. You mentioned her. Am I not expecting you home at all then?”

John laughed. “Maybe. You gonna be alright on your own? I can have Ghost drop by.”

Rory snorted, clapping her dad on the shoulder as she moved past him into the house. “No, dad. I do not need your weird old man friends to babysit me.”

Her book had gone up at midnight the previous night— Setting it up for nighttime releases helped quell some of the anxiety she felt every time she put a new work out there— and had planned an Ask Me Anything session online from the afternoon to evening. Her plan was to run some errands during the morning, and then answer questions while she took a long, hot bath, watched a favourite movie (The Princess Bride, most likely) and ordered take-out, in that order.

The AMA went great— She was surprised at how many questions she'd gotten, and shuffled her plans slightly to accommodate. Takeout while she worked on questions, then Princess Bride while she was in the tub.

A few accounts had messaged her privately as well, including some guy who mentioned how much he liked the Scot Cameron MacGregor in her last book, saying that the character reminded him of his husband. Rory was struck by the possibility that he was Ghost, since the character in question had been just slightly based on Soap, and the straightforward, clipped sentences seemed awfully familiar.

She snapped a picture of the tub full of bubbles and candles and the laptop with her movie playing, and sent it to Ghost.

Scout: Selfcare Sunday

Ghost: Isn’t it Friday?

Scout: Probably. I’m an unemployed layabout so I don’t know.

Scout: What are you up to, old man?

Ghost: Reading. Author I like has a new book out.

Vindication.

Scout: Oh yeah? Who?

Ghost sent her a picture in response, of his ereader leaning against his knee in the bathtub, with her book cover displayed on the screen. He was very clearly too big for the tub.

Scout: Did you get in the tub just to send that or were you already in there?

Ghost: Wouldn’t you like to know

It was very easy to imagine the smirk on his face. He could be so annoying.

Ghost: You read any Avery Ackerman? Might like her. Does the self-pub thing, like you’re doing.

Scout: Yeah I’ve heard of her. Didn’t know you were a romantasy guy.

Ghost: Romantasy? Being a writer’s no excuse to make up words

Scout: Shut up, you’re just old. That’s the genre.

She heard a thump downstairs. Her blood turned to ice despite the warm bath. John’s paranoia was rubbing off on her.

Scout: Shit, I think someone’s in the house. I gotta get my gun.

Ghost: I’m coming over. Don’t do anythin stupid

Well, at least the cavalry was coming. Ghost was a one man army. Rory quickly got out of the tub, trying not to splash around too much, setting her laptop on the lid of the toilet. She scrubbed herself as dry as she could and wrapped a robe around herself before quietly dashing into her room to grab the handgun from it’s spot in the desk drawer, slapping a magazine in and tucking a second one into the belt of the robe. She quickly swept the upstairs, just to secure it, and crept downstairs, listening hard. The only sound was coming from the kitchen, so she peeked around the doorway, heart hammering. One man, combat boots, fatigues, gun on his hip, gun on his vest, holding her tub of double chocolate brownie ice cream with a spoon stuck out of it. Blue hat, familiar smirk.

Just Gaz. She let out a breath and came around the corner properly. “Jesus, Gaz, you scared the shit out of me.”

He raised an eyebrow at the gun in her hand and her state of undress. “Quite the homecoming.”

“Oh shut up. You’re eating my ice cream too.” Rory took the ammo out of the gun and set both on the counter. “Give that back.”

Gaz shook his head. “No.” He dug out a spoonful and popped it in his mouth, making an exaggerated sound of enjoyment. “Don’t think I will. Might share, if you ask nicely.”

“It’s my ice cream!” Rory protested, trying to grab it out of his hands. He held it up out of her reach, his annoyingly superior smirk turning into a grin. “Don’t be an ass.”

“That’s not asking nicely, is it, Scout?” he asked, tone patronizing. “Would you like to try again?”

“No I would not!”

It was a low blow, certainly, but he was annoying, and she was still a bit amped up from the interruption and the threat of a possible intruder, so she hooked her foot behind his knee and pulled him off balance, grabbing the tub of ice cream from his hands. He snatched it back, putting a hand on her shoulder to hold her at bay.

“Now listen,” he said sternly. “I’ve had a long couple of weeks in the bloody desert, and I’m hungry. You got anything else for me to eat?” His thumb brushed over her exposed collarbone, although his eyes didn’t drift from hers.

“It’s not my job to feed you!” Rory knocked his hand to the side and feinted for the ice cream, switching direction to snatch his hat off his head instead, leaping back out of reach. “Give me the ice cream or the hat gets it.”

“Terrorist,” he grumbled. “That’s my lucky hat.”

“We can solve this with no further bloodshed,” Rory said loftily, holding her other, empty, hand out. “Give it to me, and order yourself a fucking pizza.”

He handed over the tub of ice cream with a sigh. He’d made a good dent in the little container. It was what she got for buying expensive stuff, but she’d thought that she wouldn’t have to worry too much, since John wasn’t home. She hadn’t thought Gaz would be back so soon either. “Fine. You win this round, Scout.”

She set the hat on her head, and made a dash for the door.

She got about two steps away before he grabbed her arm and pushed her down over the counter, wrestling one arm behind her back and kicking her legs apart so she couldn’t muster any real force to kick him, and grabbed her other arm for good measure, twisting it up beside the first. “Brat,” he grumbled, flicking open one of his pockets. A moment later Rory felt a zip tie bind her wrists together.

“Hey! What the hell?”

“You reneged on our deal. That means you’re going to sit here, and you’re going to watch me eat all your damn ice cream.” He righted the container, yanked her upright, turned her around and picked her up to set her on the counter.

Scout snapped her legs together the moment he stepped back, trying not to think about how little she was wearing, or the way Gaz’s rough handling nearly had her purring like a cat. It wasn’t the sort of thing she would tell him, not in a thousand years, so she hoped the angry front she held up worked. He had no reason to question it— And as far as she was aware his primary concern was getting back together with Billie. Flirting outside the bar had just been a fluke. Not that she had been flirting.

Definitely not.

She didn’t even think he was that handsome. Sure, he had pretty brown eyes fringed by long lashes, and maybe he had a bright, perfect smile that lit up his whole face, and the flecks of silver brushed through his black hair gave him a distinguished air, but he was definitely too pretty to be Rory’s type. The way his plush lips closed around the spoon didn’t effect her in the least.

“You’re an asshole,” she said. “I have things to do, you know.”

“No you don’t. If you did you wouldn’t be home on a Friday night.”

“The only friends I have in this town are Ghost and your ex-wife, I’m not exactly swimming in social plans,” Rory snapped. She wanted to rub his nose in it, that she was friends with Billie, although she couldn’t really explain why. She just felt like being mean. He deserved it, after all, since he’d zip-tied her fucking hands together.

It gave him pause. “You’re friends with Billie now?”

“Yeah. She’s nice. Too good for you, in my opinion.”

“Probably. Did she ask about me?” He dug another spoonful of ice cream out, making eye contact with her while he ate.

Rory hummed, pretending to think about it, trying really hard not to let her eyes drift down when he licked the spoon. “No, not really.”

“Aw, come on, Scout. I’ll share if you tell me.”

“Something like, the sex was so good that she didn’t realize there were serious problems until you stopped having it, and that she wouldn’t get back with you for less than a strong commitment to individual and couples counselling.” Rory shrugged, wincing when the shoulder of her robe slipped down. “Which I doubt you’d do. And honestly, you should let her find someone else. You had a good run. You’re still at least outwardly tolerable, so I’m sure you’ll find someone out there.”

Gaz nodded thoughtfully, ignoring the latter half of what she’d said. “I suppose that’s fair. Counselling would be a good start. Maybe I’ll talk to her next week. You should tell her I’m back in town. She’ll be expecting me to show up, so if I don’t, she’ll think that’s me respecting her space.” He held up a spoonful of ice cream. “That’s very helpful, Scout. You’ve earned this.”

“God, do you hear yourself? Why don’t you start by actually respecting her space? And not scheming about getting her back with you.”

He offered her the spoon, smirking again. If she’d had her hands free, Rory might have popped him just for being a prick. “If I’m doing the right things, does it really count as scheming? Now open up, before this starts melting.”

“I’m not going to let you feed me, you asshole, let me have my hands back!”

“No. I’ll let you go when I’m done. I have more questions.”

“This is the worst fucking interroga—” Rory squeaked as Gaz slid the spoon into her mouth, cutting her off.

“Sorry, what was that?” he asked, pulling the spoon back slowly.

Rory glared at him. “I’m going to kill you.”

“You are not making me want to let you go any sooner. Now, when I talk to her, what do you think will go over better? A text? I’d usually call, but she might find that more intrusive, and I want to show I’m committed to change.”

“But you’re not!” Rory protested. “You’re not committed to change, you’re trying to put your marriage back in the box it was in before, because it was convenient for you! Don’t be an asshole, Gaz, let her go.”

“She’s my wife. I’m not just going to let her go. But I could wait longer. Let her go on some lack-lustre dates with civvies that can’t even make her come.” He offered another bite of ice cream to Rory, running his tongue over his teeth as he thought it over. “Maybe I should see someone else. Get her jealous.”

Rory flinched as a glob of melting ice cream landed on her thigh, and opened her mouth to keep more from dripping all over her. The spoon clicked against her teeth as Gaz pulled it back again. “You’re so immature. You’re nearly forty, and you’re using jealousy as a tool to get your wife back?” she asked. There was a weird energy in the room, a counter to the acid way she spoke to him.

Gaz absently used his thumb to wipe the drop of ice cream off her thigh, and popped it into his mouth. “I’m considering it.”

“Listen, Gaz, I don’t think you’re a bad guy, but you really need to listen to what you’re saying right now.” Rory leaned to the side slightly to avoid the next offered scoop of ice cream. “She’s a person, and she has wants and needs that you can’t fulfill. Why do you need to draw it out? Why not think about it for more than a second before committing yourself to chasing her down? Like, what do you want? It’s probably not even the same things.” She huffed as more melting ice cream dripping down onto her shoulder. “Now will you stop that? You’re getting chocolate all over me.”

“What? Oh.” Gaz’s eyes dropped, following a drip that slowly travelled down her collarbone. He stuck the spoon back into the container and caught the drip before it reached her robe, just above her breast. Rory couldn’t help the way her breath caught, and he seemed to be having a similar moment as he licked the spot of chocolate off of his thumb and eyed the rest of the sticky sweet mess he’d made, inexplicable heat sparking in the air between them. “Let me just get that for you.”

Instead of getting a cloth like a sane person would, he leaned in and licked up the droplets, his hands settling on Rory’s waist to hold her still. He made a deep, contented sound when she gasped, the combination of warm tongue and cold confectionery turning her brain to mush. She didn’t even try to squirm away, only leaned her head to the side to give him access to her neck, where he started sucking slightly sticky kisses onto delicate skin, slotting his body between her thighs, hands sliding down to her hips to pull her closer to the edge of the counter.

“Gaz, what are you doing?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. “You— ahhh— You can’t— I’m not—” He kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear, scrambling what remained of her thoughts, his teeth dragging over her earlobe. She made a pathetic, whimpering sound, trying to keep her eyes open and fighting for the return of rational thinking. This was obviously a bad idea. A terrible idea.

An insanely hot idea.

“Oi,” a gruff voice behind her said. The accompanying click from a gun’s safety switch brought Rory back to cold clarity in an instant. “Step away from the bird.”

“Ghost, wait, it’s just Gaz!” Rory twisted, panic blessedly pulling her back to reality, where she knew that what had just happened was messed up. “Don’t shoot him.”

The safety clicked back on. “Gaz, get your fuckin’ ‘ands off Scout,” Ghost growled. He didn’t wait for Gaz to comply, just gripped the back of his tac vest and pulled him back a step. “Wot the ‘ell’s goin’ on ‘ere?” He was wearing the Ghost mask, not just the usual plain black surgical one he usually wore these days. He meant business.

Gaz opened his mouth to explain, but Ghost held up a hand. “Not you. Scout? Why’re you tied up and ‘alf dressed?”

“Oh. Um. So you said not to do anything stupid, and I, um. Did. Secured the top floor and looked into the kitchen and realized it was just Gaz, so I put the gun down.”

"Din't think maybe you should've put pants on first?" Ghost's eyes swept over her critically, taking in the half-open robe and the blush that spread from her chest to the tops of her ears.

“Well. It occurs to me now that might have been a good use of my time, yes.”

“And when I told you not to do anythin’ stupid, you just thought you’d ignore that, roight?”

“Ghost, I am ziptied and embarrassed, can we save the lecture for once I’ve gotten dressed?”

“No. You’re gonna remember it better this way.” Ghost turned his attention to Gaz. “And you! Wot the fuck do you think you were doin’?”

“I— I thought we were—” Gaz looked rattled, more surprised than anything else, like he couldn’t fully put together what he had been doing. His eyes found Rory’s, and stuck there.

Ghost stepped between them, practically growling. “No, I don’t want to ‘ear it. That’s Price’s little girl, you can’t be suckin’ on ‘er neck like a teenage boy just coz she’s ‘ot now.”

Gaz scoffed. “She’s a grown woman, she can do anything she likes.”

“She’s not gonna want to do it with you! You’re nowhere near good enough for ‘er.” Ghost jabbed a finger at Gaz’s chest. “Scout is off limits. For you, for Soap, for me. If you can’t ‘andle that, I’ll tell Price what I caught you doin’ and ‘ave ‘im kick your sorry arse out.”

“Woah, woah, everyone slow down,” Rory said quickly. “It’s fine. Ghost, he just got carried away, he didn’t hurt me, so you can calm down, okay big guy? I’m fine.”

Ghost turned around, the scary, cold light in his eyes fading. “Shite. Sorry, pet. Just scared me, thinkin’ you were in trouble.” He cupped her face with his huge hands and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “But if I ever catch you walkin’ into an uncertain situation ‘alf naked again, I’m gonna put you over my knee, understood?”

Rory snickered. “Kinky.”

Ghost huffed, shaking her head lightly before releasing her and reaching for his knife. “Christ, Scout, you stop that. Why’re you tied up anyhow?” He leaned around her and cut the plastic tie with a quick tug of the blade.

“Oh, we were being obnoxious. I was mad because he was eating my ice cream, he was grumpy because he just got in from god knows where and I was giving him grief about it.” Scout rubbed her wrists. She hadn’t been in the position long enough for it to really hurt. “Childish nonsense. I think we both just wanted to fight.”

“I did not want to fight.” Gaz picked up the tub of ice cream again. “I’ve had my fill for a little while.”

Ghost snorted. “Don’t give me that. You always come home itchin’ for a fight or a fuck. Or both, ‘alf the time.”

“Well. I was thinking about going to see Billie. So I guess you’re right. Was looking for both.”

“Alright, Scout, go get your cute little arse dressed. Can’t ‘ave you temptin’ this degenerate any longer.”

“Yeah yeah. All my fault, I get it.” Rory hopped down from the counter and picked up her gun before trotting back up the stairs. She cleaned up the bathroom and drained the tub, and got dressed in some comfortable sweatpants and an oversized sweater, covering as much skin as possible. She bounced back into the kitchen, sticking her tongue out at Gaz, who was scraping the last bits of ice cream out of the little carton, looking at her smugly. She ignored him and focused on Ghost. “You stickin’ around, big guy? Or heading home?”

Ghost shrugged. “Figure I’d stick around for a bit. Keep an eye on this one, make sure ‘e don’t get ‘andsy again.” He elbowed Gaz, eyes crinkling slightly.

“I don’t need supervision. It was a lapse in judgment.”

“You’ve been ‘avin’ a lot of those lately. Get your ‘ead on straight, Garrick.”

“I get it, I fucked up. No idea what’s gotten into me.” He sighed, shooting Rory a guilty glance. “Just missin’ Bill, I guess. Sorry Scout.”

“It’s fine. I would prefer if we never spoke of it again.”

Gaz nodded, relief written plain on his handsome face. “Yeah. That would be for the best.”

Rory settled in on the couch beside Ghost while Gaz trudged upstairs for a shower. He came back in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and they bickered over a movie for a little bit (Ghost won, and they watched You’ve Got Mail). Ghost got a text from Soap that he was landing, so he left, sternly telling them to behave themselves. Rory rolled her eyes when she locked the door behind him. He could be such a mother hen, always worrying about the silliest things.

Gaz was half watching the movie and half scrolling through his phone when Rory came back. She settled back into he spot she’d been curled up in before, suddenly a bit tense. They’d been fine when Ghost was there, laughing and joking like old friends, but now that he was gone, Gaz didn’t seem to have anything he wanted to say to her, although he kept looking at her when he thought she was paying more attention to the movie.

He snorted softly. “New in town, take me on a whirlwind tour of Hereford. If we still want to hang out after the ten minutes that takes, we can get coffee.”

Rory whipped her head around so fast she felt like she pulled something. “That’s my fucking tinder profile.”

“Got some cute pictures in here. You havin’ any luck?”

“Some. Most guys just want to take me on a whirlwind tour of their dicks, which is fine. Been a while since I got laid and all. But I’m not sleeping with a guy who’s first overture is a picture of his penis.”

Gaz chuckled. “Have we really not figured out that that doesn’t work?”

“I don’t think they care about it not working. It’s a test to see if the other person has boundaries or self-respect.” Rory chucked a pillow at his head. “But honestly, there’s not a lot of charm in this town.”

“That’s what boys’ll get you,” Gaz said loftily.

“Like you could do better, Mr. Big Tough Man.”

He smirked. “Do you want to find out?”

“Ew, no, you’re almost as old as my dad.”

“First of all, no I’m not. I’m not even forty.” He threw the pillow back at her, and it bounced off her scandalized face. “And secondly, I don’t think disgust was top of mind when I was kissing you earlier. Some of those sounds could even be interpreted as enjoyment.”

“Sure, if you’re a delusional old man.” Rory grabbed the pillow before he could chuck it at her again. “And I’m not sure I’d call that kissing, it was more licking, because you’re gross and insane.”

“Watch it, love. You’re gonna get yourself in trouble with that attitude.”

Rory scoffed. “Oh yeah? Are you my daddy now, Gaz? Gonna punish me for bein’ a brat?”

She tensed, realizing what she’d said could be considered provocative. Gaz tensed too, his dark eyes flashing with interest. That stupid smirk of his was becoming a permanent fixture on his too-pretty face. They stared at each other for a long moment, both of them hardly daring to breathe. The sensible thing to do would to leave him there and go to bed. And she was sensible. She was.

But he tipped his head to the side, as though he sensed that she was about to flee. “Is that what you need me to be, Rory? Your daddy?” And fuck, if that wasn’t unreasonably hot coming from him, that gorgeous dark caramel voice that was just a little too sweet, covering wolfish intention. He reached out, his fingers brushing her ankle.

Scout pulled her leg out of his range before he could grip her, and jumped to her feet. “WellthatwasagreattalkI’mgoingtobed,” she said, all the words coming out on top of each other in a nervous jumble. “Goodnight!”

She practically ran upstairs, ears turning hot when she heard Gaz laughing. Oh he was such a bastard.

Image Credits: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - Banners by @/cafekitsune

[winters8child]

It´s been a long, long time

Chapter 88

"Happy Birthday!" Sam and I screamed in unison as Steve blew out the candles on his cake. We sat on the porch, fireworks bursting in vibrant colors above us, lighting up the night sky. It was the Fourth of July, and the whole town was celebrating. Yet, despite the festive atmosphere, the weight of that night a week ago lingered in the back of my mind, something we still hadn't discussed.

I handed Steve the birthday present I’d had Sam pick up—a small party was the least we could do. The gift was wrapped in blue paper with white stars, fitting for him, I thought. Steve unwrapped it carefully, taking his time not to rip the paper. When he finally saw what was inside, his face lit up with a smile.

"Art supplies," I said with a shrug, "I figured, you know, with all the free time..."

Before I could finish, Steve pulled me into a tight hug, grinning ear to ear. "Thank you," he murmured, his breath warm against my neck as we reluctantly pulled apart again.

"Now make way for my horrible present," Sam declared, handing Steve a big red box with a bright blue ribbon tied around it.

Steve grinned. "It can't be that bad," he said, pulling the ribbon loose and peeking inside. He chuckled as he pulled out a massive container of protein powder.

"Thanks, Sam," Steve said with a smile, patting him on the shoulder. "It's definitely useful."

I eyed the huge container and laughed. "Captain America flavored? What’s that supposed to taste like?" I teased, looking at Sam with a smirk.

Sam shot back with a grin. "Freedom and hard work."

