#hes still struggling and its hard for him to really accept he's here at this very moment as a normal dudd

[lovemybluebully]

A Small Lapse of Judgement

What do you get when you cross a drunk Wolverine? Tickled. You get tickled. 🤣

Okay, yeah sorry guys. This one is literally like twice as long as my last one, but Logan and Wade both needed to get wrecked good. lol I'm just having too much fun writing these guys. So get some snacks or something because you're going to be here for a minute.

More somewhat movie spoilers, and Wade saying inappropriate things to Logan's annoyance. lol Oh, and of course tons of cussing. And tickles. Lots of tickles.

"Deadpool and Wolverine"-verse

M/M Tickle Fic

Word Count: 4,372

At first Logan had declined Wade's invitation to live with him at his apartment. Having been on his own for so long Logan didn't want to accept the fact that anyone actually wanted him around, but after Wade's persistent prodding and convincing he finally accepted.

"Yes!! It'll be like a sexy slumber party!" Wade had whooped, but one steely-eyed look from Logan made him turn it down, "Ahem. Or, you know, just two guys hanging out together with no lewd activities of any kind...."

No doubt Wade pushed Logan's buttons and got on his nerves more than anyone he had ever met in his life, but after their ordeal together there was no denying the bond that had been created between the two of them. It was hard for him to admit it, but Wade was definitely someone Logan now considered as a friend.

Surprisingly he settled in quickly and had begun to make himself comfortable, allowing him to let his guard down and actually relax for once. It was only a one-bedroom apartment so even though he had to sleep out on the couch every night he was grateful to have a place to call home.

And Wade was thrilled to have him there. Unlike his other roommate, Blind Al, Logan was progressively becoming more tolerant of his off the wall antics so it was nice to have someone else there that he could really joke around with. And drink with, though Logan still tended to embark on some solo day drinking of his own.

Wade shuffled into the living room in his crocs one late evening with Dogpool cradled in his arm to find Logan slouched over on the couch in nothing but jeans and a tank top and a nearly empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. Further observation revealed there to be two more empty bottles laying around on the ground by his feet.

"Hey. Robert Downey Jr. Wanna take it easy on the booze?"

Logan lazily looked up at him, rolling his eyes when he saw Wade was allowing the dog to lick all over his face.

"I will once ya take it easy on always making out with that mutt."

Wade stared at him in defiance as he continued to kiss Dogpool's head while she licked all around his mouth, making Logan grimace in disgust before Wade set her down upon the ten-sizes-too-big dog bed he had bought for her.

"You know if you were jealous all you had to do was ask, baby girl. There's plenty of Wade Wilson to go around," he leaped onto the couch beside Logan and puckered his lips, making smooching sounds as he tried to pull the other man close while Logan cursed and struggled to hold him back.

"Hey hey! Fucking knock it off, asshole!" Despite his annoyance he chuckled a little with the alcohol lightening his mood and after a few more seconds Wade finally relented to sit himself back.

"You can fight it all you want, but I know you'll come around one day. There's no resisting my natural labido," Wade sat facing him as he gave a wink and a flirty grin, causing Logan to sigh with a shake of his head and take another sip from the bottle.

"See this is exactly why I still drink. I need something to help tolerate your obnoxious ass on a daily basis."

"Fine by me. It has its benefits. Number one being that you're so much less stabby when you're like this," Wade teased, wiggling a finger into his side as Logan squirmed and giggled before swatting at his hand with boozed up coordination.

"Why are ya always tickling me? I hate that shit," Logan was still smiling though as he rubbed at his irritated ribs.

"Because," Wade smiled and turned to look out at the audience before whispering quietly under his breath, "The people demand it."

He sat staring in silence for several seconds until Logan lifted a brow in confusion.

"The fuck you looking at?"

"Nothing," Wade turned back to him, "Well it's because I have to make you laugh somehow, grumpy pants. You're always so serious, and worst of all you never laugh at my jokes."

"Oh yeah? Have ya tried actually being funny?"  A big shit eating grin was plastered on Logan's face as he instinctively pulled his arms in close to his body, not expecting Wade to let that one slide.

"Ooh hoo hoo, you're going to pay for that one later. You know what, smart ass? Maybe I'll tickle you in front of Laura. I'm sure she'd love to help me double team you sometime. A little badger on badger action, if you will." 

It was Wade's turn to smirk as Logan just looked back at him with nervous eyes that he tried to hide behind the scowl now creasing over his face.

"You'd better fuckin' not."

"I don't know. It's sounding like a pretty good idea to me. Usually I have to pay to see that kind of thing but-"

Logan growled as his claws started to come out, but Wade just laughed and wagged a finger at him.