We all laughed, then sat down to eat cake, watching the fireworks burst in bright colors above us. The night felt warm and festive, but soon Sam had gone to bed, leaving Steve and me alone by the pier. Our feet dangled in the water as the last of the fireworks fizzled out, and the heat of the day finally softened into something more bearable. Glowworms flickered over the lake, adding a quiet magic to the scene.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder, our hands almost touched, the silence between us comfortable but full of unspoken thoughts. I glanced at him, breaking it with a smirk. "So, how do you feel? Older? Wiser?" I teased, giving him a playful nudge with my shoulder.

Steve smiled, his gaze fixed on the water. "I don’t even know how old I am anymore. Technically, I’m 97, but I guess I’m also 31," he said with a shrug, still watching the gentle ripples in the lake.

"Well, you don’t look a day over 25," I replied with a grin. "Not a wrinkle or a single grey hair in sight."

He chuckled softly. "Not that you know of. I thought growing a beard would make me look rugged��dangerous even—but I think I just look like somebody’s dad."

"I think you look great," I said, and despite the dim light, I could see a blush creeping onto his cheeks. There was something about the way the glowworms danced around us and the soft, fading fireworks that made the moment feel more intimate than usual.

I tried to push away the thoughts that followed, not letting my mind wander to the idea of him as a dad—of us sitting here with the sounds of laughing children playing around us. It was a dangerous line of thinking, one I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

"You do?" Steve's voice cut through my thoughts, and his eyebrows raised in surprise.

I nodded, smiling softly. "Yeah, I do."

There was a pause, the sound of the water lapping gently against the pier filling the space between us. Steve turned his head slightly, giving me a look that felt weighted with something deeper.

"I wanted to apologize," Steve suddenly said, breaking the silence. His voice wavered slightly as he spoke, and I turned to face him. "For what happened when you woke up... I should’ve pulled away, but..." He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the water before continuing. "You were so beautiful... the way you slept so peacefully in my arms... it did something to me."

His voice shook with uncertainty, and I could hear the genuine struggle in his words. The confession hung between us, making my heart race. It was the first time he’d addressed that night, and now, sitting so close to him, the memory of it felt all too real again.

"Steve..." I began, unsure of what to say, feeling the weight of his emotions.

"It won't happen again, I promise," Steve said, lifting his hands in an apologetic gesture.

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest as the air between us thickened. I opened my mouth to say something, but the words got stuck. The truth was tangled somewhere deep inside me, confusing and hard to admit.

Maybe I did want it to happen again. Maybe I longed to feel close to him, but I was only brave enough to cross that line in my sleep. I wasn’t sure if I could handle what came next if we let those walls fall while we were both awake.

I told myself it was wrong. That we’d both end up hurt again, just like before. The close quarters, the shared days and nights—it made everything feel so intimate, but it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Of course, things were good right now, because they had to be. There was nowhere else to go, no way to avoid each other.

I kept coming up with reasons why this would end in disaster, why nothing had truly changed. But as those thoughts spiraled in my mind, something deeper broke through, something raw and unspoken.

"Don't promise that," I whispered, surprising myself as much as him.

Our eyes locked, the unspoken words thickening the air around us. Neither of us moved as if daring each other to cross that fragile line, knowing we were already on the edge of something that couldn't be undone.

Just as we leaned in, the gap between us barely a breath, a crack of thunder split the sky. Rain poured down in thick, heavy sheets, soaking us instantly. We jolted apart, startled, and then just stared at each other for a moment, already drenched, our clothes clinging to our skin.

Steve’s hair fell into his eyes, and instead of the tension between us, there was a sudden burst of laughter. He tilted his head back, laughing at the storm, the intensity of the moment gone in a flash. I couldn't help but laugh too, the ridiculousness of it all sinking in.

Without a word, we jumped up and dashed toward the cabin, our feet splashing through the puddles forming on the ground. He grabbed my hand, and I held on tight, running together through the rain, laughing like we had just outrun the storm itself.

We stood on the porch, the rain pounding on the canopy above us, watching as lightning tore through the sky. The air between us crackled, much like the storm overhead. I glanced down at our still-entwined hands, my breath hitching as I saw the longing in his eyes. The fire was unmistakable, his gaze intense, and droplets of rain fell from his damp hair, making my heart race uncontrollably.

Both of us started to speak, but words didn’t matter anymore. The tension snapped like the thunder around us, and our lips collided in a fervent kiss. His hands tangled in my wet hair, pulling me closer, while I gripped his soaked shirt, desperate to close the distance between us. Every inch of space, every unspoken word, disappeared in that moment. The world outside was chaos, but right then, we were the only thing that existed.

We broke apart, our breaths coming in ragged gasps as we searched each other's eyes for some indication that this might not be the best idea. Instead, all we found was a deep, burning longing. Without hesitation, our lips met again, and he lifted me by my thighs, my arms wrapping tightly around his neck for support.

He fumbled with the front door, still holding me securely with one arm. When we finally managed to get inside, we stumbled our way to our room, closing the door behind us with a click. Our wet clothes clung to us, but we were too eager to remove them, our movements quick and urgent. We kissed passionately between each piece of clothing we shed, each discarded item falling to the floor as we explored each other's skin, driven by an uncontainable desire.

There was no room for hesitation or gentle touches. We were both driven by an intense urgency, our hands grasping and exploring each other with a fervor that left no space for tenderness. Steve's lips and tongue worked skillfully along the sensitive spots on my neck, his kisses leaving behind marks that would be reminders of our fervent night.

His fingers moved between my folds, each touch making me gasp and whimper. Just as I felt myself on the edge of breaking, he pushed inside me with a deep, strained grunt. His grip on my thigh was firm, while his other hand clung to the headboard of the bed, anchoring himself as we moved together in a frantic, heated rhythm.

Our moans and whimpers were swallowed by the storm raging outside, echoing the raw intensity of our connection. I clung to the sheets as he moved within me with a relentless rhythm, his breath hot and uneven against my neck. Amidst the chaos, his voice broke through, husky and fervent, whispering, "I love you so much," between gasps and moans, each word punctuated by the force of his movements.

His whimpers mingled with his fervent confession of love, contrasted sharply with his aggressive thrusts and the firm grip he had on my thigh. The combination of his intensity and vulnerability drove me to the edge, and I came undone beneath him. As he shuddered on top of me, his grip tightened further, his movements becoming erratic before he finally spent himself, collapsing against me in the aftermath.

He gradually kissed and nuzzled my collarbone and jaw, his eyes clouded with a mixture of lust and affection. As he looked up at me, his expression tender and satisfied, I whispered softly, "I love you too," a smile gracing my lips.

Next Chapter

[f10werfae]

Prey/predator trope drabble😭♥️ Wolf-like Chris x Doe Reader

summary: Chris the cliché big bad wolf has his own little doe eyed wife, his own prey. Y/n L/n

Chris howled watching his doe eyed wife run around their house getting ready for Christmas, her body accompanied with small brown ears atop her head, the only sign showing that she’s a prey. Chris on the other hand, born of a wolf pack, had more hair than most with tall domineering grey ears on his head. “Baby come sit with your man, please” Chris smiled showing off his sharpened canines, “B-but the pumpkin pie is not-“

“Come sit” He said more assertively, spreading his legs, the thicker hairs on his arms raising as he watched her basically prance into his lap. “You’ve been workin all day my little doe, not been giving me much thought have you?” He smirked raking his hands up throw the middle of her ears and scratching softly, watching as she nuzzled into the palm of his hand. His doe eyed wife.

“When can I visit my f-family?” She whispered looking up to meet his dark eyes, watching as he slightly snarled at her, “Fine. Leave me. Won’t be long before some other wolf snatches you up, and I won’t be able to help will I?”

“You’re right, m’sorry. i’m sure i’ll like it here, i’ll stay”

His nose went into the crook of her neck smelling her sweet scent, as his fingers brushed over her soft fluffy bushy tail, her voice whining as he softly raked through it with his claws. Her smaller frame resting fully against him, her ears turning at all the small sounds in their small log cabin away from civilisation. After-all it had only been a few months since he had “moved” her from her own herd village

It was no use Chris had already claimed her for himself, not to eat, but for him to love on and use. It had only taken him a few weeks for him to finally get her to soften up to him; ravaging her on their shared bed, fucking her repeatedly while she couldn’t help but grind her hips against him. Chris scratching behind her ears and tugging on her tail to finally bring her to a screaming orgasm, letting him not only mark her, but knock her up.

“Sorry Chrissy, jus want our first Chrismas to be perfect, jus miss my family” She whimpered swishing his hand away from her tail, causing him to chuckle deeply, “God you’re absolutely adorable, my own little prey. I’m your family now” His hand raking over her slightly bulging stomach, housing their first litter of babies, she was now his forever. Not even her own herd could help her now, she was the alpha’s

——-

SORRY THIS IS SO STUPID BUT THE IMPULSIVE THOUGHT TO WRITE SOMETHING LIKE THIS WAS TOO MUCH😭😭

Taglist Tags: @acornacre @keiva1000 @daddymack01 @hatsparkle @stuckysgirl27 @wintasssoldier @bval-1 @angelmather1 @lastwandastan @ravenhood2792 @feltonswifesworld87 @fdl305 @bxdbxtxh15 @pandaxnienke @patzammit @kimhtoo17 @itsaylayay1213 @mischiefsemimanaged @uwiuwi @mdpplgtz03 @alexxavicry @bookfrog242 @alina02 @roofwitty779 @aerangi @s-void @oliviah-25 @nikkitc0703 @hallecarey1 @misshale21 @meetmeatyourworst @girl-of-multi-fandoms @cevansgurl @imboredat2am @marvelgurl @chrisevansdaughter @chrisevansangel @evanstanwhore @adoreyouusugar @stormcloudss @emvebee @annajustwrites @caps-shield1918 @xoxokiara @mirikusashes @mysticfalls01 @royalwriteroftheuniverse @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @madebylilly @dumb-fawkin-bitch @vrittivsanghavi

[onyxrosess]

Pain is My Hometown

vergil x reader [multi-chapter series]

Chapter IV: It's Too Late for Me Now

Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III | Chapter IV [you're here!] | Table of Contents

・warnings/tags: n/a

( cross-posted on ao3 )

Swinging the sheets off your body in an attempt to freeze yourself into waking up, mostly it worked. Dante’s bed was nicer than anticipated, likely due to him sleeping in his chair 90% of the time instead of the bed he owned. Regardless of how many times you’ve ‘accidentally’ spent the night at the shop, you never kept any clothes here, meaning you’d have to drive back to Fortuna to change clothes. Besides the heavy sigh that left your mouth, it was quiet and it wasn’t taken for granted, Kyrie’s and Nero’s house can get a little noisy unless it's 5 in the morning. Shuffling to the bathroom connected to Dante’s room, you addressed whatever was happening with your hair., scavenging for a brush to maybe tame the nest that was on your head.

After successfully making your hair look a little more presentable, you walked down the stairs, your eyes met with Dante leaning back in his chair, a magazine covering his eyes. You stepped around crunched up papers that littered the ground, standing next to Dante’s sleeping form. How does he not have back problems? Before you could give it much thought, you were reminded the man in front of you was not all man. Yet he acted with such ease that you wondered what happened to Vergil- why was he so…weird? You wished there was a nicer way to put it, but the things he’s done were of his own volition, no one else's. Your mind began to bubble up in anger once again, seething at your father. Heartless man. 

“Well good morning, didn’t take you for a stalker.”  The magazine that once covered Dante’s face was now slid down into his lap. His body remained motionless as he looked at you with a sly smile on his face. “I didn’t take you as a perv who stuffed his face in magazines all day.” Dante feigned hurt on his face, those puppy dog eyes don’t work. “Hey- you know I have bad luck with women.” “Is that what you tell yourself at night?” Dante playfully scoffs, shoving the paper back on the desk. His boots slid off the wooden surface, as you lifted yourself to sit on the desk. Silence took over the shop before it was quickly disrupted, “Y’know, I was thinking.” Oh god, Dante is thinking. You stifled a chuckle, trying to see what he was going to say before giving him shit. “Why didn’t you get into demon hunting with Nero?” 

The thought never crossed your mind really, when Nero was younger he was a little too cocky for his good. Your little exposure to demons before…whatever the hell happened in Fortuna, led you to just avoid them entirely. It’s not like hell gates of that magnitude would ever open again, hopefully anyway.  “That was Nero’s thing, plus I was recovering again.” You paused, letting out a breath before continuing, “And I’m just a regular human.” “Lady’s human and she does just fine.” Dante’s words became quieter, “Probably too well for her own good.” You couldn’t help but exhale a light laugh, Lady must have won their little bet the last time they were out. “Dante, you want me to believe Lady, who you’ve apparently known since you were 18 is the same age as you? She doesn’t look a day over 25- shit, I probably look older than her!” You did not want to point out your age, not that you were proud of the slowly appearing lines on your face, but at least you’ve lived. “Okay fine, I’m not sure if she’s fully human, her father was a nut job so I could only assume.” Dante crossed his arms over his chest, and for once he wasn’t wearing his red leather coat. The dark grey shirt rolled up at his elbows, the fabric fraying at the edges.

“Well, it seems like Lady and I have something in common.” Your attempt at a joke was met with a chuckle from Dante, he leaned forward in his seat, looking at a paper on his desk. He only skimmed over it before sighing, letting it fall back onto the desk.  “What's that?”  Dante looked at the paper again before closing his eyes in annoyance. “There’s a string of demon sightings, about 2 hours away from here. Likely a hell gate, which is beyond annoying.” You were puzzled, from what you knew, hell gates only appeared from human’s doings.  “I thought those only popped up due to humans.” Dante shook his head at your question, “Nope, but if it’s a demon opening it, that means there's a big guy guarding it.” Dante’s vocabulary switched like he was talking to a child, you suppose it’s easier for you to understand but it made you chuckle at his choice of words. So the ones in Fortuna when you met Dante must have been the synthetic ones. You tried to remember how Dante explained it to you in the moment but you were so shaken up you thought you were on something the way he was talking.

“A ‘ big guy ’- am I twelve Dante?” “Well you sometimes act-” “Don’t answer that.” You looked at him with a stern expression that could only be held up for so long before your face softened again. The two of you continued to reminisce on old times, frankly, they weren’t that long ago, but everything happened so quickly that it feels so long ago. It was close to seven years of knowing Dante, but a couple of those were taken from you due to some of the otherworldly events. You would never admit to Dante that you thought he was handsome when you first met, but now, things seem different. Whether he’s getting older or you both are- you can’t seem to bring yourself to walk that path anymore. Your friendship with Dante is one you hold close, and threatening to burn that bridge with a silly crush that you had years ago seemed illogical. 

You were reminded of Dante’s concern over his brother last night, and maybe you just wanted to add fuel to the fire that was hating Vergil’s guts, or you wanted to be right about him. Although you couldn’t help but ask, “Why did you ask about Vergil yesterday?”  You prepared yourself for a response that would make you feel justified in your hatred, “Well, he’s not the most… friendly , and I guess his attempts could be seen as off-putting.” Dante really knows how to not tell you exactly what was going on but sure, he’s not the most friendly. It left you just to reply with a small hum, you’ll find out more soon. Even if you had to beat it out of Vergil.

After some complaining about recent jobs being too boring, must he always find something to complain about? Even when they accidentally put an olive on his pizza he could easily pick off he has to complain, as if he was legally bound to complain about it, every time. Dante later departed with a grunt, saying how much of a pain in the ass going two hours out is, even though he can fly there, for free. You reminded him that he should be grateful he doesn’t have to deal with traffic. He responded with a nonchalant, ‘Yeah, yeah.’ You also left the shop back to Fortuna soon after, a change of clothes and a shower is in order.

Arriving back home, the van Nico and Nero took last night for the job was parked in front of the house, a loud clank came from the garage followed by Nico cursing. Thankfully they aren't dead, you sighed as you walked towards Nico. “Howdy.” She greeted you, but her attention was elsewhere tinkering on a new arm for Nero- like he still needed those.  “Hey, you staying out of trouble?” Nico playfully scoffed, “Never, you know me.” You smiled, “How did last night go?” Nico laughed before she could even give you an answer. “Nero got knocked around quite a bit, it made for the night's entertainment- he’s alright now he didn’t get hurt hurt, y’know?” Nico sputtered out her words after she told you Nero got injured, but her swift recovery followed. You brushed her off, Nero would be fine, he's an adult. No matter how many times you told yourself that you would always be worried when he got hurt. Nico continued on the mechanical arm as you excused yourself inside. Looking out the sliding door, the orphans splashed each other with water in an inflatable pool, you couldn’t help but smile. You had wished that was the life you had grown up with, but no jealousy filled you, just happiness that it was better for them.

Making your way to your room, you walked down the skinny hallway, about to pass Nero and Kyrie’s room when Nero appeared on the other side of the door. Nero looked as if he had the worst hangover and got beat to shit. Nero’s white hair was pointing in all different directions as scrapes and cuts littered his skin, but the gashes were already halfway healed from the looks of it.  “Nico told me it went well” Sarcasm leaked from your voice, as you held in a laugh, Nero did look a little miserable but you knew he would be fine. “Yeah, it went great .” Nero matched your voice, you could tell he didn’t want to admit that he had difficulty beating up a demon. He leaned against the door frame as he rubbed the exhaustion out of his eyes. “What happened? Just too strong for you?” You jabbed him in the side lightly with your elbow. He barely moved, just rolled his eyes at you. “The fucker had these little…” He paused, searching for the words in his head, “Bugs, I don’t know, and they were everywhere and the more I killed them they doubled, it was so annoying.” “So you got beat up by bugs” “I never said that.”  Nero gave you the look that he was trying to save his ego, you can only imagine Nico’s hysterics yesterday. “Well I’m glad you’re okay- you just look like you had a wild night.” A smile crept on your face as you watched Nero’s face heat up just the slightest bit. It left as quickly as it came as he shoved your shoulder, walking out of the doorway. 

The day went on without too much drama, you accompanied Nico in her attempts to fix the radio in the van. You couldn’t help but chuckle every time she let out a string of curse words, like ‘fucknuts’ or ‘you mother shitter!’ Maybe it helped her focus. Scrubbing your body clean from grease, and washing your hair vigorously, it's the only way it stays clean. You stood in front of the mirror, analyzing your face, restraining yourself from picking anything and everything off of your skin. Glancing at the clock, it was only three in the afternoon, you really should socialize- outside of bars. That was enough convincing for you to go out, after getting dressed and ready to leave you picked open your wallet, you were a little richer than usual, weird. You dismissed it, putting the key into your ignition as you sped off into the road. 

Fortuna was quite busy today, the sidewalks were a little busier than usual, some of the individuals carried bags with various shop logos on them, and others had street food in their hands before stuffing their faces. You cruised down a street with many varying restaurants and business fronts, one caught your eye, there were around 20 boxes full of records, and you desperately needed new music to listen to at work, Dante hadn’t gotten a new record for far too long. You stopped and parked your bike on the side of the street as you wandered into the store, the cashier greeted you as you reciprocated the gesture. Drawn to the records you flipped through them, seeing covers you recognized, and some you didn’t. You went through maybe two or three boxes before the roar of an engine brought your attention to the street, an old bike tore through the streets, and the red paint started to chip at the corners, which looked very similar to Dante’s bike he’s abandoned over the years. A short black-haired woman sat ontop of it- Lady. You quickly abandoned your post at the record boxes and went outside, Lady’s face did not wear her normal expression, she was far too focused than usual. She stopped the bike in its tracks once she recognized your face and your accompanying bike.

“What are you doing out here?” You questioned her as you walked closer to her. “There's another hell gate that popped up in Red Grave, I was out here doing work before I realized.” Lady’s skin carried a light sheen of sweat, and maybe a few stains from demon guts. You weren’t sure how to respond other than ‘Go get 'em’ tiger!’ but it worried you that Lady was even breaking a sweat over it. “They are so annoying!” Lady groaned, before starting her engine again, “It’ll be fine, (Name). Nothing I can’t handle, I’ll call you when I’m done.”  “Y’know, Dante said the same thing about the one he was taking care of-” “There's another one?” You paused, you assumed she and Dante were on the same page or at least she knew about it, but Dante often didn’t think about telling people about his jobs unless someone was accompanying him or he was asked. “I mean, I’m not sure- Dante just mentioned that he had a job a couple hours out for a hell gate.” Lady let out another annoyed groan, “Okay well, thank you, I really gotta go.” You could barely respond before she drove away, you stood on the sidewalk, it had been a long time since you’d seen Lady even remotely worried about anything demon-related, and to be honest, you weren’t sure if she was concerned or annoyed. Your mind quickly wandered to Dante, if another hell gate popped up does that mean he got rid of the other one? Trying to soothe your worries by using the excuse that you have no idea about any of it, your knowledge of demons and hell was slim to none. Deciding to go home early, empty-handed. You weren’t gone longer than 30 minutes, your attempt to socialize was exceptionally short today. You pulled into the driveway, Nico seemed to be inside as the garage housed no life. Lifting your helmet off of your head, a faint crackling sound came from behind you, you turned around to see little sparks of blue seeming to form in the air. A deep blue smoke? What the fuck is that? The screen of smoke enlarged as a figure stepped out from it, a figure you recognised. One you wished you didn’t recognise, Vergil. His expression was plain as ever as you still sat on your bike, a little confused- a bit more than confused. He can just pop up anywhere, wherever he wants? You knew Dante could fly, and you weren’t sure why this came as a surprise to you. The door to inside Nero’s home opened as you followed the sound, Nero stepped down the stairs, walking towards you and Vergil. 

“What’s going on? Nero, you should not be going out right now, you’re still-” “I’m fine, (Name).” Nero’s voice was laced with a string of seriousness, something you weren’t familiar with, at least directed towards you. Vergil stood where he had popped up from his portal, rather you’re assuming that’s what it was. “I’m requesting Nero come with me to take care of a hell gate, he should learn how to properly deal with them.” Vergil’s words teetered on the edge of a scolding, your brows furrowed together, he has no room to be scolding Nero. You held your tongue as Nero did the same. Your words did not come easily to you, this feeling you get when you’re around Vergil was not one you liked, you felt so little compared to him. Not just in stature but status, it was suffocating and you hated it. It felt all too close to the suffocating nature of your ex-boyfriends and their tactics to belittle you.

“...be careful, Nero.” Your voice came out just above a squeak, you despised it. As if it was not in your control to speak up. Nero nodded and Vergil unsheathed his sword, as the same crackling blue sparked from his sword. He slashed the air with the blade, his movements direct and controlled. An identical deep blue screen opened in front of him, he turned his head towards Nero, silently motioning to step into the portal with him. Nero did not say anything to you, but a glance. You could not get comfort from it, the whole interaction was ominous and frankly frustrating because you had no idea what just transpired. They were gone just like that, the portal closed right after Nero stepped in, with no evidence that neither of them was ever here. You pulled your bike into the garage, a little more aggressively than normal. You pulled the keys from their spot in your bike, rushing through the house to your room, luckily Kyrie and Nico were preoccupied and did not see you come in. You escaped to your room, shutting the door and flopping onto your mattress.

You had to remind yourself to breathe, as annoying and frustrating that you could do nothing or that you didn’t know the whole story is, nothing you could do at this moment could change anything. You exhaled, carding your fingers through your hair to get them out of your face. Ever since Dante planted the question of why you never picked up devil hunting, it made you ever so conscious of your helplessness, you were weak. If a demon tried to kill you, you could do nothing. The thought only made you more frustrated, but to bring yourself to do anything about that fact was something you could decide later. Your body laid still, as your eyes stared into the ceiling of the room, and your thoughts spiralled in your mind. If there was an award for overthinking, you would have first place.

As always, thank you for reading! Maybe a separate Dante fic coming sometime soon…? (I'm rubbing my hands together deviously) -onyxroses Previous Chapter | Next Chapter (coming soon!)

[raffe156]

Escape to the country part 3

Pairing - Price X MC (Tank) F!reader

Summary - Close, but no cigar...💔

 “You broken?”  

 Escape part 1

Escape part 2

Little mood board to help give you the visual. As always feedback encouraged and comments welcomed! Let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part!

A/N -Bit shorter than the other parts but wanted to get it up, I really appreciate all the recent feedback and asks! Please keep em coming! It only spurs me on haha 

Warnings for the whole storyline - Under 18+ DNI,  angst, Smut, Masturbation (F + M), Language, mutual pining, alcohol,fluff, Age gap Relationship feelings, Price (39) reader (Tank, 25) mentions of family,domestic fluff

Tags: @irnbru32 @shuttlelauncher81​​ ​ @mildlyhopeless

It was close to midnight, You and Price had mostly sat in silence, happy just being in each other's company, watching the fire crackle and spit.

“We should probably get to bed kid, early start tomorrow”

You sat up straight stretching, you had been practically leaning on him. You glanced over a Kyle he was still out cold, you had placed a blanket over him earlier.

“Probably too big to carry to bed eh?” You softly laughed.

“What? I could easily carry you! have done before, in fact who was it that carried you back 2 miles to the evac point that time in Bosnia when you sprained your ankle? Me” Price pointed both his thumbs back at himself triumphantly.

“I meant Kyle…”

“Oh…yeh he can take himself to bed…” Price chuckled as he got up from the couch stretching, his grey T-shirt lifting up to show his abdomen, a trail of dark auburn hair leading down past the waistband of his joggers and to his…

“You ok? zoned out there for a sec” Price was looking at you, his sleepy eyes searching for the planet you were on.

“Yeh...I'm good i'll wake him up while you put the fire out deal?” You got up from the couch and gently tapped Kyle on the shoulder.

“Kyle, time for bed…” You had to be gentle with him as Kyle was like you, any abrupt attempt to wake you up resulted in confusion, panic and always a fight.

You had a special way of dealing with each other, you each understood what the other needed when at their most vulnerable. When you didn’t get a response from him, you softly squeezed his hand rubbing your thumb on his palm, this was one of your secret ways of telling each other to wake up.

It worked Kyle opened his eyes slowly glancing around then at you, his anchoring point. He knew he was ok. Price looked on at your both, he admired the system you had both developed he knew all too well how being woken in a strange place could sometimes effect those in your kind of work.

“Time for bed Kyle”

“How long was I asleep?”

“About 2 hours lad, don’t worry I stopped her from drawing a dick on your face”

“Thanks, Cap uhhhh” Kyle stretched and handed you the blanket to fold and put away, you shook your head taking it always picking up after him you thought.

“You two go up I’m gonna lock up down here then ill be up in a bit like I said early start tomorrow nice walking trail then a Pub lunch on me” Price smiled at you. You let out a soft laugh, walking trail, pub lunch? Who was this man, either way you didn’t care you were enjoying it.

“Right I'm going up you coming Tank?” Kyle shuffled back out into the kitchen. “Night, Boss”

“Night, son”

You hesitated still holding the folded blanket, Price clocked you still standing there, making his way over he held out his hand for the blanket.

“I'll take that tar, what’s up not tired?”

Your body was shattered, but your mind was racing if only he knew what you had been thinking earlier in the shower what you had done what you had cried out? Would he tell you you’d crossed a line? Tell you that you were out of order and not to think of him that way? You would only ever be, could only ever be Captain and sergeant? Or would he say he had felt the same, had thought about you in every way, having you in every way? You realised you had been staring at the last few embers dancing in the fireplace when you felt him tug at the blanket.

“You must be tired second time you have spaced out on me? Go on get to bed, I’ve checked in the wardrobe and under the bed no monsters” He let out a chuckle as he turned to place the blanket over the back of the armchair.

“Yeh sorry, I’m knackered. Thanks again for dinner it was amazing didn’t know you had it in you!” You turned and made your way out of the snug and into the kitchen Price followed you close behind.

“Want me to help you lock up? I don’t mind” you were hovering now, just go to bed you thought! Price gave you a smile and shook his head.

“No, I’m ok locking up, like I said I’m gonna have a nightcap and a smoke”

It had just dawned on you since arriving he hadn’t smoked or had a cigar in his hand all day?

“I was just thinking I haven’t seen one cigar or ashtray, what’s up with that?”

“Don’t want the house smelling of cigar smoke, plus I’m trying to cut down” He ran his hand over his face, he looked tired you wanted to tell him to come to bed and not necessarily on his own. Stop now.

“I like the smell if I’m honest, I’ve got used to it over the years haha” the laugh was a nervous one, oh please just shut up and go to bed you told yourself he obviously wants some alone time to smoke and have a drink. Price laughed as he raised his eyebrows, so you didn’t mind the smell of his cigars eh?. He went round to the other side of the island grabbing his cigar box and a bottle of Macallan 18 he placed them on the counter and as he reached for two short glasses, he noticed you shuffling towards the double doors.

“I’m gonna head up, leave you to it, Night John” you gave him a little smile as you turned out into the hallway. Just the one glass then he thought.

 “Night kid, sweet dreams…”

*********

2:30 am

You had been in and out of consciousness since getting in bed even though this bed was better than your own, the sheets were softer the pillows plumper you just couldn't fully switch off. You decided you were going to go downstairs and make yourself a tea Price had mentioned the different teabags he had bought for the weekend, maybe there was a camomile one? You knew it wouldn’t help. You knew what would, but you weren’t even going there. You made your way out of your room, it was a bit chilly but you chose to leave your hoodie in the room you would be back up in 10mins you thought.

You stopped outside Price’s room, would he be up? You listened for signs of movement, silence. You carried on down the stairs.

You opened the double doors slowly not wanting to make a sound you closed them silently behind you. The door to the snug shut, probably locked you thought. You switched the counter spotlights on and flip the kettle on grabbing your cup from the draining board and tried to remember where Price had said the flavored tea bags were. You decided to open all the cupboards you would find them eventually after you had opened nearly every one of them you remembered they weren’t in a cupboard they were in a draw!

“The draw next to the toaster!” You shouted by mistake, instantly slapping your hands over your mouth! The room to the snug creaked open. Shit.

  *********

 2:15 am

Price had been sat in the snug for longer than he had wanted to, he was more than halfway into the bottle of whisky and he had finished his cigar long ago, the embers now tiny flicks of light. His mind just wouldn’t stop no matter how many glasses he downed no matter how blurry his vision got. You. That’s all his mind was showing him. It had been replaying earlier in the rain over and over to him, you both crammed into the shelter, you pressed against him, his hands still gripping you tight. The look you had given him, the look that held him in a trance, then the way you had bitten your lip looking at him like you wanted him. He opened his eyes, he felt himself going hard again, he looked at his watch 2:15am no chance of being disturbed. He slid his hand into his pants pulling them down slightly freeing his cock from his boxer shorts. As he stroked himself slowly he imagined you sprawled out in his bed under him, you reaching out for him you wanted him, needed him like he needed you. Your skin soft and hot to the touch, he imagined himself slowly sinking into you till he was buried to the hilt, he gripped himself that little bit tighter as he pumped away, going that little bit faster as the images of you coming undone under him danced in his mind, he let his head fall back as he felt himself coming close

“Fuckkkkk…” he slurred as he whispered your name to himself……in his drunken lust he hadn’t heard the kettle boiling or the cupboards being ransacked…it wasn't until you had shouted did he snap back around realising he wasn’t alone anymore, he quickly pulled his pants up and tucked his still very hard erection into this waistband. Without thinking, he stood up and wandered over to the door, the drink giving him a false sense of sturdiness and coordination. Why was it that his mind was so clear just now imagining you, but now when you were just on the other side of the door in real life did it decide to cloud over in a whisky fuelled haze? He pulled the door open, finding you stood in the kitchen in just a baggy T-shirt. Christ.

“I'm so sorry Boss…I didn’t mean to shout…I couldn’t sleep and remember you had the herbal tea bags and then I couldn’t remember where you said they were and…”

Price walked over to you, the smell of cigar smoke and whisky filled your nose, was he drunk?

“Shtop, listennn dont worry bout it, kid its fineee”

He was drunk.

“How much have you had to drink?” You laughed as he leaned on the island facing you his arms behind him propping him up.

“A few but I’m okkkk” He was trying to act sober you could tell you had only seen him tipsy but never this drunk before. He was looking you up and down, god did he want you the bulge in his waistband straining against the fabric. His eyes fell to the T-shirt you had on even drunk he noticed that it wasn’t just any T-shirt it was one of his, it was the very same T-shirt he had been wearing under all his gear when you both had been shot, he could tell because there was a little hole on the shoulder. Without thinking again he reached forward poking his finger into it. The action took you by surprise as you could feel his fingertip brushing your scared tissue. He glanced down at you taking your hand in his an placed it on his chest under your fingertips you could feel the unmistakable bump of the same scar tissue. He rested his hand flat on top of yours and gave you that eye-crinkling smile. It caused your heart to flutter. You both stood for a few minutes in silence.

“I thought it would be funny…to wear my members-only T-shirt” you said softly as he let go of your hand.

“Nicee touch, I like it” he was really trying to sound sober. You hadn’t realised but he had closed the gap between you both as his hand was now resting on the sink behind you.

“How much have you had to drink?” You couldn’t help the little laugh as he closed his eyes, pretending to count.

“Don’t know, a few ha ha” he was concentrating on your face you must have been a blur to him. What was he doing? What were you doing?

“You know kidd I’ve bin meanin to get somethin off my chesttt” he looked away as if trying to muster the words. Was he really going to tell you how he had been feeling recently, how he thought something had changed between you? Before he could continue you placed your hand on his arm.

“Not now…let’s both get some sleep an wait till morning and if you still want to get it off your chest, we will talk how does that sound?”

He sighed you were right, even drunk he knew you were right and he would only balls up what he wanted to say anyway.

“Yeh your right, less talk in the mornin” Price dropped his head his face was a few inches from yours the smell of spilled whisky on his beard an the earthy cigar smoke on his tongue filled your lungs you wanted it to coat them. You rubbed little circles on his arm feeling the tight muscles under his skin, the little scars where the hair hadn’t grown back fully. You looked up at him, his head still bowed looking at the floor you studied his face the soft dark lashes that framed his dark blue eyes which were now staring at you.

“I’m sorry kid, shouldn’t let you see me like this ha ha not very Captain of me!”

 You chuckled, looking out the window behind you.

“If anything it makes you more human to me, it shows your vulnerability John”

God he really did love you calling him by his name, he smiled at you.

“Right let's head up to bed, you first I’ll shut the doors behind me come on” you put your hand on his back to steer him towards the double doors opening then before he crashed through them.

“Easy!! Don’t want Kyle waking up as well”

He comically shushed himself as you closed the doors behind you both. You had to hold in the laugh or else you would have set him off.

In the dark you pushed him by the back up the stairs, to be honest, if he did fall back there wasn't much you would be able to do. You ushered him to his room, stepping in to turn on the bedside lamp so as to not blind the two of you. Price walked right past you and flopped into bed as he did he knocked over an empty glass on the side, luckily his room was carpeted so it only bounced and rolled under the bed, you looked over at him his huge mass nearly taking up the whole king size bed, but if you moved his arm you thought, there was a nice little spot just right for you to curl up in? Stop it.

“Right I'm off to bed are you going to be ok? I don’t need to put you in the recovery position, do I?” You leaned over him just to check.

“I'll be fine…get in bed…” he had an arm over his eyes, shielding them from the light. You contemplated just getting in next to him, for his safety in case he swallowed his tongue? But thought best not in case Kyle woke to find you walking across the landing back to your room. Turning the light off, you bent down to pick the glass up from underneath his bed.

“I'm going, night John…sweet dreams” you smiled up at him as you found the glass, but something was underneath it, something silky. You pulled it out along with the glass.

Once from under the bed you knew exactly what it was, it was a pair of black silk knickers. You felt as though a hole had been punched through your gut and hollowed out. You looked down at them the bile rising in your chest. “you and Kyle are the first real guests I had since getting the place liveable” the words taunting in your head. “Well, I haven’t been totally alone…remember that Doc from Ireland? She’s been up to see the house it wasn’t finished not even watertight, but she came for a visit,”

 Had he lied to you? Yeh, he had lied to you. You could feel yourself getting angry, but you didn’t really have a right to be jealous of him…sleeping with another woman…he wasn't yours…he was just your Captain wasn't he? But it was more that he had lied and also it was probably with that stupid bitch doctor. That thought stung like a thorn in your side. You felt like a silly little girl. Is that how he saw you? Call you friend but keep you closer…keep you on a short leash, close to him, his little toy Tank?

 You put them back where you had found them, and placed the glass on the side and made your way to the door.

 “Night, love, sweet dreams”

 “Night John”

[yunessa]

Owlcatober 25: 'Smooth'

Spoiler free Kenabres excerpts of Ramien and Yunessa.

“I was starting to wonder if you were all part of my imagination Ramien. If you had kept your hood up I wouldn’t have been able to find you.” The Aasimar priest sat in the forges, his metallic hair gleaming in the warm light of the smithy. In his hands was a cup of coffee still steaming. 

Ramien gave Yunessa a smile. “You should see when I tried to dye it a year ago. It was a disaster.” He started to rise. 

“Stay seated Ramien. You look tired.” The smithy was small- one the inn used to rent out to adventurers- but was well kept. The glowing embers in the forge kept the space comfortably warm. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’ve been doing whatever I can. Comforting people, healing them…” He smiled sadly. “... but unfortunately Desna has not allowed me the power to return the dead. With the demon attack repelled and your victories in the city, it seems to have calmed it a little.”

“And how are you doing yourself?” Yunessa asked. Ramien’s sad smile faded with the look he gave Yunessa, one of wry humour.

“You know me already. As for myself- I’m here and doing what I can to help. There have been a few problems- cultists sneaking in, an attempted murder in the Inn’s basement- but nothing Commander Tirabade hasn’t handled.” He took a drink from his cup. “She’s handled it so well I only heard of it after the fact.” 

Ramien’s eyes were as unusual as Daeran’s. But his eyes looked like jewels. The purple shined and gleamed in a way that only jewels only caught the light, the colour rich.  Daeran’s were pale, like the greenish-topaz stones in the ring he gave Yunessa as payment. If violets could be jewels…

“You’re staring.” Ramien wagged a finger at Yunessa. There was amusement written on his face.

Yunessa felt their face heat up, but not from the forge. They coughed. “Sorry, I was studying you-”

“Staring intently at my eyes while you studied?” Ramien asked, his smile sly. “How studious.”

“Alright Daeran.” Yunessa rubbed at their jaw as Ramien chuckled. “But to answer you right- I haven’t met many aasimar. You and Daeran are one of the only three I’ve seen and talked to so I was studying you.”

“Am I that handsome?” He asked coyly and Yunessa pretended to stare at him more intently.

“Wellll…” Yunessa drawled out. “I guess, since you caught me staring I have to say yes.”

“And if I hadn’t?” His eyes gleamed with humour.

“I’d have to say it was close but.” Yunessa made a show of running their hands through their hair and giving Ramien a wink. “You’re not me, so you’ll have to take second place.”

Ramian chuckled, a rich sound that seemed to brighten the forge. “My parents were both elves, I might end up coming out ahead of you.” His smile remained when Yunessa pretended to gasp but continued: “If you haven’t met many of us before then it’s natural you’d stare. We don’t share similar characteristics but we all stand out in our own ways.” Ramien took a long drink from his cup before setting it aside. “Speaking of standing out, how has Daeran been? I was surprised to see him with you.”

“He’s been fine. He’s upset Lann a few times with his words but they seem to be fine- at least the last time we came back they were amicable.” Yunessa answered honestly and Ramien blinked at them. “He has a sharp tongue. But honestly,I haven’t found it bothering me. His knowledge of the city and current events has been very helpful.” -

Yunessa just felt nauseated and tired. Standing in the outdoor air of the courtyard helped as a cold breeze caressed their face. The Eagle Watch and Crusaders were making their final preparations and Yunessa was gathering their thoughts.

“Are you going to the Grey Garrison?” Ramien’s voice came from their right.  The aasimar priest moved to stand next to Yunessa. “It’s a ridiculous question to ask now that I realise it.” 

“It’s allright Ramien.” Yunessa bit back a yawn as a bum of sunlight broke through the clouds. “I am going with them. My companions should be joining soon- I came here early to see the fall weather before we grouped up.”

“I saw you talking to Klaem. Is he going with you as well?” Ramien’s gold hair shined in the daylight.

“He wants to cast a ritual before we start when all of my companions are with me. He says he can manage a haste spell that will last hours instead of minutes.” Multicoloured autumn leaves fell down, dancing when the wind blew. “Irabeth already discussed the plans and right now I think she’s checking the defences. If we don’t come back this place will need to hold on its own until the army arrives.”

“I actually came to offer my help as well.” Ramien smiled. “If I may?”

“What kind of help?” Ramien’s smile turned cryptic at Yunessa’s question, gesturing for them to turn around. 

“Turn around and I’ll fix your hair for you.” His smile remained as Yunessa turned around, moving closer. 

“I didn’t sleep well, I forgot.” Yunessa admitted.

“You know,” Ramien murmured, lowering his voice. “Desna is an unpredictable goddess.” Yunessa almost started when Ramien’s hands touched their hair. “Who knows how she will come to the aide of her faithful children?” His hands were warm as he pulled back Yunessa’s hair. “I had a dream where she sang the demons a little lullaby and they fell into a deep sleep just like innocent babes.”