"Ah ah ah! Rule number one, no bloodshed in the house. So best keep those claws of yours in check, my little kitty cat."

"Just don't give me a reason then," Logan warned, retracting the claws before his eyes raised to focus on Wade's head, "By the way, how long are ya gonna keep wearing that stupid toupee? I already told you that you ain't foolin' anyone with that thing."

Wade looked positively insulted as he patted and smoothed down the hair on his head.

"Uhmm excuse me? As I've told you a thousand times, it's a hair system. It's so I can go out in public looking halfway decent. Not all of us were blessed with the perfect bone structure of a successful Broadway actor," turns his head briefly to look at the camera, "And besides, I think it looks quite distinguished."

"I've seen better looking roadkill than whatever that thing's made out of," Logan snorted and downed the rest of the bottle in his hand before dropping it on the floor beside the other empty bottles.

"Says the guy who looks like he has roadkill glued to the sides of his face," Wade gave a less than gentle tug on his muttonchops as Logan grunted and smacked his hand away.

"Oh yeah? Well at least I can grow facial hair, pal. You on the other hand don't have a speck of hair on your whole goddamn body. You're like a fucking pre-pubescent child. This is what a real man looks like," a tipsy smirk crawled across his face as he nonchalantly pulled up his tank top to show off his hairy chest and stomach.

He emphasized his point by running a hand over his hirsute, muscular torso while Wade just stared very, very hard.

"........Are you trying to turn me on right now? Because it's working," Wade was smiling deviously and reaching a hand out as Logan chuckled dryly and gave him a hard shove, sending him flying to the other end of the couch, "Just so you know, I'm adding that one to the spank bank."

"You fucking wish, bub. Think ya got a better chance with that ugly ass dog of yours," he nodded over towards the sleeping pooch while tugging his shirt back down. 

It was rare to see such a repulsed look on Wade's face as the man always seemed to be down for whatever but apparently messing with the dog was where he drew a line.

"Woah woah, that's just going too far now. You need therapy, my friend."

"Oh please. I forgot you were the fucking poster child for mental stability," Logan muttered as he lifted his legs to prop his bare feet up on the coffee table in front of him.

"Heyheyhey! What in the ever-living fuck do you think you are doing? That's where we cut up our Bolivian nose candy-"

"I thought Feige said ya can't talk about that."

"Well what Feige doesn't know won't hurt him. Now let's go. Chop chop. Feet off the table, bud," Wade scolded and kicked Logan in the leg as the man rolled his eyes and begrudgingly pulled his feet down.

"You are such a fucking caveman. That table is an antique. Furniture crafted from the finest-OOof!" Wade grunted in pain as Logan dropped his feet onto his lap with his heel coming down hard onto his groin, "Uh uh nope. Not happening. Feet off the Deadpool too." 

"Well I gotta put 'em somewhere. What? Offended that ya weren't my first choice? Be flattered I finally found a good use for you," Logan smirked big time at the genuine outrage that now displayed on Wade's face.

"What the fuck do you mean?! You've seen what a phenomenal cook I am!"

"Almost burned down the apartment."

"I'm the king of late-night karaoke!"

"Got the cops called on us three times already."

"Well I'm good at making friends everywhere I go."

"I had to beat the shit out of all those bikers to get them off of you. Not to mention you almost got us banned from my favorite bar, you dumb fuck."

Wade started to pout from Logan shooting down all of his claims, but was quickly back to grinning as he thought of something that Logan couldn't possibly argue against.

"Okay, you know what? You wanna see something I'm good at? I'll show you something I'm very good at," Wade smirked and grabbed ahold of Logan's legs, securing his ankles in one arm as he began ruthlessly tickling the bottoms of his feet.

Logan lost any sense of calm he had as he immediately broke into a hysterical laughing fit, figuring out too late that he had made a huge mistake. There weren't many things in life that could get the Wolverine to lose his cool, but Wade Wilson the Tickle Monster never failed.

"Baahahahahahaha! Wahahahahade, dohohohon't!! Okaahaahaahaay! I'll mooohoohoove 'em!!"

Logan was far too buzzed to pull his usual act of fighting back his reactions and trying to pretend that he wasn't as horribly sensitive as he really was. Not that any of that ever discouraged Wade since he knew he'd always get him to crack eventually.

"Nah, that's okay. You just keep them right where they are, Giggles. Maybe this'll teach you some manners. Or not, that's okay too. I wouldn't want to run out of excuses to do this....," he scratched at the soles with Logan going nuts and frantically pulling at his captured legs while Wade's arm only squeezed tighter around them to ensure he wouldn't escape.