“Did she?”  Ramien tying their hair for them brought back fragments of a memory. A woman with blond hair over an Inn's kitchen sink. Wet hair. Brush in her hand. Clothes befitting a mage's apprentice. She was angry her braid was crooked when I  braided her hair. Told me to go ahead to- where?  Vague blurry faces, a feeling of sorrow strong enough that it made Yunessa grimace before they shoved the memory away.

“Yes. I’m going to use one of my hairsticks Yunessa, this string won’t hold in a fight.” Reamien reached for the bag at his belt, searching through it.

“Hair like yours and you’d pin it up? You’re doing the rest of us a disservice Ramien.” Ramien’s chuckle seemed to make the space around them brighter. “If my hair looked like gold I’d show it off often.” 

“Your hair reminds me of clouds.” He finished the bun he’d made with the hairstick and string . “But far softer.” Turning their head back Yunessa wasn’t certain if Ramien was joking with them but something in his gaze made them pause.

“You’re-”

“You should go find your companions.” He urged Yunessa on. “I will be here when you return to tend to your wounds- and prepare for the celebration when the Worldstone is saved.” He was smiling warmly at Yunessa as they left, his hands clasped in front of him witha smile on his face.

[phoeebsbuffay]

Imagine “Star Wars: “special editions” songs V.

• When We Were Young.

Imagine you are friends with Anakin Skywalker since childhood. However, once you two are now grown ups following different paths, a new sentiment arises. Part I

Warnings 1: *long post*; drama; angst.

Warnings 2: alternative universe; no younglings are killed here.

Warnings 3: There’s gonna be a part 2 haha

Warnings 4: based on Adele’s two albums “21” & “25”

No minors.

***

Preface.

It is dark. Only stars and the bright two moons guide you in this deadly silence as you walk in a fast pace. Your cape hides your features, part of you accuses you of madness for letting your heart burst like this.

This is the end.

You hear steps. Quickly, you try to run. But you are stolen away and what happens next is a struggle to survival.

Funny, you’ve never thought a group of rebels would do this to you. But here you are. Do they know you at all?

“You can take my name, but you shall never have my heart”, you cry out.

You are under torture. For him, whoever he is now, you’d gladly embrace death. But this is too dramatic. Suddenly it gets cold. One metallic breathing gives away his presence.

There is someone over you, trying to steal away your breath, clearly ignoring what’s to come. You smirk.

“Where I go, he goes”, you gasp. “What I see, he sees. I know I’ll never be me without his security of his loving arms keeping me from harm.”

“…And we’ll stand. As I vowed you that day, Y/Nickname”, his voice comes softly in the back of your mind, but only you can hear.

That is how he saves you. That is how the distressed damsel is back to where she belongs: to the arms of the Black Jedi, now known as Lord Vader.

So the sky falls.

***

How it starts… (I)

You are a child, daughter of a powerful nobleman of Tatooine. But because you are a girl, you are despised by the family. Despite the rejection that would grow into you as a fear of abandonment, you take the opportunity to live life as you wish.

Hence why you come to the part of Tatooine where it’s a complete mess, where the elite rarely—if never—dares to go. This is the context that draws you to Anakin.

A poor boy who is the same age as you and, like you, are enslaved to other people’s way of living—despite the evident differences in your status. Regardless, you bump into him.

“I’m sorry!”, you say louder than you wish. “I-I didn’t mean to.”

The boy of sandy hair and tempest blue eyes stares at you with tilted head wondering why a girl in fanciful robes would be so easily startled and not acting in a self entitlement manner.

Clearly you think you are disguising, Anakin thinks to himself, rather amused.

“No need to apologize, it’s all good”, he smirks at you. “I’m Anakin Skywalker, by the way. Who are you again?”

You are presenting yourself when an older male dressed in grey robes comes at you, eyebrows lightly furrowed.

“Anakin”, he says to the boy you’ve just met. “Who is this young woman you’ve been talking to?”

You can tell he’s been disturbed by this so you are about to excuse yourself—you know when you are being a burden and, frankly, you barely wish to be somebody else’s.

As if capturing your thoughts, the older male softens to you. But before he speaks, Anakin, impulsive as he naturally inclines himself to, promptly holds your hand and says:

“You are not going anywhere, Y/N. You are my friend.”

You giggle softly, albeit embarrassed.

“Why, thank you, Mr Anakin. You are most kind.”

The other one is disconcerted about perceiving young Anakin’s inclination to possessiveness.

“I am rarely kind”, Anakin keeps the conversation, taking the opportunity to show himself. “Which means how I like you.”

You blush lightly. It’s when the older male chuckles and says:

“Well, Anakin. Arrogance is not the best way to welcome new friends”, towards you he speaks now. “Young lady, may I know by what name do you attend to and where are your parents?”

“The name is Y/N Y/LN”, you tell them nonchalantly. “My parents are too occupied to be reminded of my existence. Please sire, I ask you not to report me to them.”

“Master Qui Gon Jinn”, Anakin suddenly comes up with this new idea. “Why don’t you bring her with us? We could train together. I’m going to be a Jedi, you know.”

Delicately, the said Jedi Master explains to Anakin you have no Force: therefore you cannot join them. You don’t understand very well what’s been said, but you appreciate nonetheless the warm attitude Anakin’s been having towards you.

If, however, Master Qui-Gon Jinn attempts to prevent a deeper bond to form, his efforts have no avail. Soon, you have a better reason to make longer the escapes from that prison of yours.

Until the day Anakin is ready to leave, you two architect a plan for you to secretly join him. It’s when Obi-Wan discovers and tells Qui-Gon about it.

But the end is far from catastrophic, as you and him fear. You are now brought under the cares of Padmé Amidala, future queen of Naboo.

***

Late teenager days.

Next time you see him, you are both leaving adolescence. It’s been five years since he last saw you in Naboo, serving as the Queen’s lady-in-waiting.

Now you and Anakin are eighteen years old: a handsome man he’d turn out to be as you became a full developed beautiful woman. He is now a Knight Jedi, ready to prepare his path to become the next Master of the Jedi Order and you, the confident friend to the Queen.

For a long while you’ve been committed writing to each other, very rarely coming to see one another. But now Anakin is about to see you again for he’s been assigned to guard Queen Padmé.

And when you two finally meet…in a rainy day, to be precise, you are dressed in silvery robes, a heavy make up hiding the delicacy of your features, praying to be as discreet as possible. But you are not counting with the handsome man Anakin is now.

Your best friend, responsible for your liberty, smiles widely when acknowledging you. Indeed, how could Anakin forget you? He’s been dreaming of your sweet words, remembering when you two bonded as children…

No, Anakin kept the memories of you very alive. And now he takes delight in seeing you, although he is taken aback by your handsomeness. Noticing his admiration, though, Obi-Wan clears his throat.

“Now, now, Anakin. We are discussing here the protocols the Senate delegated us to the said mission concerning Naboo…”

Anakin has the decency to blush. But whilst his attention has diverted to the seriousness of the subject, you, however, seem to get lost at the man your childhood friend has grown into.

You cannot look away from his sandy hair, the tempest that forms in his blue eyes matching the bluntness in his speech, which makes your lips twitch in a light smirk…

Here he is, the Anakin I’ve always known…

You lower your gaze for just as this thought runs to your mind he seems to have captured it, so you spot some amusement behind his eyes that earns you some light blush.

“Very well”, you hear the Queen’s voice, thus breaking the spell his presence had put in you. “We welcome you in our retinue young Skywalker. We are very pleased to see you amongst us once again.”

“It is a pleasure as always, Your Grace”, says Anakin, gallantly—or arrogantly, judging by how some other ladies are rolling their eyes. “Duty always calls and I shall not disappoint my queen.”

“Anakin is too good with words, if you ask me”, so snorts Obi-Wan lightly. “Be careful, will you? By that I mean to say you should be mindful of your duties…”

You try to hold back your giggle. Anakin sees you and, already seeing what’s the reason for it, he cannot help another smirk. However, no one seems to notice this subtle admiration between one another—except perhaps Obi-Wan, who seems to choose to ignore what’s happening right under his nose.

This is how it begins. This is how the spark is ignited.

**

A few days later, he is right behind you—not only following like a puppet dog, but if he can be excused, protecting the Queen like he vowed to. Except his eyes are never far from yours.

“Tell me, Anakin. Do you dance?”, Queen Amidala asks in a tone that makes no effort in hiding her amusement.

“Uh?”, he is distracted by your beauty. Anakin soon clears his throat. “I am a warrior, a peacekeeper. Not the best dancer, my lady.”

But the queen sees what you and Anakin might not promptly see it. She side smirks, pretending to occupy herself with sewing when she says:

“Why, if I were you, I would dance to keep peace. Do you know Lady Y/N is my best lady where dance is concerned?”

Anakin’s mind is finally captured by her web. As your eyes go wide and a blush colors your cheeks, his eyes glint with amusement.

“I do not. In this case…”

“I give you my permission, yes. Don’t be shy, Lady Y/N. Go on.”

You blush violently, much to Anakin’s delight. As he takes hold of your hand, he is surprised to find you cold.

“Are you well, Y/Nickname? What’s the need of being shy to me?”

As you two begin to dance, it feels as if there’s only you in the room.

“It’s not about that, Ani. I don’t like enjoying everyone’s attention…” as you raise your eyes, you are surprised to find those blue irises staring at you. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I was merely noticing… You are a woman, Y/N.”

You chuckle lightly.

“Haven’t you noticed that before?”

Anakin smiles and you feel like the sun is shining over you. He can hear you thought, so as much as this pleases him, it makes him blush. He diverts the gaze away, only for one moment.

“Let me protest that. This isn’t what I’ve meant to say.”

“Then what is?”, you giggle lightly as you look at his eyes, your bodies seemingly following the rhythm of the music without your knowledge.

“That you’ve grown fine as wine”, says he smugly, very satisfied for seeing you blush.

*

Today you both are in the gardens. He’s taken you to stroll all the whilst Senator Clovis is openly courting the Queen. As her favoured lady, you stand safely behind her, although she is far ahead than you and Anakin.

His arm is now tangled against yours, enjoying close proximity. You’ve been spending these joyful days speaking nonsenses, sharing jokes and perhaps something else.

Anakin can read your thoughts: he knows the depth of your feelings for him; the desires that rise without your acknowledgment, the struggle with reason that uprises your heart.

He feels the same. But somehow… He has no idea how to profess it.

Yet.

“What’s like to be a Jedi?”, you ask him, unaware of how he’s been quietly studying you. “Must be busy for I haven’t received a letter of yours for a good while.”

Smiling at your tone of accusation, Anakin says:

“Well, it does keep me occupied. I’ve been under heavy training and, if you ask my opinion,been looking forward to get a proper mission.”

You sigh, indicating your concern.

“Ani…”

“What? I was born for this and you know it”, he gently grips your arm. “There is no need to worry over me, angel. I know what I am capable of.”

You smile, sensing he might be looking for some praise. As your eyes meet again, you say:

“I know that. I’ve never had any question of your abilities, Anakin. But excuse me for worrying about my best friend”, and it’s when you whisper. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You are not going to lose me, Y/Nickname”, he whispers softly, taking your hand to his lips as he stops you so you can see he means it. In truth Anakin knows you mirror each other’s feeling. But speaking those words to you only make it better. “This I promise.”

The moment you smile, Anakin knows. And maybe the time to admit the obviousness has finally come, but not yet. The Queen summons you and Anakin. A grave look is set on her face so this means you two must set apart.

For now…

***

• “Let me photograph you in this light

In case it is the last time

That we might be exactly like we were

Before we realized”•

It’s been two years before you see him again. It drives you mad: to realize you are getting older and with such little time to see him.

You attempt to escape the questions posed by the Queen, now Senator; but there is an inevitable sadness as everytime you see husband and wife together.

You start to wonder whether wouldn’t be better to tell Anakin how you felt, for now time seems to steal him away from you.

However… Time is not that cruel to you. So before you notice, he comes to find you. Like he usually does.

“I knew I would find you here at the gardens”, his voice comes like a whisper to you, husky yes, but softly too.

When you turn abruptly, you find a matured man right before your eyes. Anakin Skywalker stands dressed in black robes, posing that same old smug pose but with a sweet smile and caring blue eyes that make you melt.

“Ani…” Your lips spread and before you know, you are running to his arms.

This time he is not letting go of you. To your surprise, as his arms involve you in a hug, his lips welcome you and…you don’t hesitate in kissing him in return.

It’s sloppy at first, marked by surprised. But as one adjusts to the other, it’s perfectly synced. Your tongue is subdued by his and you take delight at the moment.

The moment where you and Anakin are no more friends, but something far better than this. It continues so as his kiss is so alluring, as if he’s seeking the intensity there is in you. And you correspond gladly, giving him the intensity there has always been caged.

Your hands hesitantly move to his curls—they are now dropping over his shoulder, wrapping them around your finger as you share a passionate kiss. And this kiss awakes something in you, but there’s no time to discover it for he parts it from you—much to your dismay.

Seeing your emotions so clearly stamped in your face, Anakin smiles—specially aware of your sentiments.

“I had to take a breath, I had to contemplate you for a moment”, he explains to you, hands cupping your cheeks. “I missed you, Y/N.”

You lean against him, so pleased for that moment finally have happened.

“And I, you”, you rest your forehead against his, your body nearly locked to his. “What took you so long?”

It’s when you sense his heavy sigh, the subtle change in his demeanor: Anakin tries to keep it away from you, he has no wishes in updating you about politics.

The reason why both of you avoid such topic is mostly because that’s what you live everyday, so you need a break. Today is not different. But how can he avoid it?

As you hesitantly step back due to his silence, you suddenly become aware of the shadow that’s been cast at him. Very gently you place your hands to cup his face, stroking his scar as he leans against you, eyes closed.

“You know you can trust in me, Ani”, you encourage him softly. “There’s no need to keep it away from me.”

“I do not wish to have you involved in this”, says he, conflicted.

It heavies your heart to see the eclipse occurring right under your eyes. You do your best to deal with it, though. Lifting his chin, you run a hand over his hair all the whilst leaning the other over his chest. You wait until his blue eyes find your y/c ones.

“I want to be involved in this. This is not a burden for you to carry yourself, my darling.”

“I don’t know what to do.” He mumbles, still hesitant about sharing whatever troubles him with you.

“Follow your heart”, you tell him. “I’ll be here.”

As if to reassure him, you smile, aware of the sudden meaning your next words might carry:

“I’ll be here for you. No matter what.”

And that is how you seal your fate…

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

Home Sweet Home AU: Radio Silence

Thatcher becomes obsessed with a case he was assigned, one relating to the disappearances of two local teens. He has no other choice but to dig deeper.

TWs: Body horror, character death implied, blood/gore/injury

Notes: around 14'500 words long! The third volume for Home Sweet Home is here!!! The horrors!!! Anyway hope you enjoy :)

September 21st, 1992. 12:25 PM

“Hello. No one is available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone.”

BEEP.

“Hello, uh…this is Arthur Heathcliff, and I’m calling to…report a missing person.” A man’s voice spoke through the speaker; a somewhat gravely yet not too deep voice. “My son, uh, Mark. He hasn’t shown up in a week, and…I would like an investigation to be done to…try and…find him. Please answer as soon as possible…me and my wife are just...worried. We just want him to come home. Thank you.”

BEEP.

Thatcher knocked on the front door of the two story home, waiting a second before he spoke loudly, “Mandela County Police Department.” Thatcher was a thin, and tall man, wearing a dark blue police uniform over his body. He had a scruffy, unkempt beard and tired eyes, the dark circles around them contrasting with his pale beige skin. He looked at the door in front of him before he placed his hands on his hips, waiting for an answer at the door as he looked around the yard. The house he looked up at was a pale grey color, with two windows on the top story and a garage to his left. He sighed, brushing away his bleached blond hair before he heard the sound of the door opening in front of him. He let out a forced, soft smile before speaking. “You must be Leah Heathcliff?”

“That’s correct.” In front of Thatcher was a shorter woman with curly brown hair draped over her shoulders. She wore a beige and white striped sweater over a white shirt, along with a long, black skirt. Her green eyes looked up at Thatcher, her brows furrowed and her expression giving away her concern. She rubbed her necklace, which had a blue sapphire hanging from a silver chain. The silence continued before she swallowed hard. “You’re here…to search, aren’t you?”

“We’re just trying to help find your son, ma’am.” Thatcher stated. “A friend of mine is on her way; she’ll help find anything that can clue us in on where he went. Once we’re done we’ll get out of your hair. May I come in?”

“…I’ll go get my husband.” Leah stated. “You can wait in the living room.”

Leah led Thatcher into the home, closing the door behind them before walking into the living room. “Arthur?” She called. “…The police are here.”

Thatcher walked around, sighing deeply as he looked down, thinking to himself before he heard another person enter the room. “About time.” Thatcher heard Arthur speak quietly to Leah. “They were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

Thatcher looked up to see Arthur himself, seeing that he was wearing a black dress shirt with a gold cross necklace resting on his chest. His short, dark brown hair swept to the side, and his brows seemed lower, making his resting expression seem more upset than he actually was, though Thatcher couldn’t tell if it was natural considering the circumstances. He held out his hand towards Thatcher for him to shake. “Arthur. I’m the one who called.”

“Lieutenant Thatcher Davis.” Thatcher shook Arthurs hand before quickly letting go. “Okay, I’m…gonna have to ask some questions about Mark, if you don’t mind.”

Arthur sighed before gesturing towards the couch. “Go ahead.” Thatcher sat down on the couch, watching as Arthur sat on an arm chair to the side of it and Leah sitting next to Thatcher.

“Has Mark ever…snuck out of the house at any point?” Thatcher asked.

“Maybe once or twice…” Arthur recalled. “But he always came back a day or so later. Often went to his friend’s house.”

“And who was his friend?”

“Cesar.” Leah answered as she fidgeted with her hands. “Cesar Torres.”

“He…also went missing recently.” Arthur stated.

Thatcher let out a soft sigh as he scratched his head. “Alright, any…other friends he could have gone to?”

“No.” Leah stated. “…Cesar was…his only friend.”

“I see.” Thatcher stated.

“He’s been…acting strange for over a month.” Arthur stated. “I think the kid got into drugs or something—”

“Arthur!” Leah stated with a tone of surprise, sadness, and horror. “Mark wasn’t an addict, and you know it.”

“Leah…we don’t know; I’m just saying it’s possible.” Arthur responded.

“Don’t listen to him, please,” Leah’s voice almost sounded like she was begging as she turned towards Thatcher. “He was a good young man…he wouldn’t get into that.”

“We won’t blame his behavior on anything unless we get proof for it.” Thatcher assured. “Have you been in contact with Cesar’s parents?”

“I’ve…tried calling Maria, his mother, but…no answer.” Leah stated.

“Mhm.” Thatcher let out a deep sigh as he tried to think. “We’ll have to try and get in contact with the Torres family in that case,” He whispered. “When was the last time you saw your son?”

“At home. He fell asleep on the couch, and…I didn’t want to wake him up.” Leah stated. “He’s…been unable to sleep for so long so…I figured…he needed it.” Leah hunched over, sniffling slightly. “I-I should’ve asked him what was wrong.” She squeaked as her eyes began to water. “Maybe this wouldn’t have happened if I just…listened.”

“Leah, we couldn’t have predicted this.” Arthur attempted to assure her as he sat up in his chair. “We don’t know what was going through his head…”

“But we could have.” Leah responded. “But we never asked.”

Thatcher looked at the ground, bouncing its leg softly as it attempted to gather its thoughts, all before it heard a knock at the door behind it. Arthur glanced at the door then back at his wife, brows furrowed further before he stood up to greet the person at the door.

“Y-You’ll…find him…won’t you?”

Thatcher looked back towards Leah, seeing the look of desperation in her watering eyes, the stare making a pit form in its gut. It wished it could guarantee that Mark would return safe and sound, though the thought of lying to a woman who’s gone through enough pain to last a life time wasn’t something it wanted to do. “We’ll…try our best, Mrs. Heathcliff.” It stated softly. “Trust me.”

“Thatcher, I brought everything we need.”

Thatcher turned around after hearing a familiar voice, standing up from his seat. “Alright…then I guess we’ll start the search, Weaver.” Thatcher sighed as he looked at Ruth from across the room.

Ruth was a muscular, tall woman wearing the same uniform her coworker wore, without the black tie around her neck and with her sleeves rolled up. She had almond colored skin, and her dark brown, curly hair was pulled back in a ponytail aside from the bangs covering the right side of her forehead. She had facial hair on her chin, and her arms also had hair on their forearms. She looked at Thatcher, her round eyes still showing energy despite the matter at hand, even as she approached Thatcher holding a few plastic, sealable bags labeled “EVIDENCE” along with plastic gloves. She also had a camera in her hands, which she handed to Thatcher as soon as he was in front of her.

“How much are you going to take?” Arthur questioned as he stared at Thatcher.

“Only what can potentially link to the case.” Thatcher stated. “We won’t take anything we don’t need to. Was there a particular room Mark stayed in most of the time?”

“…His bedroom; upstairs, last door in the hallway.” Leah stated softly.

Leah stood beside Arthur before he hugged her, staring at Thatcher as it turned back towards Ruth. “Could you stay with them as I search the room?” Thatcher asked Ruth quietly.

“Of course.” She responded. “I’ll…try and help them through this the best I can.”

“Thank you.”

Thatcher turned towards the stairway, walking up them as Ruth approached the Heathcliffs, standing up straight as she tried her best to conceal her uncertainty. “Could you two take a seat?” She asked.

“We don’t have much else to say.” Arthur stated.

“I’m not going to ask about the case,” Ruth responded. “We can get to that later on.”

Ruth gestured towards the seats before they all sat down on the couch, Ruth sitting to the side with Leah in between her and Arthur. Leah glanced down at Ruth’s leg noticing something; it was a prosthetic. Below her right knee was a blade prosthetic, with her dress pants leg rolled up above it. Ruth caught her gaze, looking down at her leg before a soft smile appeared on her face. “Oh…Don’t worry about it,” Ruth let out a soft, lighthearted chuckle. “Just…accidents happen, y’know?”

“Yeah.” Leah said quietly. “…I guess they do.”

Ruth’s smile faded when she saw that Leah’s worried expression didn’t disappear, all while Arthur wrapped his arm around her in an attempt to comfort her. Ruth looked at them with a somber look in her eyes as she considered her next words, all while Thatcher made it to the upstairs hallway. He looked down the corridor, walking down it, his shoes clacking against the floorboards until he stopped outside of Mark’s room, taking in a breath before opening the door.

“Can…you tell me about yourselves?” Ruth asked. “What do you do for work?”

“I work at the library downtown…” Leah answered. “…Arthur’s a priest.”

“Really? Where, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“St. Gabriel’s Church.” Arthur stated.

“I see.” Ruth said, trying not to remember what she heard on the broadcasts regarding religious practices. “I’ve worked at the Police department for…years now. Me and Thatcher recently got promoted, actually.”

“Oh…congrats!” A soft smile formed on Leah’s face. “I’m…happy for you.”

“Thank you.” Ruth returned the smile. “Now…how is your job at the library?”

The first thing Thatcher noticed when he looked into the room was the state of disarray it was in. Snack wrappers and dirty clothes littered the floor, and the bed was unmade and messy. A few drawers in the dresser resting next to the wall were cracked open, jammed by lazily shoved in socks and clothes. Thatcher stepped over the garbage the best he could as his eyes grazed around the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary aside from the mess.

He looked towards the dresser, seeing something resting on top of it that grabbed his attention; an analog television. He stared at it as he approached it, looking down to see its cord dangling off of the side of the dresser, unplugged. Two objects rested on top of the television, being a camcorder and tape recorder, both of which he gently picked up and placed in two separate evidence bags. He turned around, looking towards the bed until he noticed something wrong with the posters on the wall behind it. One of them seemed crooked and lazily put on, and Thatcher squinted when he saw black markings just barely peeking out from behind it.

“I just…wish I had more time to…you know…spend time with my own children.” Leah continued as Ruth listened carefully. “It’s hard to make money nowadays and…I guess I was too focused on that rather than focusing on the things that matter…”

“We’re…better than we were a few years ago,” Arthur said. “Luckily we were able to avoid selling our belongings just to put food on the table.”

Ruth looked at the ground with a worried look on her face. “I get it, trust me.” She said quietly. “With multiple businesses closing down, it seems like getting a job is becoming harder to do.”

“Definitely.” Arthur sighed. “All I can do is thank God himself for the place we’re in. A safe home, food on the table, two healthy kids; I mean…it’s a miracle.”

Ruth nodded as Leah began to speak. “They’re…so important to me.” She stated, seemingly trying her best not to cry. “I just wish I realized it sooner.”

Thatcher carefully removed the poster from the wall, lowering it before staring at what was behind it with furrowed brows and a look of confusion. It was scribbled drawings on the wall itself, seemingly drawn with a black marker of some kind. It seemed to depict what looked like nerves and veins; organs and eyes. In the middle of the drawing was what seemed like a clock with scribbled wings protruding from it. Thatcher backed away from the drawing, all before he grabbed his camera and pointed it towards the wall, taking a picture with a white flash and a click. He looked at the picture as it developed before he looked back at the drawing, confused as to what it meant or why it was there. As he stared at the strange, organic drawing, something from the hallway stared, watching him as he moved around the bedroom and continued his search, unnoticed by the lieutenant.

“You moved here…how long ago?” Ruth asked.

“Oh…around…16 years ago, if I remember correctly.” Arthur sighed. “Mark was just a year old at that point…moved down here from Yonder.”

“Mandela seemed like a more…quaint place to live at the time.” Leah stated. “Smaller, more…homey, I guess.”

“Yonder’s just…a buncha people who have a lot of money.” Arthur said. “Big houses…but not a lot of character.”

“I get it.” Ruth responded. “I used to live in Werksha myself…” She paused as she considered her next words. “I’ve been considering moving back because…I just…don’t know if this is the right place to raise my daughter.”

“You’re a mother?” Leah asked.

“Yeah; I have a little girl at home.” Ruth smiled. “She started kindergarten earlier this month actually.”

“What’s her name?”

“Amelia.”

Thatcher pushed open the slotted closet doors, looking into the messy storage space to see if anything out of the ordinary was there. He saw more of the same; trash and unfolded clothes on shelves. He sighed, preparing to close the doors before his eyes spotted something underneath a shirt. The corner of what appeared to be a yellow notebook was peeking out from underneath the article of clothing, and when Thatcher pulled it out, he saw “REASSURANCES” written on the cover. He looked at it before opening it, flipping through the pages quickly. It seemed to be a personal journal of some sort, with diary entries taking up most of the pages, with small doodles on each one. He closed it, deciding to look through it later as he grabbed another evidence bag.

Ruth continued to listen to the Heathcliffs until she heard footsteps coming down the stairs, turning to see Thatcher entering the room with a few bags in hand. “I found a notebook, Camcorder, and tape recorder so far,” Thatcher said as Ruth approached it. “I’m going back to search for anything else.”

“Alright.” Ruth stated as she was handed the bags.

Thatcher sighed as he looked over to the Heathcliff’s sitting on the couch in anticipation. “Are you aware of the analog TV in Mark’s bedroom?” Thatcher asked.

“Yes, we are.” Leah answered. “It’s unplugged though.”

“No, no, no you…you need to throw it out, unplugging isn’t enough.” Thatcher stated. “You know how many kids have been going missing lately?”

“…Yes.” Leah said softly.

“Yeah…I’d get rid of it as soon as possible, alright?” Thatcher said before turning back towards the stairway to continue his search. He walked up the stairs, passing by a cracked open door to his left, unknowing of the eye peeking at him from behind it. He walked into Mark’s room once again, sighing deeply before he began to rummage through the dresser’s drawers.

Ruth sighed, gently placing the bags on a table before she turned towards the Heathcliffs, who were still sitting on the couch. The look of pure worry and sadness in Leah’s eyes especially made her gut churn, though she wasn’t sure of how to lighten the mood without it feeling mean-spirited. She leaned against a chair, holding herself up with her arms as she thought to herself, hearing the sound of Thatcher’s footsteps overhead.

After finding nothing but more clothes, Thatcher shut the last dresser drawer, moving back towards the bed before lowering himself to his knees, leaning over to look underneath it; nothing, once again. Thatcher thought to himself as he stood up, walking over to the nightstand as he hoped that the little things he found in there would help find the missing teen. He pulled open the drawer, seeing loose papers covering the junk in there, also seeing a sketchbook resting on top. He pulled it out, looking at it for a moment before placing it on the bed next to him. He went back to rustling through the drawer before he paused. He saw something angular and made of metal, with it being a dark grey color. It seemed purposefully buried underneath everything else, and when Thatcher moved everything out of the way he froze, his eyes widening slightly when he saw the object in full.

“Ruth?” Ruth’s radio went off, Thatcher’s voice surprising her slightly before she held it up to her mouth.

“Did you find anything?”

“Come upstairs.”

“…Is something wrong?” Ruth glanced over towards the Heathcliffs, seeing them staring at her with a tinge of confusion and fear in their eyes.

“No, just…I need you to come up and…see something.”

Ruth lowered her radio, pinning it to her chest before quickly walking up the stairs. She stormed down the hallway, seeing Thatcher with his back facing her, seemingly holding something. “What’s going on, you alright?”

“…Ruth, did either of the parents mention owning a firearm?”

“…No?”

Thatcher turned around, revealing what he was holding; a semi-automatic pistol. Ruth stared at it with confusion and concern before looking up at Thatcher’s darkened expression. “Desert Eagle. Mark one.” He stated in a low, quiet voice. “50 caliber.”

“Oh…God, how did someone Mark’s age find a firearm of that power?” Ruth questioned softly.

“I don’t know.” Thatcher responded, carefully placing the firearm in a bag. “I suppose we’ll have to ask around…see if anyone in the family owns one.”

“Does it appear used?”

“Thankfully…no.” Thatcher stated. “Safety’s on…though…it was loaded.”

“Oh God.” Ruth felt a pit form in her gut, lightly holding a hand over her mouth as she thought.

“We’ll have to find out if it’s registered or not and who it was sold by.” Thatcher said. “Maybe then we’ll get an idea of how…Mark…got it.” Thatcher’s voice lowered before he suddenly went silent, looking towards the hallway with an intense, yet troubled gaze. Ruth turned to see what he was looking at before seeing someone standing in the doorway, staring at them.

A young girl, no older than six.

She had long, brown hair, and wore an oversized, faded shirt over her body, along with pajama pants printed with characters from a cartoon. She was holding a blue stuffed bunny in her arms, holding it close to her chest. She stared up at the officers standing in her brother’s room, her expression blank as she remained still, as if not moving meant that she was invisible to them.

Thatcher looked towards Ruth, seeing that she was staring at the child with a look of somberness in her eyes. “…Why don’t I go downstairs and…talk to the parents.” Thatcher stated quietly.

“…Alright.” Ruth responded very quietly as Thatcher quietly left the room, looking down to see the girl staring at him with a distrustful look as he passed by. Ruth carefully approached the child, crouching down before clearing her throat.

“Hey!” She said in a soft voice. “My name’s Ruth, I’m here to help you out. What’s your name?”

The girl didn’t answer right away, instead looking at the ground and hugging the toy in her arms tighter. Ruth looked at the toy, seeing its button eyes and red bowtie before letting out a smile. “What’s his name?” She pointed at the bunny.

The girl looked down at the toy before looking back up at Ruth’s face. “…Mr. Bon.” The girl stated quietly.

Ruth smiled. “That’s a wonderful name.”

“…Where’s Mark?” The girl asked quietly, with her voice seeming more like a squeak.

Ruth’s smile faded as she glanced away, thinking of an answer. “…That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Ruth responded. “We’re here to help, both me and my friend you just saw. It and I are looking for him.”

“…I want my mom.”

Ruth nodded, standing up and holding out a hand towards the girl. “She’s just downstairs; I can take you to her.” She said softly.

“…Okay.” The girl lightly held Ruth’s hand as they walked down the hallway, all while Thatcher paced back and forth downstairs.

“I-I have a pistol in my office, but it’s locked away.” Arthur stated, staring at Thatcher with a dark expression.

“Does anyone in your family own a Desert Eagle?” Thatcher asked.

“No, not that I know of.” Arthur responded. “I mean…his grandfather’s a hunter but…he didn’t own any guns aside from a hunting rifle or two.”

Leah looked over towards the stairway, seeing Ruth walking down into the living room, lightly holding the girl’s hand as they entered the room.

“Sarah!” Leah said, holding out her arms as Sarah ran to her, embracing her the second she was close to her. Thatcher looked at Leah and Sarah before looking back at Arthur.

“…Throw out that TV.”

“What?”

“The TV in Mark’s room is a hazard,” Thatcher stated with a stern tone in his voice. “Especially with a small child in this house.”

“…I don’t think it’s a problem—”

“Yes it is.” Thatcher responded. “There’s a very serious threat going around; children around your daughter’s age are at risk, almost more so than adults.”

“Look, I get it…fear tactics.” Arthur stated.

“…What?”

“You want us to be scared cause of ‘alternates’.” Arthur’s voice seemed accusatory, as if he had something against Thatcher specifically. “My kid will be just fine, and once Mark comes back, I’m sure things will go back to normal around here.”

“…You don’t believe in alternates?” Thatcher questioned out of disbelief.

“Not the way you want me too.” Arthur stated. “I pray every night for protection, and it hasn’t failed yet, and if alternates are as dangerous as the government says they are, then don’t you think something would have happened by now?”

“Mark.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Mark is still missing.” Thatcher reminded, trying his hardest to keep his words professional. “I believe you can call that something happening, don’t you think?”

“His disappearance has nothing to do with alternates.” Arthur claimed. “He’s just…unwell. He needs help…not more paranoia to add to his already poor mental state.”

“Would telling you that the possession of analog technology is a crime change your mind?” Thatcher stated, barely cloaking his pure annoyance.

“…What, you’ll arrest me for having a TV?”

Thatcher’s brows furrowed, staring at Arthur’s face with an intense glare.

“God reigns, Davis.” Arthur said. “And even if alternates really did exist…they wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Thatcher paused, maintaining eye contact with the priest. “…I wish I had your ignorance.”

Arthur’s glare turned into an almost appalled expression as Ruth approached them, tapping Thatcher on the shoulder. “It’s time to head out.” Ruth said quietly as Thatcher turned around.

“…Alright.” Thatcher sighed. He glared back at Arthur, him staring back with a tinge of revulsion in his gaze. Thatcher passed by Leah and Sarah, the latter of which looking up at him as he walked by. Ruth followed, though hesitated, stopping in the middle of the room, even as Thatcher made his way to the front door. She looked back, seeing Leah and Sarah’s eyes staring at her, all before she sighed and dug out a notepad from her pocket.

“Mrs. Heathcliff?”

“Yes?” Leah watched as Ruth quickly wrote down something.

“From one mother to another.” Ruth handed her a slip of paper with a phone number on it. “If you need anything or…just want to talk…call me, alright?”

Leah stared at the phone number for a second before looking back up at Ruth’s friendly face.

“…Th…thank you, officer.”

“You can skip the formalities,” Ruth smiled. “Just call me Ruth if you want to.”

“…Thank you, Ruth.”

Ruth stood up, taking one look at Arthur’s sour expression and shooting him a glare, all before turning back and leaving, shutting the front door behind her. Silence fell, Leah holding Sarah close as Sarah hugged both her mother and her toy, staring at the door with a blank expression. Maybe Mark just went on a walk into the woods again and got lost; she remembered he liked to do that during the night. She just hoped he’d find his way back soon.

September 22nd, 3:47 PM

Thatcher sat at his desk, staring at the closed orange folder in front of him, his tired eyes grazing over it as he tried to shake off his ever present exhaustion. He glanced over to his left, seeing a couple VHS tapes stacked neatly next to a small television, which was resting on a small table to the side of the desk. There was also a notebook, along with the tape recorder he had recovered the previous day resting on his desk. He thought of how lucky he was that they were in good condition, considering the time crunch and the fact that he’d rather not bother Dave again to fix them in such a short time frame. He rubbed his eyes, planting his elbows on the desk as he sighed, opening the orange folder to see what he was dealing with.

“MARK HEATHCLIFF

AGE: 17

SEX: MALE

ETHNICITY: CAUCASIAN

EYES: GREEN

HAIR: BROWN”

Thatcher read over Mark’s file, eyes glancing over the paragraphs of information known about him. Words typed out on the page about his diagnoses, his academic history, and even previous incidents and injuries he might’ve had. It was all very detailed, yet as Thatcher grazed over the page, he saw nothing much of use that related to the case aside from what he had already heard the previous day. He sighed, shutting the file before sliding it to the side, instead choosing to focus on the tape recorder, staring at it before gently grasping one of the cassettes, one labeled “Insomnia” and placing it into the player, it clicking shut before he pressed play.

It was silence for a few moments, with only the sound of faint, shaky breathing being heard underneath the static. Thatcher waited for something to happen, wondering if it was a blank cassette before he finally heard a voice; Mark’s voice.

“…Ninety years without slumbering,” Mark tiredly sung, his voice raspy as if he hadn’t used it in a while. “Tick, tock, tick, tock. His…l…life seconds numbering, tick, tock, tick, tock. Then the clock…stopped…never to go again, when the old…man…died.”

Silence fell once again for a little while.

“Fuck…Just…let me fucking sleep.” Mark’s voice sounded muffled, as if he was holding his hand over his mouth. “I don’t know how long I can count sheep before I go insane.”

Thatcher sat back in his seat as he once again listened to the gap of silence, staring intently at the tape recorder before Mark spoke once again.

“…I don’t know what to do.” Mark stated. “…I feel…uncomfortable in my own skin. I don’t…I don…feel…safe.”

Silence once again; longer than the last gap.

“I haven’t slept in a couple days now.” Mark mumbled. “Every time I try, I…have those…fucking nightmares. I don’t…kn…know if I…really do want to sleep…all because of them.”

Another pause.

“…Then th…st…stopped…never to go again when…the old…man…God fucking help me.”

The cassette stopped, leaving Thatcher with a sense of confusion before he ejected it and placed it on the desk, all before grasping the next one, a cassette labeled nothing at all, and placing it inside of the recorder, hesitating before pressing play.

Silence, though he could hear something that sounded somewhat far away; muffled, harsh breathing. It sounded as if someone was hitting something repeatedly, or someone hitting their own head.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up,” Was heard over and over, Mark’s voice sounding distressed, like he was sobbing. Thatcher listened intently as Mark continued. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT THE FUCK UP, JUST FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE!” Mark took in a shaky breath, sobbing more before shouting, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEA—”

The tape stopped abruptly, with Thatcher staring at it with furrowed brows and his hands folded in front of him, his fingers clasping his own hands before he ejected the cassette. Thatcher sat still for a moment as it processed what it heard, all before its eyes fixated on the next piece of evidence; the notebook. A part of it dreaded reading through its pages for a reason it didn’t know as it picked it up, looking at its cover first and reading what was written on it.

“Reassurances

God bless all!”

Thatcher flipped open the notebook, and saw just that; reassurances. It appeared to be small prayers, with a new one on each page. However, around halfway through the notebook, he paused, seeing a drawing on one of the pages, with it being completely blank aside from it. It was a messily drawn picture of two eyes in the middle of the lined page, their gaze looking oddly crazed. Thatcher flipped the page, and found that the next entry wasn’t a prayer or reassurance of any kind, rather being a journal entry.

“9/02/1992

He’s been ignoring me again.

He’s been doing this for over a month now, acting like whatever I’m saying doesn’t matter. I’m tired of him turning a blind eye to what I’m seeing. He has to hear the breathing too, right? Why would he just brush be aside like this? I am his friend right? Sooner or later, he’s going to have to open his eyes to this. Else it’ll bite him later.”

Thatcher looked towards the bottom of the page, seeing a drawing of what appeared to be a House, with more writing below it, reading: “I keep going back and I don’t even know why. It calls me by name, Cesar.”

Thatcher stared at the picture of the House, his eyes fixated on it before he shook his head and flipped the page, seeing yet another journal entry, this time dated “9/05/1992”.

“I heard my parents talking downstairs today. Dad is suggesting that I’m not ‘faithful enough’. Says how I need to pray more and maybe I’ll feel better. My mom said I just need more time with my therapist, as if he’s helping me any. They think I’m crazy, don’t they. I was already put on multiple different anti-anxiety and depression meds, and they don’t work. They don’t know what I’m actually going through. And I don’t know if I want to tell them.

If this is how they act when they’re clueless, I dread to know what they’d say if they knew.”

The drawing on the page was of a pill bottle. The label was mostly gibberish, with the only recognizable word being “lies” written in bold letters.

Thatcher felt the pit in his gut only growing heavier with every page, flipping it before reaching a journal entry without a drawing. It appeared to be from a few days after the last, seemingly sloppily written, like Mark had just woken up when he wrote it:

“09/8/1992

I had a dream tonight.

I was at the House, yelling at Cesar for a reason I can’t remember. He was so angry at me. I felt a deep hatred towards him, more than I’ve ever felt towards anything. I don’t even remember what was being said, or what had caused us both to be so mad. I remember looking past him and seeing It looking at me.

I feel sick recalling the sound and feeling of his neck cracking under my hands. The rest is fuzzy, and all I remember was that I threw him to the ground in less than a second. His horror filled eyes still haunt me. I remember looking down at his body propped up against the clock, and then I woke up.

I don’t know what this means. I’m not a killer. I wouldn’t do that. Would I?”

A short sentence below it, written in neater handwriting read: “Thinking about it now. I don’t recall who the body actually belonged to.”

Thatcher flipped the page, looking down at the noticeably worse handwriting in the next entry before he read it.

“09/10/1992

I’ve lost another one.

I’ve never seen him that furious. He acted as if I was the worst person he ever met. The nightmares haven’t ended, the halls still calling my name. I can taste iron, though I don’t think its my own blood. My right eye feels like it had been pulled out of socket and shoved back in. Everything feels so alien now, even though nothing has changed. I hate these rooms, the scent of blood still stinging my nose. I feel homesick laying in my own bed.”

The drawings on the bottom of the page were scribbled and hastily done, depicting spirals and what appeared to be some kind of grandfather clock. Thatcher stared at the clock before focusing on the last drawing, one depicting a young man sitting up in bed, staring at something with wide eyes. A simple statement was written below it, reading: “He looked at me like I was not me.”

Thatcher paused, processing the previous entry before he reached for the next page, his hands feeling strangely cold as he flipped the page, being greeted to what was only an empty page. He turned the page, seeing yet another empty page, then another, and another. He sped through the pages, all before reaching one last entry. Thatcher flipped the page only to see black scribbled letters covering the entire page. Dried splotches of red stained the paper, seeping into the pages after it. The writing only said one thing, repeated over and over like a skipping record:

“THE BELLS TOLL FOR ME.”

The chaos of the repeated text continued with every single page until he reached the final one, being nearly completely blank aside from a drawing of a clock, and one last message: “I’m running out of time.” Thatcher shook his head, shutting the notebook shut before thinking hard. He sighed, holding his hands over his mouth with his elbows on the desk. He couldn’t help but begin to connect the dots; the date of the entry was the same date as Cesar Torres’s disappearance. Mark was clearly falling off the deep end at that point, and appeared to have been increasingly angry with Cesar, so what if…he…

 “…Jesus.” He muttered under his breath. “…N…No, that…it can’t be right, that doesn’t make any sense—”

Before Thatcher could make anything of what he just read, a knock rang on his office door, Thatcher yelling “come in” before someone walked into the room. It was Ruth, having a look of concern plastered on her face.

“What is it?” Thatcher asked as he rubbed his eyes again.

“Leah Heathcliff’s here for her questioning.” Ruth answered.

“…Ah.” Thatcher coughed, standing up, taking a glance at the VHS tapes before deciding he’d look at them later. He grabbed the notebook and the orange folder, all before approaching Ruth, looking at her face, his brow twitching slightly. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Ruth said. “Though I suppose you should get going.”

“Okay…alright.” Thatcher brushed past Ruth, leaving her in the doorway as she sighed, looking at the ground before turning towards Thatcher’s desk. It was a complete mess, with documents strewn across it and other pieces of evidence placed on it. She couldn’t help but notice that the chair Thatcher had been using was still the same worn, on the verge of breaking office chair he refused to replace. Ruth sighed, closing the door to the office as she silently reminded herself to talk to Thatcher about keeping a clean workspace.

September 24th, 1992. 7:24 AM

“It was dark out. I couldn’t really see that well in front of me as I stumbled through the woods. I could barely stand up straight, as if my legs were trying to work against me. I was breathing hard, my breath clouding the air in front of me as I continued to walk. I didn’t know my destination, or at least I don’t remember it, but I knew I needed to get there.

Then I saw a house. One that looked familiar. I stopped for a second, staring at a window on one of the outer walls before I began to approach it. I stood in front of the window, placing my hands on the window frame, but when I looked down at them, I saw they weren’t mine. They were a pale grey, with two elongated fingers with broken, long fingernails at the end of them like claws. I looked inside, through the glass before I saw something. It was a bedroom, and on the bed was a sleeping man.

It was me. Sleeping on the bed without a clue. I opened the window, slowly crawling through until I was looming over myself, staring down at my own unconscious body. I was smiling, but it almost hurt to do so. I continued to stare at myself barely moving, still asleep even as I grew closer, saliva dripping from my mouth onto the sheets.

Then I woke up.

The window was locked when I checked it. Though I saw mist on the outside of it, as if someone was breathing on it. Something tells me I was very lucky last night. I’m not telling Ruth about this one. She already worries about me enough. I know now that I’m going to be checking every window before I sleep. I don’t want to know what would’ve happened if I forgot.”

Thatcher closed the notebook before sighing, leaning over towards the nightstand beside his bed before throwing it into one of the drawers. He sighed, grasping the bed sheets under him as he stared at the beige carpet below him. He looked forward from where he sat, seeing the window leading outside, the sun beginning to rise, allowing him to see the small patch of trees outside of his house. It felt a pit forming in its gut as it looked, all before shaking its head and standing up, deciding it needed to get dressed and start its day.

Thatcher stood by his kitchen counter, leaning against it with a cup of coffee in one hand, with his other crossed over his chest. He wore a lazily put on, faded graphic T-shirt, which was a couple sizes too big for him. With his less than professional appearance came worn out jeans, a pair of sneakers, and an overall haggard expression on his face, only complimented by his equally unkempt hair. He stared blankly into his living room, seeing that it too was a mess, with the coffee table being covered in documents and papers, and having no room to actually use it to put coffee cups on. He sighed, placing his cup on the counter before looking towards a landline phone on the wall, walking towards it, dialing a few numbers, and holding the phone up to his head as he waited for a response.

A few moments passed as Thatcher waited, leaning against the wall as he sighed, pushing his free hand into his jean pocket before he finally heard a voice on the line.

“This is Dave from MandelaTECH, how may I help you?”

“Dave, hey, it’s…it’s me.” Thatcher sighed, his voice especially gravely from just waking up.

“Thatcher! How’s it going? We haven’t spoken in a while.”

“It’s…yeah, it’s alright, I guess.” Thatcher stated. “How are you? You feeling better?”

“Ah, I’m…managing.” Dave said with a lighthearted chuckle. “Definitely better than I was. No longer…using that rickety old wooden cane that they gave me. Got a new one; one that’s…less hard on me.”

“That’s…good.” Thatcher said. “Good to hear it.”

“…You alright?” Dave asked. “You sound like you’ve…been through it.”

“I’m fine, alright? Just…” Thatcher paused for a second. “You…hear anything last night?”

“…No?”

“Any…weird…feelings, or did you see anything odd or out of place?”

“No. Can I ask why you’re asking me this?”

“Just wondering.” Thatcher lied. “Just…things have been weird, alright? Was wanting to check in and make sure you’re doing alright anyway.”

“I appreciate that, but…you do know you have to take care of yourself too, right?”

Thatcher paused, looking at the ground for a few seconds. “…You kept your windows and doors locked, right?”

“Yes.” Dave answered. “Thatcher…you…sure you’re alright?”

No.

“Yeah.” Thatcher reassured. “Just a weird…dream I guess. Whatever, I’ll probably talk to you later. I have a couple tapes I need restored for the police department anyway.”

“Alrighty, just…remember to actually take a break.” Dave stated. “It’s your day off, isn’t it?”

“Yep. Supposed to be.”

“Well, call me if you need anything, I’ll be happy to help out.”

“Thanks. See you later. Bye.” Thatcher hung up the phone, placing it back on its hook before sighing deeply, looking up and shutting his eyes for a second. He looked up at the ceiling, hearing nothing more than the sound of cars outside, the faint ticking of the circular clock on the wall, and his own thoughts running through his head. He shook his head, walking towards the couch and grabbing a jacket that was draped across it before pulling it over his arms and walking towards the front door, deciding to go walk around town. Maybe it would get his mind off of things.

Thatcher walked down the sidewalk as the sun rose in the sky, smoke billowing out of the cigarette in his hand. He glanced towards the road, seeing some cars pass by, though not very many people were out on the streets at that point. As he walked further into town however, there were more people seen, though the groups of people he remembered seeing gathering around certain hang out spots a few years back were now more scarce, with people no longer staying in one spot for a while. Did Thatcher blame them? No. It understood why people spoke in hushed tones and stuck together, only doing what they needed to get done before going back into the safety of their home. If Thatcher could, he’d do the same. There’s a comfort in locked doors and covered windows when the outside is full of things that stalk the meek.

Downtown had a haze of uncertainty to it; emptier than usual. The recent broadcast was doing its job, Thatcher supposed, judging by the dumpsters full of old, broken TVs, closed businesses, and people refusing to make eye contact with each other. It felt odd, though Thatcher couldn’t remember the last time Mandela felt more comfortable than not. He wasn’t even sure if it ever had that feeling of hominess. Mandela’s color had been draining for a long time, and he wasn’t sure if he ever noticed it. Seeing how the town was slowly becoming less welcome to its residents made a pit form in his gut. So much for “getting his mind off things.”

Thatcher passed by a few local businesses and stores, some urban homes, and more empty parking lots as he walked, feeling his joints getting sore as he went further. His cigarette was close to snuffed out, Thatcher pausing before flicking it to the ground, stomping it with his foot and pressing it into the concrete. He sighed, looking around before his eyes spotted something on the other side of the road; the park. A large patch of grass with a few trees, gazebos, and a small playground for children to play. To his surprise, there were people there, being parents keeping a close eye on their kids as they went down the slides and sat on the swings. However, he stopped when he spotted someone sitting at one of the benches, looking over her own kid. Ruth.

Thatcher glanced down the road despite knowing no one was coming before jogging across the road, slowing down when he reached the other side before stepping onto the grass, walking through the metal archway leading into the park. It approached the playground, seeing Ruth was fiddling with her prosthetic, presumably because something was loose or out of place in it. Thatcher sighed, silently walking towards the bench and sitting next to her. She glanced up, double-taking before looking at Thatcher, letting out a breath.

“Hey, I…didn’t expect you to be here.” She said as she sat up.

“I didn’t either.” Thatcher stated. “Just figured I’d say hi.”

“Well…hi.” Ruth smiled, crossing her leg and looking at her prosthetic. “…It got loose when I was running around with Amelia. Almost fell off.”

“Hmm.” Thatcher looked around, his tired eyes observing the children playing and the parents joining in with them. It was sweet, though he still couldn’t shake the pressure he felt in his chest.

“…Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Thatcher answered as if it was second nature to him. “Just…things have been on my mind lately, that’s all.”

“Do you want…to talk about it?” Ruth asked.

“It’s nothing, just…thinking about what Leah said.”

“Thatcher…”

“It just doesn’t make any sense, why would a normal kid like Mark just…break all of a sudden?” Thatcher continued.

“Mommy!”

Ruth looked up to see one of the children on the playground approaching her, walking towards her before grasping the sleeve of Ruth’s jacket; Amelia. “What is it honey?” Ruth asked. Amelia simply pointed towards a bag that was resting next to Ruth, and despite nothing being said, Ruth understood, grabbing something from it. It was a small bag of what appeared to be some kind of snack, which Ruth gave to Amelia before she began to run back to the rest of the kids.

“Be careful, don’t go too far.” Ruth warned before softly sighing.

“Do you think what Arthur said has something to do with it?” Thatcher asked as Ruth looked back towards him. “Maybe he said something that caused Mark to run off—”

“Thatcher.” Ruth interrupted. “I’m sorry, but…you’re not really using your day off wisely.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re stressing yourself out about the case all the time.” Ruth said as she strapped her prosthetic on properly. “I understand, it’s something…I really wish didn’t happen, but you have to understand that worrying about it all day everyday isn’t going to help.”

“Ruth, I just need a lead.” Thatcher said. “What if we find something tomorrow at the Torres house? We could possibly solve what happened to Mark…and Cesar.”

“We’ll have to wait and see—” Ruth flinched when she started to hear crying, turning to see Amelia on the ground with a scraped knee. She quickly stood up, leaving Thatcher behind as she went to go tend to her. Thatcher watched with mild concern as Ruth looked at the minor scratches as he sat in silence, sighing as he tried to think. He had to stress about a case he was working on, otherwise nothing would get done. He had to be close to figuring out something, right? He was snapped out of his thoughts when Ruth approached him again, this time holding her daughters hand. “We’re going home, Thatcher. If you want to talk later, I’ll be there, just call.”

“…I see.” Thatcher watched as they walked away, once again leaving him alone as he wondered. Maybe Ruth had a point; maybe he should go home and try and relax for once.

11 PM

Thatcher had been staring at the files on his desk for the past hour without anything new coming to mind. A few cigarette butts were already in the ashtray as he extinguished the one in his hand in it, all while he stared at the papers with a blank look in his eyes. He scribbled something onto a blank piece of paper, the graphite of the pencil scratching against it until an image came together. Thatcher paused, looking at the drawing, one that depicted the face of a humanoid…thing, one with an elongated “snout” and a far too wide smile. He sighed, placing his pencil on the desk before grabbing the paper and standing up, turning towards the wall and pinning it to a corkboard, allowing it to join the countless photos, journal entries, notes, and drawings that already littered it, making the corkboard itself barely visible from under it.

Thatcher stared at the board, crossing his arms as his dull eyes grazed over everything on it, his brain working overtime to compute it all. Mark Heathcliff, Cesar Torres, Dave Lee, Ruth Weaver; all people who had experienced oddities in the past few months alone, with even Thatcher itself not being exempt. The pale, inhuman face of the alternate he drew had been one he saw not too long ago, and one that he couldn’t shake off. It looked so vaguely familiar, though morphed and deformed to the point that it was barely on the precipice of recognition. Thatcher hated that some parts of its face were features he shared, albeit heavily distorted. Animalistic, and not even trying to act human. Was it even an alternate at all?

Thatcher blinked, rubbing his eyes when the wave of exhaustion he had been pushing back finally hit him. He looked back towards his messy desk and the corkboard, all before turning back and shutting the light off, closing the door shut behind him as he headed towards his bedroom. He stepped into the room, shutting and locking his bedroom door as he stared at the window on the opposite wall. He stared at it, feeling a strange discomfort before he checked it was locked and shut the curtains. He got into bed, sighing deeply as he lazily pulled the covers over him, staring into the dark as he laid on his side, all before closing his eyes and attempting to get some sleep.

??:?? AM

Thatcher was awoken by the sound of a distant window breaking. His eyes flicked open, staring forward to see that the window in his room was still concealed by the curtain, and still intact judging by the lack of wind coming from it. Thatcher wanted to grab his gun and investigate the noise, though despite how much he tried, his arms remained still. He couldn’t even speak or move anything aside from his eyes, which darted around the small part of the room he could see from his limited view. His breathing quickened slightly, realizing he was paralyzed.

Thatcher could hear something bumping around in the hallway outside of his bedroom, pushing aside furniture and stepping towards the door. Thatcher couldn’t do anything, hearing the footsteps grow silent as he tried not to hyperventilate. He attempted to move, only being able to slightly shift in place, still unable to move anything a meaningful amount. He stared forward, blinking when he heard knocks ring out from his bedroom door behind him. He heard the knocks pause, then come back, even harder that time, all before they ceased. Thatcher heard the door creak, opening despite him locking the door before he slept. He still couldn’t move aside from shaking slightly, hearing something behind him, creeping towards his bed. He couldn’t see it, or hear anything coming from it until he felt warm air hit the nape of his neck. His chest heaved, feeling a deathly cold hand be placed on his shoulder before he could finally move.

Thatcher shot up out of bed, swinging around to see what it was, only to find nothing at all. The door was shut, and nothing else was in the room with him. His breath was heavy as he glanced towards his pillow, reaching under it to grab a pistol before he walked towards his door, throwing it open before pointing the gun into the hallway. He flicked on the light, seeing that it was completely intact, with nothing out of place. He paused, hesitating before lowering his gun, looking at the ground and placing one of his clammy hands on his head. Something about his house felt claustrophobic all of a sudden; was it always that cold?

2:27 AM

Ruth was awoken by the sound of a knock at the front door. She slowly sat up, looking around her room before she heard the knocks ring out yet again, sighing as she turned on her bedside lamp and reached towards her prosthetic. Thatcher knocked on the door for a third time, his body covered by a quickly thrown on, somewhat oversized grey trench coat. He remained silent, preparing to knock again until the door swung open to reveal a tired, somewhat annoyed Ruth Weaver, who was still in her pajamas, being a black tank top and sweatpants.

“Ruth.” Thatcher said quietly.

“…It’s two in the morning.” Ruth stated, blinking sleepily. “What are you doing here?”

“I just…I wanted to talk.”

“About what? What is so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

“I just wanted to talk to you.” Thatcher said. “I won’t be long.”

Ruth paused, staring at him before shaking her head slightly. ��Be quiet; Amelia’s in bed and she has school tomorrow.”

Following Ruth into the house, Thatcher closed the door behind him, walking into the dimly lit living room before sitting on the couch, with Ruth sitting in a chair across from him. Thatcher remained silent for a moment, staring at nothing in particular before Ruth spoke up.

“Organizing files or something?” Ruth asked. “Or are you just staying up late worrying about the case again?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m…it’s fine.” Thatcher stated, despite not fully believing the statement. “I wasn’t wanting to talk…about just the case with you anyway.”

“Do tell.” Ruth glared at Thatcher, wishing she could go back to bed, but refusing to due to the feeling of worry for her friend.

“Everything happening lately…it feels…connected.” Thatcher said. “Ever since the report at the…Murray household, it seems like everything’s been…off.”

“Really?” Ruth asked. “How do you think it’s all connected?”

Thatcher stayed silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “That alternate. You know the one that attacked Dave a little while back?”

“Yeah, I heard about it, though…I don’t really see what you’re getting at.”

Thatcher paused before speaking again. “I think it’s the same one from the Murray house.”

“…How can you be sure?” Ruth asked.

“I can’t.” Thatcher responded. “But the way it…stared into me. The look in its eyes…it was the same.”

“I don’t know…maybe.” Ruth spoke with a tinge of uncertainty. “But didn’t you say it looked…different?”

“It did.” Thatcher stated. “But that’s what’s getting me; it’s wrong. More so than it was.”

“Thatcher, are you sure?” Ruth asked. “It could be a different one entirely. I mean…why would it do something like that to itself?”

“I don’t think it did.”

Thatcher and Ruth became silent, Thatcher hunched over with his hands clasped together and his elbows resting on his knees, all while one of his legs bounced up and down. He took in a deep breath before speaking again. “Ruth?”

“Yes?”

“I came here to apologize.” Thatcher looked up to see Ruth looking at him with a fraction of confusion. “That’s what this is really about.”

“For what?”

“For…everything.” Thatcher looked down again, his hair draping over his face. “For…what happened back at that fucking house.”

Ruth sat up from her relaxed position as her brows furrowed slightly.

“If I…if…if I kept an eye on you…if I kept you safe…” Thatcher’s voice shook slightly. “You’d still have both legs.”

Ruth felt her heart sink slightly at that statement, thinking hard as Thatcher continued.

“I didn’t…protect you, I didn’t look after you like a fucking friend should.” Thatcher said. “You got attacked cause I was a fucking idiot and didn’t pay attention—”

“Thatcher—”

“No, listen, I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there for you; for the one fucking person in my life that is there for me—”

“Thatcher.” Ruth said, standing up and approaching the couch before sitting next to her friend. “If you truly weren’t there for me…I’d be dead.”

Thatcher looked up at her face, seeing that she still had a friendly look in her eyes.

“You couldn’t have predicted any of that; I mean…I barely saw it coming myself.” Ruth continued. “If you didn’t come running in to scare it off, or help me get to the hospital…I would’ve lost more than a leg.”

 “…I’m sorry.” Thatcher said under his breath, his throat tight. “I’m just…sorry I can’t…be the man this town needs me to be. E-Every time I go into that fucking station, I see more and more missing persons reports, more bodies found, more altercations, more shit that is only getting worse. I don’t know what to do, and I can’t fucking show it cause if I do?” Thatcher paused, trying to hold back its tears. “…I’ll be painted as nothing but a fucking coward…and that’s not what this town needs right now. It needs someone it can count on…and…I’m not that person.”

Ruth remained silent, thinking hard before she wrapped her arm around Thatcher, lightly side-hugging him. Thatcher appeared surprised at the gesture, though after a few moments, he hunched over, covered his face with his hands, and cried.

September 25th, 1992. 5:45 PM

Thatcher had a pit in his gut the entire day.

He wasn’t sure exactly what was causing it as he gathered what he needed to bring to the Torres Residence, though it was beginning to become nauseating. The lack of sleep could’ve also had something to do with it, or maybe even the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything that morning, though he couldn’t be sure. He looked up to see Ruth gearing up, putting her belt on and pinning her radio to her chest. Thatcher sighed, standing up straight before approaching her, lightly pressing a hand on her shoulder.

“Try and stay in sight this time, alright?” Thatcher asked quietly.

“I will. Besides, we have the radio. If necessary I’ll call you from it.”

“…Yeah…yeah, alright.” Thatcher exhaled. “You ready?”

“I guess so.”

“Then we should head out.” Thatcher stated. “Doesn’t seem like anyone else is going to head over there so…suppose we’re going to be the ones to do it.”

“Figures.” Ruth said with a slight chuckle. “Last time we had to do this, the officers pussied out.”

“Let’s get going,” Thatcher grabbed a jacket. “It’s almost sundown, and I’d like to get this done before it’s late.”

It was a completely silent drive to the House, with neither Ruth nor Thatcher speaking a single word. Thatcher felt a sense of unease when he turned down Wisteria Avenue, and when he glanced over at Ruth to see her having a troubled look on her face, Thatcher figured he wasn’t the only one. It clasped the steering wheel, staring forward as he drove by the houses in the neighborhood, seeing that only a few of them had lights on, as if most of them were no longer lived in. Thatcher decided to try and ignore the eerie feeling it had, as when it parked on the side of the road in front of the Torres Home, it realized it was time to get to work.

Thatcher exited the police car, looking towards the House, noticing how dark it appeared to be inside of it. He glanced back at Ruth, checking to make sure she was standing close before he stepped onto the concrete driveway, approaching the front door before reaching towards it and knocking against the dark wood.

“Police Department, open up.” Thatcher called, hoping for an answer but not receiving anything more than silence. He slammed his fist against the door again, harder and louder before calling again; “Police, open the door!”

No response.

Thatcher sighed, preparing to kick open the door before it cracked open slightly, despite Thatcher not touching it. He glanced towards Ruth before pushing open the door further, expecting to see someone, but seeing nothing standing there. Thatcher shook off the strange wave of unease he felt when he stepped inside, convincing himself that it was just the wind that opened the door as he ushered Ruth inside.

Thatcher was greeted with the faint ticking of a clock when he entered the living room, glancing towards the opposite wall to see a tall, red-wood grandfather clock towering over everything else in the room. He looked up at its face, seeing that it was still in perfect working condition considering its hands twitched with every second, without fail. As Thatcher walked into the living room, shining his flashlight along the walls, Ruth looked to her left, seeing a small off-shoot of the living room. A piano was resting next to the wall, with note sheets placed on it. Ruth approached it, seeing the bookshelves beside it and a mirror above it. Ruth looked at her reflection before examining the frame of the mirror itself, brows furrowing when she noticed something around it; water damage.

“Ruth?” Thatcher called from the living room, turning around to look at her.

“I’m here, don’t worry.” Ruth sighed, stepping away from the piano to join the lieutenant, all while a deep red liquid leaked from behind the mirror.

“I don’t really see anything in here, at least nothing abnormal.” Thatcher stated as he looked around the living room.

As Thatcher walked around, Ruth looked towards the clock, staring up at its clock face. Thatcher walked towards a small table resting against the wall, picking up a picture frame that was resting on it before examining the photo. It appeared to be a photo of Maria Torres, along with her son, Cesar. Thatcher sighed, feeling a deep somber feeling looking at the happy faces of the two, knowing, or rather not knowing, the fate of the young man in that very photo.

“Weaver, have you found—” Thatcher paused when he noticed Ruth was still looking at the clock, he slightly shaking flashlight pointed up at its face. “…Ruth?”

“Yes?” Ruth shook her head, turning around towards Thatcher.

“You alright?”

“Yeah…I’m fine.” Ruth answered, though the strange disturbed look on her face made Thatcher believe otherwise.

The two soon passed through the archway leading into the kitchen, pointing their lights into it. There was a square dining table near the corner, with only three chairs accompanying it. The kitchen seemed tidy, with countertops looking as if they were cleaned just the night before. There were some decorations on the walls and some porcelain dishware in an antique shelving unit.

Ruth looked towards a door to the left of the entrance to the kitchen, opening it and looking inside, seeing that it lead to the cluttered garage. She turned to the left, though something felt off, despite nothing being there. She walked back into the main Home, looking into the living room and seeing the piano room. It looked as if it would’ve cut into the garage judging by its location, but when Ruth peeked into the garage again, there was nothing but a straight wall, with no room for the piano room to feasibly fit. She wasn’t sure if it was an optical illusion or simply her mind playing tricks on her, but it made her headache worse just thinking about it.

Thatcher looked to his right, seeing a door on the opposite wall of the kitchen, one that would lead into the living room judging by its placement. He walked towards it, reaching for the doorknob before gagging and backing away, covering his mouth and nose. Ruth looked back towards him, seeing that he was staring at the door with a look of disgust on his face. “Something wrong, Davis?”

“Something behind this door smells…rancid.” Thatcher explained, hesitantly removing the hand covering his face to try and open the door. The doorknob didn’t budge when he attempted to turn it. “…It’s locked.”

“You think it’s a storage closet or something?”

“It’s the only thing that would fit there…hoping it’s just…mildew or something.” Thatcher stated. “Though we’re gonna have to get this open before we leave. Maybe there’s a key around here.”

Thatcher and Ruth passed by the sliding glass doors to the side of the kitchen, staring down the back hallway, seeing that it had three doors; one on the left, one on the right, and one straight forward. The hallway itself bent oddly, with one of the walls feeling like it was placed there abruptly, with its wallpaper being a slightly different shade than the rest. Thatcher and Ruth walked down the oddly built hallway, with Thatcher opening the door straight in front of them, seeing that it led into the bathroom.

He shined his light across the bathrooms walls, soon stopping when he looked into the mirror. Water damage stained the walls around the medicine cabinet, with hundreds of small holes in the wallpaper seemingly oozing a substance Thatcher was unsure of. He stared into the mirror, looking himself in the eye before he attempted to open the medicine cabinet, being unable to for a second until he tore it open. Strands of some sort of red, vine-like substance was torn apart, finally allowing the cabinet to be opened, only to reveal nothing much of use. ADHD medication, bandages, and some miscellaneous items were all that was in there, though as Thatcher stared and pointed his light at the strange “veins” that had held the doors shut, he decided he was done looking in the bathroom.

He closed the cabinet door, turning back towards the hallway without seeing the second pair of eyes looking at him from the mirror. Ruth backed up as Thatcher exited the room, looking at him with a blank look on her face. “Find anything?”

“…I don’t…no.” Thatcher stated, closing the door and covering up the faint sound of tapping he heard from inside there. “I think we should call for reinforcements.”

“Why?”

“Something about this place, man…” Thatcher looked around with a worried look in his eyes. “…Did you find anything?”

“I looked in the bedroom,” Ruth gestured towards the bedroom to the right of the bathroom. “And there wasn’t much of anything in there. Looks like it belonged to Cesar.”

“Then the other one must belong to his mother.” Thatcher sighed. “I’ll look in there real quick, then we’ll…head out.”

“…So soon?”

“We can get a second look later.” Thatcher stated. “For now, let’s just…get this wrapped up.”

Ruth watched as Thatcher approached the other bedroom on the other end of the hallway, sighing deeply before she began to follow him, only pausing after only one step. She could hear something, coming from Cesar’s bedroom. It was faint, and muffled, but as she turned around she could hear it clearer; screams. She glanced back at Thatcher, seeing that he had already entered the other room before she grabbed her pistol and took it out of its holster, holding it by her side as she entered Cesar’s bedroom.

The screams sounded pained, and as she looked around, she saw an opening in the wall, one that she didn’t remember being there when she was last in the room. She swallowed hard, pointing her gun towards the opening, seeing that it led into a short hallway. On the other end of it was an old, wooden door, one that didn’t match the white painted doors that were in every other room in the house. A figure watched from the closet as Ruth stepped towards the door, entering the short hall as she heard the screams become louder. Her heart felt like it was beating heavier than normal, and her hands felt clammy and cold, unsure of what was causing it aside from a deep feeling of dread. “Hello?” She called. “Whoever’s there, please answer!”

No response, though the screams seemed to wane, becoming more like pained, muffled whimpers and groans. Ruth hesitantly put her flashlight onto her belt, reaching for the doorknob and turning it, seeing that it wouldn’t budge. “Damn it.” She swore under her breath before she called once again to the voice she swore she heard behind the door. “Look, we’re gonna get you out of here, okay? Just hang on—” Ruth turned to yell for Thatcher’s help, only stopping when she looked back towards the bedroom. The screams had stopped, and when she pulled out her flashlight to point it into the bedroom, she felt her heart sink. Her widened, horror-filled eyes stared forward, her face pale as if she just saw a ghost, and her body was as stiff as a statue, absentmindedly dropping her gun to the wooden floor.

There was a blank wall where the entrance to the hallway was.

Thatcher stared at the only half-made bed of Maria Torres before walking around the room. He sighed, realizing there was nothing of use in that room either, though with the lack of any useful evidence came the realization that it was time to leave. “Ruth, There’s nothing he—” He turned around, seeing that Ruth was nowhere to be seen, as if she had simply vanished. “Ruth?” Thatcher felt his heart pounding against his ribcage.

No.

No.

No.

No not again.

Please God not again.

“Ruth?” Thatcher was unsuccessful in cloaking the panic in his voice as he quickly left the room, looking around and seeing no sign of life. He searched through the other bedroom, seeing and hearing nothing more than his own footsteps and heavy heartbeat before he opened the bathroom door, looking inside to see no sign of his friend. “RUTH?” He grasped onto his radio, holding it up to his face before turning it on and speaking into it. “Ruth where the hell are you?” There was no response; complete radio silence. “Ruth, do you copy?!”

The sound of music from the living room replaced his panic with dread, with Thatcher slowly turning down the hallway towards the kitchen as he listened to the song. The light to the living room was on, with the light spilling into the kitchen from the archway connecting the two rooms. It was from the piano, being an old classical piece Thatcher felt was familiar, but not enough to name it. He swallowed hard, pulling out his gun from its holster before pointing it ahead of him.

The music became louder with each step the lieutenant took, its hands shaking slightly as it inched ever so closer to the archway, soon standing right beside it and pressing its back against the wall. It peeked around the wall, looking into the living room, just barely able to make out a figure sitting in front of the piano from where he stood. Thatcher sucked up his fear as he took a step into the living room, hearing the clock behind him as he quietly approached the piano room, soon being able to see who was playing the piano.

He saw the back of what appeared to be a young man, one wearing a stained, stitched together black suit and a white dress shirt under it. His spine stuck out from underneath the suit, as if the clothes were melded to it. His black, greasy, messy hair was swept to the side, neatly combed despite how dirty the hair itself was. Thatcher watched as he continued to play, seemingly unaware that Thatcher was even there. It stopped, its gun trained on the figure before it spoke. “Hands where I can see them.”

The figure paused, sitting completely still before looking up at the mirror above the piano itself, with Thatcher finally able to see his face through the reflection. It looked like Cesar, though it barely kept the façade together. Its left eye was replaced by dull-colored veins and arteries, coming out of the eye socket and fusing to the rest of his face and head. Its one remaining eye was wide open, along with its smile. It looked towards Thatcher from the reflection before speaking.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt a performance, Lieutenant?”

The figure turned in his seat, placing his folded hands on his lap as he stared at Thatcher with a single, unblinking eye and a soulless smile.

“…Who are you?” Thatcher couldn’t help but notice his voice shook as he spoke, despite him wanting to retain a sense of stoicism.

“…I don’t think that’s important right now.” The figure stated. “Just refer to me as your Host for the night. Besides, I don’t even know if I could tell you my name even if I wanted to.”

Thatcher remained silent as the alternate went on. “Now tell me…who are you? Why are you and your friend here at all?” When Thatcher didn’t respond to the question, the alternate laughed. “Oh who am I kidding…I know your name, Mr. Davis. You two aren’t very quiet…I can at least gather what you call each other.”

“Where’s Ruth.” Thatcher questioned, his tone dark and his expression darker.

“Fodder, dear.” The alternate responded as if it was a stupid question, standing up and causing Thatcher to follow its head with his gun. “Now…why don’t I help you get settled in? I can make dinner, if you’d like.”

“Stay right there.” Thatcher ordered. “…Don’t move.”

“Oh…I suppose I can chat for a little while longer.” The alternate sat back down, staring up at Thatcher’s face, its own expression not changing even slightly. “Though please…I’d like this to be quick.”

“Where…is…Ruth.” Thatcher repeated, his voice more intense than before.

“…You two came at such a perfect time.” The alternate ignored the question asked. “She just wanted some visitors; she’s going to need the company before she sleeps.”

“…She? Who the hell is She?”

The figure chuckled before looking around. “Look around you, Davis. She’s the walls, the floors, the ceiling…she’s made a Home for you, one that welcomes all…even you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You’re so tense…I figured the concept of a place that’ll accept all company would be…relaxing.” The alternate stated. “I imagine a place that won’t judge you based on your faults would sound inviting for a man like you.”

Thatcher remained in a confused, horrified silence before the alternate stood up. “You know…you remind me of a story I heard once…one of a man named Icarus.”

Thatcher didn’t respond, wordless as the alternate continued. "Ever hear the tale of Icarus? The one who flew too close to the sun...whose hubris became his downfall? Burned, and fell all the way down.”

The figure chuckled, though it sounded more like a wheeze, before continuing. “It's funny. You feel like you can save everyone, don't you? If you just fly a little bit farther, you can keep everyone in this town safe? You've saved Dave. Ruth that one instance. However, you failed to save some. Ones that haunt your conscious despite never meeting them. Is that not why you’re here? To try and save those you failed to protect?”

            The figure stared into Thatcher’s face, leaning in closer before he muttered, “Believing you can save everyone will cause you to fall, and I have to ask you, Mr. Davis. Is your case one of flying too close to the sun? Or not flying far enough?"

Thatcher glanced behind him, seeing the front door and living room before staring the alternate in the eye. Thatcher stared into the pure black pupil of the alternate’s bloodshot eye in silence, before slowly and shakily pointing his gun at the figures leg and pulling the trigger.

The alternate didn’t scream, but fell to the ground on its injured knee, looking down at the steadily bleeding wound as Thatcher ran into the main living room. He reached for the front door, attempting to pull it open only to see that it was jammed shut. He backed away, looking back at the alternate to see it stumbling back to its feet, its joints clicking and cracking with every movement. Thatcher turned towards the couch sitting in front of the large window, seeing a small table resting beside it. He scrambled towards it, grasping it by its legs and throwing it as hard as he could into the window.

The glass shattered as the table careened through it, with the alternate beginning to scream behind Thatcher as he began to vault over it. “NO, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE…WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?!” Thatcher placed his hand on the windowsill, hopping outside as fast as he could, trying to ignore the burning feeling he assumed was from cutting his fingers open with the shards of glass leftover. However, he found he couldn’t move his hand as soon as he was outside, letting out a pained yell as he looked back to see what it was caught on. Two of his fingers were fused with the windowsill itself.

Melted skin and veins attached the fingertips and the entirety of his ring and pinkie finger on his right hand to the House, being immobile despite how many times Thatcher attempted to separate himself from it. He turned his head around, seeing the alternate staring  back at him, for once without the smile on its face. Thatcher saw no choice; he had to force himself off of the windowsill, so he took in a deep breath, jerked his hand away once with no success. He tried to free himself by ripping his arm away from the window, feeling his shoulder tear and his fingers dislocate with every tug. He tried to pull his hand away once, then twice, then three times—

CRACK.

Thatcher screamed, not daring to look at his hand as he scrambled towards the police car on the side of the road; away from that damned house. He swung open the driver’s side door with his left hand, holding his right, rapidly bleeding hand close to his chest as he hopped into the car and started it after fumbling with the key for a second. He placed his clammy, trembling left hand onto the steering wheel, all before hesitantly holding up his right to see it.

The fingers that were stuck on the windowsill were missing.

He couldn’t calm his breathing as much as he tried, instead focusing on not vomiting as he drove away, using only his left hand to do so as he could barely feel anything in his right hand other than agonizing pain. He couldn’t even think properly, his mind going too fast to pick out anything from the mess. He muttered under his breath as he escaped, only worrying about one thing.

“I’ll come back…I’ll get help, Ruth, I will…I will…” He gasped. “I’ll get help…just…sit tight…I’ll be there.” He paused to take in another pained gasp.

“I’ll be there.”

October 6th, 1992. 12:00 PM.

Thatcher’s finger prosthetics itched.

He had been scratching the skin around it the entire day, with the skin in that area becoming red from it. He almost wished he could simply not wear them, but the new scars and the fact that he was missing fingers in general made him keep them on. As he sat, hunched over outside of the church auditorium, he stared blankly at the floor. He was wearing a black suit and tie, his hair being barely considered neat. The sound of the clock ticking on the wall made him sick, though it was better than the sound of people talking in hushed and somber tones around him. If anything, the distracting ticking helped him, if only a little, forget that he was there for a reason. A funeral.

No body was found yet the bastards decided to pronounce Ruth dead. Thatcher had told them Ruth wasn’t confirmed to have passed whatsoever, and could still be out there, yet they didn’t listen. Maybe the cost of a funeral was cheaper than the cost of sending more officers to the scene to get potentially killed. No matter the reason, Thatcher felt a deep hatred in his heart, past all the pain and sadness. How could they? They acted as if she wasn’t a person, only another fucking statistic. Though what was the worst part?

Thatcher could’ve prevented it.

How stupid was he to bring Ruth into danger again? Did he truly believe he would be as lucky as he was last time? Ruth was gone because Thatcher ran away. He was a coward; the very thing he feared becoming the most.

The bells tolled. Service was starting.

Thatcher sighed deeply, standing up before walking into the auditorium, not once looking up as he joined his fellow officers in the pews. He couldn’t bear to look at the casket in front of him, nor the photo of Ruth put up next to it as he sat on the cold wooden bench alone. He stared at his feet, absentmindedly scratching his knuckles with his dirty nails. He could barely think, his mind blank and his expression dead. He could barely even process what was being said by both the priest and whoever was giving the eulogy, simply staring forward before he finally looked at the casket. He knew it was empty, and somehow that made everything feel worse.

He looked to the right, noticing members of Ruth’s family sitting on the opposite side of the church. Parents sobbing, uncles and aunts mourning in silence, however the sight of little Amelia Weaver, sitting with her family, being embraced by her grandfather in an attempt to comfort her, made Thatcher’s heart heavier than a ton of bricks. She was so young, yet she was losing her only parent. Thatcher silently apologized to her, mentally telling her how sorry he was that he failed to protect her mother. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything out loud, with his throat tight and his chest tense. He turned back towards the casket, blankly staring at it as he wondered what would’ve been different if they never went to that House. Maybe she’d still be around. Maybe Thatcher wouldn’t have been a filthy coward.

Someone was walking down the aisle as Thatcher looked back down towards the ground, the person clad in a police uniform staring at Thatcher as he thought to himself. Thatcher listened to the words the priest was saying, though as the seconds ticked by his words became nothing but muffled speech in Thatcher’s mind. Thatcher heard the clock ticking again, this time giving him a headache that worsened with every tick. He kept scratching at his hand, not even noticing the thin, red lines his nails left behind. The figure in the aisle slowly walked towards Thatcher, soon standing directly behind him. Thatcher felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, looking up at the casket before he felt a hand be placed on his shoulder.

He flinched, turning around to see no one in the pew behind him. The sound of the clock was quiet again, barely audible. He stared down at his now bleeding hand, seeing the scratches he dug in his own skin that were bleeding ever so slightly. He let out a shaky breath as he covered his face, wanting nothing more than the service to be over.

Thatcher stayed behind even when the service was over and done with, staring blankly at the casket as if he was incapable of leaving. Even Ruth’s family had left a little while before, but Thatcher simply couldn’t make himself follow them out the door. He sighed deeply, standing up and grabbing a metal folding chair he saw leaning against the wall before placing it in front of the casket, sitting down on top of it in silence before he spoke.

“…I don’t think you can hear me, but…I guess this is for more my peace of mind.” Thatcher muttered, his voice raspier than usual. “…I’m sorry. I can’t even convey how sorry I am.” He let out a brief, forced scoff. “God…I’m fucking pathetic. You’re probably looking down at me…laughing at how God damn stupid I am.”

Thatcher paused, forcing out his words after a few moments of silence. “I failed you. I failed you twice…and…now…you’re gone.” He stifled a sob. “…All because I was scared. You’re dead because I was too fucking scared to protect you. What kind of fucking cop am I? I can’t even protect the people that actually fucking matter.” Thatcher looked up at Ruth’s picture, her smile feeling sunny, though it didn’t help the cloud of guilt over Thatcher’s head.

“If you’re still out there…” Thatcher muttered under his breath. “…I’ll find you. I don’t want forgiveness, I just…I…I-I just…want you here.” He grasped his hair as he hunched over, trying to hold in sobs as tears ran down his face. “I just need you here…”

“Mr. Davis?”

The sound of a deep voice behind it caused Thatcher to turn around, its eyes red from crying. It was Dave, standing in the aisle, staring back at Thatcher with a look of worry in his eyes. He was wearing tinted glasses, along with a black suit, though it was missing a tie. He limped over to Thatcher, supporting himself with the metal cane under his right hand as he approached the lieutenant.

“What.” Thatcher growled, not in the mood to talk.

“I just…wanted to…offer my condolences.” Dave stated quietly. “…I know how close you were to her. She…she was a good woman.”

“…She was.”

Dave looked away for a second, seemingly to think. “…Y’know, I’m…always available to talk.” He said. “I mean…it’s the least I can do.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that.” Dave said. “I know you’re not…and you know what? That’s okay. You need time to…mourn. I don’t think you should be so hard on yoursel—”

“Leave me alone.”

Dave became silent, staring at Thatcher as it looked away, once again staring at the casket with a dead look in its eyes. Dave sighed quietly before speaking again.

“If you need anything…just ask.”

With that, Dave began to walk away, leaving Thatcher by himself once again. It clasped its hands together hard enough to hurt, feeling like he had run out of tears to cry. He shook his head, standing up as he stared down at the casket in front of him. He placed a hand on the wood, standing in silence before whispering, “I’ll find you, alright? I promise.”

Thatcher hesitantly left the casket behind, putting his hands in his jacket pockets before walking down the aisle, finally leaving the church through the front door. His guilt couldn’t be described in words, and the emotions he felt clouding his mind were too much to handle, but one thing rang out from his mind, more than everything else; anger, both towards himself and the police station for deeming Ruth a lost cause. He was going to find Ruth, dead or alive. He made a promise, after all.

Until we meet again, Ruth.

[kremechihihi]

My Yoyo Design(s)!!!!

While messing around w/ the Yoyo doodle from my last blog post, I found that adjusting the hue by 25% to the right gets you his jsrf palette. Coincidence or not, I ran with that logic and thought of creating a new Yoyo design with what I got from sliding the hue adjustor all the way to the right : purple and blue.

But before running with purple jacket blue hair Yoyo just like dat, I wanted to try n analyze his canon looks n take note of the constants in both desoigns which are : red ractangular shades, baggy clothing, hanging belt, hooded upper wear, dark-colored bottom wear, bigger (compared to others) round yellow hued skates, and ofc his smug ass grin.

More importantly, his character color palette utilizes red, orange, yellow, green, and blue only which made this redesign thing a little challenging,,,

,,,and challenging it was 😵‍💫 i wanted to try pushing a 7 hue palette on him to sort of break from his usual scheme and make the look more ‘new’ buut obviously it didn’t work out. so i stuck with the usual 5 hue limit and wowers it works!!!

As for the design itself i wanted to go for a layered look. Gave him a cargo vest cus i thought it’d look sick on em + gives off the same tactical look his “bullet sling” looking sash from his future design does. Instead of a hanging belt, I went with a hanging suspender (?) similar to what tripp pants have. Double layer ripped jeans for a way to add color to the usual dark bottom wear, also to have (lime) green stand out in his overall look similarly with his canon designs. As for the skates…they’re not exactly skates. He’s wearing sneakers but with this chunky round skates sole that’s removable so he can wear/show off his counterfeit sneaker collection while being able to skate around town. For the sake of this design, I wanted the sneakers and soles to have a similar yellowish hue to counter the usual yellow skates with black/navy grey design. Similar to future, his hair is exposed but it’s messy and unkempt like what i assume his og hair is. Lastly, the shades are all-red and sport-like in shape.

In the end, I am satisfied with how he looks but I still wanted to make a Yoyo design based on my own tastes and color scheme. So here’s anotha wan!!!!!!!!

Originally just an alt color palette, I turned it into its own design cus why not.

This time I’m following the idea that instead of a hue adjustment, his hair is the color of the previous design’s jacket which is turquoise! 5 hue rule applies here too.

Kept the same idea for the shoes, but now his socks can be seen. His hair roots are grown out (though i personally think it’s just bleached). He’s got a headband keeping his bangs away, orange fingerless arm warmers, and lime ish olive green cargo pants. Jacket is now royal blue going indigo cus i’ve always thought it’s his favorite color n i really just wanted to see it as a main color in his design from just his og skate wheels color. Instead of a belt, the open rings in his jacket have three ribbons hanging made to look like an arrow, in reference to the arrow designs on his og skates as well. Aaand lastly the shades, kinda wanted to stick with all red again but what if red frames and white/transparent lens 🧐 an inversion of his og sunglasses. It’s asymmetrical in shape to form a silly eye expression.

Anyway that iz all, designing these were an inch resting experience. Considering doing other character redesigns as well but not anytime soon, i got other stuff going on.

[magpiemoon6]

Love me in the dark

(Chapter one)

Dbf Simon “ Ghost” Riley x OC

Word count - 2113

Summary - she’s worse than nicotine, he’s someone she should never want. Let the chaos begin.

Theme - smut, angst, fluff

Warnings - swearing, smoking, violence, mentions of trauma, age gap (12 years) , bit of enemies to lovers, so much smut

Written by - me and my friend!!!

Hope you all enjoy it was our first time writing a fanfic!!! 💗💗💗

Do I want to be here? No. Do I have to go to my dad's wedding? No but that means confrontation and fuck that shit.

Shimming the fuel pump in my hand, I pop it back, thinking about how I’m going to survive a week of family I haven’t seen since I was 15. The honking wakes me from planning to light myself on fire with the fuel in front.

“Va bene!! Sto andando!! Vaffanculo!!” (alright I’m moving ,fuck off!! ) I respond, hopping back into my car. Scanning the radio my eyes catch the time. Being late will not help my situation, I hit the accelerator and I lurch forward. I’m so fucked when I get to the villa. Moving the car towards the exit, my eyes keep flickering back to the time, I have zero excuses for being late. I literally live here unlike everyone else. My heart almost stops as a truck swerves out at the same time and scratches my car. Swearing everything under the sun I turn to glare at the twat. He’s already beat me to it; his eyes pierce mine with a sense of coldness that stays in my chest. The bastard is the one to hit me, yet he’s angry? What a pig! I am way too late to deal with this. Not that it's going to stop me from yelling some absurd insult at him before I go. Mr. Scary seems to have lost his mind and goes to get out of his car to yell at me. Slamming my foot on the accelerator again I bomb it out of the petrol station. Leaving the bloke who can’t drive in the dust.

———————————————————————

My heart is thundering in my ears, I can’t do this. Seeing a man who I haven’t seen in years now happy with his new wife and life. The shock that the invitation in the mail even came still confuses me. Why bother inviting your kid just because she now lives near the place you're getting married at? So, I am stuck because I still love him even though I want to strangle him with my anger. But that’s not what adults do so for the next week I will smile and lie and act okay.

Stepping out of my car I hurry towards the door that has become the epiphany of hell. Trying to sneak past family members is no longer an option. I begrudgingly plaster a stupid smile on my face and respond to their words all the same. With a constant stream of questions, “Maevis gosh how old are you now?” 25.

“No partner?” No. “Such a shame, you’re such a pretty girl, why don’t you date?” oh you know I’m just not ready. Complete lie.

“What work do you do again dear?” oh I’m between things right now. Another lie. Breaking away from the gawking, I wander aimlessly trying to find- or avoid, I haven't decided- my father in the garden and his fiancé. I can’t even hate her, she’s too sweet, too loving, she deserves better than him.

“Maevy?” I know that voice from anywhere. I turn to face him. He’s aged. I can see that the once black hair is entirely grey now with wrinkles deepening his surprise. Turning he stares shocked for a split second until he lumbers towards reaching for a hug. I’m squished and I can’t breathe, I love hugs but with him it feels like I’m hugging a stranger.

“You’re here?” he says conflictingly as if the person in his arms isn’t his daughter, but a sort of myth that was forgotten for a time. I feel like an exotic bird in a petting zoo. Letting me go, my dad introduces me to his soon to be wife Sofie. Her sweet perfume of roses gives her twinkling eyes a friendly face squeezing my arm reassuringly.

“So Maevy I want to introduce you to the wedding party”, my Dad boasts pulling me along towards more people. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. The long line of bridesmaids and groomsmen, then the maid of honour. Every single one of them is sweet but reminds me of people that are just about to go through a midlife crisis.

“Ah, here comes my best man, Maevis sweetie, to meet Simon Riley,” Dad says, turning us to see him.

He is so much younger than everyone else, he must be in his late thirties at most. And he’s way too hot for my dad’s friend. But then it clicks, and panic surges me. It’s Mr. Scary from the petrol station. For fucks sake.

Moving closer Mr. Can’t Drive extends his hand to me, he is so much taller than me. I probably look ridiculous with my mouth open. “… Cat got your tongue,” The way his arms are covered in tattoos winding up the exposed skin that’s littered with white scars, distracting from his insult.

“How was the drive here?” He smirks, as he holds my hand, taking it slowly to his lips keeping his eyes on mine. I want to punch his pretty face, smug bastard.

“Fine, only some dickhead scratched my car,” I quip holding his stare. I'm trying not to laugh in his face but his pissed off look is making it hard. “I’m going to go to my room and unpack maybe have a nap” I turn to my dad grinning, moving away from them all as I wave and speed up. Still a tiny victory over him.

———————————————————————

The warm water from the shower drowns out any thoughts, washing away my annoyance. I can avoid people until the morning and blame it on a long drive. Meaning I also don’t have to deal with him. The shower is fogging up my thoughts and I don’t want to leave. For an old villa the water pressure is heavenly.

Clattering from the kitchen, brings me out of bliss and straight to panic. It happens again and I begin to contemplate my life choices. Turning off the shower and wrapping myself in a towel, I grab the long wooden loofah, in fairness it’s that or the lavender shampoo. My blood pumps too quickly as I open the doors to the lounge area. The clattering is coming from the kitchen side, panicking. I run out to hit the creep with the loofa. The stranger spins so fast and catches it mid air along with me and pushes me down to the marble floor. The cold stone shocks me even more at who it was. “Why are you in my room?” seeing the creeps face only to find Simons.

His body on top of mine holding me in place with a hand on my arm with my weapon holding it firmly above my head. The other searing through the fluffy towel near my hip. I’m stuck in just a towel under my dad’s best friend, what type of shitty karma do I have.

“I’m not going to repeat myself again, love” he murmurs, staring at me. Breathing becomes harder. All I can smell is him. Cigarettes and cologne.

“It’s my room, asshole!” I snap back, I need to get away from him, my skin is on fire from where he’s touching me which feels like everywhere. Wiggling to try to free myself, he grunts forcing my eyes back on him as his hand under my head moves to hold my waist.

“Stop,” he warns.

“Then get off you bloody giant” I quip, he rolls off me. As the words leave my mouth like a reality check.

Moving to stand holding my towel for dear life I glare at him as he stands. Slowly his eyes inspect my attire.

“What the actual fuck are you doing in my room Simon, get out” my voice rises, I’m not losing my room to a oaf with bad driving skills.

“I’m making a cuppa in the kitchen attached to my room,” he points to the door opposite of my room.

Fuck.

“No, no, this is my room. Not yours. I’m talking to my dad” turning straight for the door.

“Such a goddamn daddy’s girl. Christ'' he mutters.

This arrogant mother… breathe. My hands squeeze into fists, and I can’t calm down, he is driving me insane, and I’ve only known him for less than one day. And I am way too petty.

“Fine since my dad taught me to share with the less fortunate, we can share the lounge space. Stay away from me and i'll do the same for you.” Turning and folding my arms, smirking as I watch his face frown. We both stare at each other, the tension builds and for a split second I watch his eyes to my towel and back to me. And during that minuscule second the tension isn’t full of anger.

“Done” he grunts and takes his tea to go outside onto the shared balcony. Leaving me with my heart in my throat.

———————————————————————

Simon:

She is such a brat. How can someone so fucking small be such a big pain in the ass? I need to smoke something to settle my mind before I go back and end up arguing with her. My hands automatically find the box of cigs in my back pocket. Inhaling deeply as I light the end of a small light glows comfortingly. The harsh burn on the tip of my thumb keeps me steady, the heavy tobacco fills my lungs with warm sweet nicotine. But I can’t stop my mind from thinking about her. I’m reaching to call soap before I can think of the consequences of telling him about her.

“Aye what do ya want LT.? Missed me already ya sap?” Johnny's voice teases me through the line. Gripping the phone, it’s been five seconds, and he is making me rethink life decisions such as this phone call.

“Will you fuck off? I’m in a pissy mood as it is Johnny” huffing back. She is making me go mad if she is leading me to call this ugly mug.

“Do I wanna ken?” Johnny questions, moving closer to the speaker and from the sounds of it away from a toaster.

“English Johnny” I groan, dreading when we start work again. No matter how long I’ve worked with him, his accent doesn’t make sense. I’m pretty sure when he’s drunk he’s summoning something.

“Do I wanna know?” Nosey bastard as he is, he would nag me to tell him unless I jump the balcony.

“Paul’s kid, turns out she is a 25 year old brat who I have to share living space with.” I groan realising the reality of the situation, I am stuck for five days with her.

Eruptions of laughter break through the line and if there was a moment for the ability to punch Johnny through a phone to be possible I would want it to be now.

“Dinnae be dour, is the lass pretty?” Christ the bloke only thinks with his dick I swear.

“The fuck does that have with….she’s a pain johnny, this is becoming worse than our last mission,”

“So that’s a yes” soaps laughter is starting to grate my gears.

“What da ya do to the wee bonnie to ‘ate the likes of you then?” he inquires, the bastard knows me and my shitty driving, already prepared to mock me.

“I lightly grazed her convertible on the way here,” muttering, my thoughts move back to the bump and cringe at the very action.

“You fuckin’ nob no wonda she ates ya guts mate,” Soap mocks as if I am not aware of my own stupid decisions.

“I’m going now,” I’m done with this conversion, I can't deal with him reminding me how stupid I was since now I have her talking my ear off about it a few feet away.

“I like her” I can tell Johnny’s shoulders are shaking with laughter over my misfortune, I’m leaving him the next mission I swear.

“Fuck off Johnny”

His laughter is still in my ears as I cut the line. He isn’t wrong, as frustrating she is, God she is beautiful. Her grin is in my head like a spell, and I want to erase it. I need to erase it, for my sanity. She is my mate’s kid and also annoying as fuck. The cig burns my hands again as it dies in my grasp. Sucking in the tobacco, I need it to remove the memory of her. To wipe away any thoughts of what she would look like with my hand around her neck and my cock deep inside her. Fuck’s sake.

[agirlandherquill]

the calendar project - day 23,24,25

triple whammy because i forgot to post yesterday's double lot before watching logan in preparation for deadpool 3 whoops (was so worth it though, both movies were INSANE, and i also watched despicable me an hour after dead pool 3 ended - been a very fun day)

daily page count: 1 (day 23), 1 (day 24), 1 (day 25)

here's the pages,

“Then it would be a very, very sick joke if they have.” She propped herself up on her knees, examining the lock, the door chilled her cheek as she pressed her face against it, peering in to get a glimpse of the mechanism. There was nothing but darkness.

“I’m doubtless asking the wrong person but you wouldn’t happen to have a hair pin would you?”

Reid crouched beside her, frowning. “Why ask if you know what a stupid question that is?”

“I wondered if you ever needed to pin back that hair of yours. It must be inconvenient.” She reached into the hidden pocket of her dress and teased her own hair pin free from the scrap of material she kept them attached too, in case of needing one. She pressed it carefully into the lock, then looked at Reid. “Would you? It needs enough force to knock the key free.”

“So they did lock us in!”

“Why?” 

“When I get out of here I’m going to find out.” He growled under his breath and slammed the bottom part of his palm against her pin, she heard something give then the key dropped on the other side of the door with a heavy thud. She laid down, trying to push her fingers beneath the gap of the door to reach it but she wasn’t able to. 

“What is it now?”

“I can’t reach.”

“Move.” He eased himself to the floor.

“If I can’t reach it what are you going to do?”

“You’ll see.”

“I’d rather be out of here than watch you do whatever it is that you’re going to do and fail miserably.” She hugged her knees, watching him feel around the floor. Have I been trapped in here with a mad man? Is that what this is?

“Do I need to worry about being in here with you Reid?”

He scoffed, pressing his fingers into the flagstone closest to the middle of the door. “No, but you should be thankful that I’m me.” He slammed his hand onto the flagstone, it tilted up and she heard something slide, and the key appeared under the door. She snatched it up before Reid could and pushed it into the lock, giving it a harsh twist. The door opened and they both sprung to their feet.

“Get me out of here.” She pushed Reid out of the way and ran to the courtyard, stumbling as she came out into the soft, startling light of the rising dawn.

The other doors were more visible now, they were all different colours - the one she stepped out of was a dark shade of blue, the one that led back to the Church was a faded grey, the other two were green and black. 

She went to the green door first. Now’s my best chance to explore before anything serious starts. And I’d rather not see Reid question his people - that’s a line no newcomer should have to cross. 

The door opened into a lengthy corridor full of many smaller rooms, she assumed they were small from the frequency of the plain wooden doors, but none of them interested her. Her focus was pulled to a large sliding wooden door down the corridor. What could be behind this? She gripped one end of the door and pushed against it, it slid along the rails on the wall, giving her enough space to step through.

She took one step forward then recoiled as something sharp grazed against her elbow. Was that a knife? 

She shielded herself with the door, thinking it through. Why would someone attack me with a knife? And why haven’t they come out?

Isolde realised then, what she would have to do.

I’m going in.

The knife came at her again. This time she was ready for it. She ducked down and let it fly over her, then a calloused hand seized her arm and hauled her forward, using her arm to pin her against a torso, keeping her trapped with the knife. 

She took one breath, then two, then tilted her head back to see her attacker.

“You?”

“Mornin’ to you too.”

“I don’t even know your name and you’re attacking me with knives!”

“Callan. Better?”

“No.” She drove her heel into the instep of his boot. He grunted but did not let go. “Not quite the reaction I was expecting, but not bad.”

“If you’re going to drag me out because you don’t want me here, can you get on with it? I’d rather make it back to the castle before breakfast.”

“And you wouldn’t put up a fight?” He looked curiously amused.

“No.” 

He smiled, then started to twist her arm, angling her shoulder back. He’s testing me, to see if I’ll fight him. I won’t. I told him I won’t. The twisting became a sting in the joint of her shoulder, her back arched, but he kept on. Testing, testing, testing. Not going to happen. She was not going to fight him. She had no interest in fighting him. Which left her with an infuriating alternative.

Whimpering.

Callan released her in an instant, disappointment marring his features. “Forgive me. I thought… I was wrong.” He tucked his knife into its sheath at his waist, his cloak was long gone, he was now wearing a simple shirt and trousers. He rubbed his face. “I was wrong for last night too. Will you accept my sincerest apology?”

Callan surprised her. He’s apologising, he seems genuinely guilty - excusing the way he acted last night… He seems nice. Nicer than Reid. She smiled at him. “Consider yourself duly forgiven. Now, will you tell me what you were thinking?”

He winced. “I wanted to see what you would do, I thought perhaps you were a spy, an assassin, something like that - Reid didn’t tell me who you were and I wanted to see for myself.”

“I’m nothing like that.” She reached to touch her shoulder, the ache became more apparent with her stretching so she gave up, letting her hand drop.

“She’s most certainly not, but Cal, did you have to try and dislocate her shoulder?” Reid’s questionable drawl made her eyes dart to the door. He was leaning in the gap she had made, not even bothering to shoulder it open further. “No, but if she’s going to work with us she ought to know things.” He flashed her an apologetic smile.

“Things such as defending herself?” Reid’s stare was disapproving. She stood straighter against the weight of it. “You’re right. She should.”

“She, knows enough.” Isolde stared him down, irritated by his refusal to speak as though she was in there with them. I don’t even know where I am or what this room is, but I’ll be damned if I break this stare first.

“I think our definitions of enough beg to differ.” Reid broke the stare, nodding toward Callan, it made her scoff. “I’m not being trained by either of you cave animals thank you very much.” She stepped toward Reid but Callan held out a hand, stopping her. “Let him see what he can do, it can’t hurt to be safe, can it?”

He’s the voice of logic here then. I envy him. “Fine.”