"Stahahahaaap, ya dihihihick! Fuhuhuhuckin' lehehehehe-lehehet me gohohohohooo!"

"What's that? Aww did you forget your safe word again? So confusing. How do I know if you really want me to stop or not?" The merc teased with his fingers scribbling at Logan's arches as the X-man's laughter surged in volume.

"Fuhuhuhuhuck you! Aaaheheeheeheehee nohohoho! Waahaait! I'm sohohohohorry!" He howled with tears already in his eyes as Wade found the weak spots under his toes; his body twisting and flopping around as he braced his arms on the couch in his clumsy attempts to get free.

Wade always enjoyed when Logan was in this state. Not only was he a lot less homicidal than if he was sober but he wasn't nearly as uptight and didn't even fight the tickles as hard. He practically just rolled over and took it and didn't hold much back. 

He suspected that Logan didn't hate being tickled nearly as much as he made out and loved to tease him about it much to the older man's insistent denial of the fact. It's likely that Logan would rather die than ever admit something like that.

Wade then cleared his throat and began to speak in his best exaggerated Australian accent.

"Crikey mate! Here we have the Wolverine. Best known for its violent tendencies and natural ability to be a complete jackass. When confronted by a stronger and more powerful predator it begins to make the most adorable snorting sounds that are meant as a sign of his submission. Let's listen in, shall we?"

Logan had been belting out uncontrollable snorts all throughout his laughter and it was one of Wade's favorite things to poke fun at him for.

"Shhh-Shuhuhuhut uhuhuhup! You're sohohohoho fuhuhucking stuhuhuhupid!"

"Oh, I'm fucking stupid? Who's the one making all the little piggy noises, Wilbur? Speaking of piggies....," Wade smirked as he started to play with his toes again, "This little piggy was an alcoholic....This little piggy was always so mean to his friend, Wade.....This little piggy talked shit about sweet little Dogpool....This little piggy..."

"Fuhuhuhuhuuuck! Alrihihihihight I gihihihive uhuhup! Haahahahaah! No-No mohohohore!" Logan had managed to pull a foot free and was now kicking Wade in the back as hard as he could, which wasn't very hard at all due his weakened state from laughing so much.

"No more? No MORE? Sorry, sweet cheeks. But I've got plenty more," Wade then threw his foot aside as he turned and dove onto Logan's prone form to now attack his very ticklish stomach, "That was for treating me like an object! This is for saying I'm not funny!"

Wade snickered with glee as the feral man expelled a less than manly squeal of giggles and immediately curled into a protective ball, though all attempts to evade were useless. Deadpool was positively relentless.

"Nooooohohohohohoo nohohohot thehehehehere! Okahahaay you're funny! You're fuhuhuhuhuhunnyyyyyaaahahahahahaaStaahahahahahaaap!"

"Oh sure! All of a sudden I'm just magically funny now! Don't insult my intelligence! You can't bullshit a bullshitter!" Wade managed to get his hands underneath Logan's shirt, raking his fingers up and down his bare stomach and forcing him to dissolve into a lengthy, mirthful wheeze.

"Why are you so ticklish? Is it part of your mutation? A result of a Weapon X experiment gone horribly wrong? Talk, damn you! I need answers!"

Not that Wade actually expected him to answer, but Logan was laughing entirely too hard and fighting it even less. He had his head thrown back in hysterics that exposed his oversized canines, writhing feebly while tears were leaking down his reddened cheeks.

It was a sight to see the normally powerful X-man rendered helpless from such a soft touch, but it just goes to prove that healing factors and big muscles were completely useless against a tickle attack.

Wade would have loved to keep tickling him all night, and he knew the man technically could take it with the high amount of stamina he possessed, but it was time to let him go now and save it for another time. Logan had been a good sport, and he didn't want to push it too far.

Pulling his hands back he now stood triumphantly hovering over the still giggling and plastered Wolverine, who kept his body all curled up in case the crazy merc decided to come for him again.

"Are you sure you're the Wolverine of legends? I mean, this isn't exactly what I had pictured. If I hadn't personally seen you in action then I'd have some serious doubts," he smirked as Logan finally relaxed and slowly splayed out on the couch.

"Heehehehe-That's the worst Wolverine to you, bub. You-hehehee-fucking suck," Logan continued to giggle as he struggled to fight off the dizzying high of the combined tickle assault mixed with the alcohol in his bloodstream. Wade was pleased to see he hadn't soured his mood.

"But do I swallow is the real question? Hehehe, sorry, I couldn't help myself. Now did you learn your lesson, you drunken idiot?"

Logan regained some sense of focus as he slowly sat up and looked up at Wade with the most cocky grin.

"Of course not. Gonna take a lot more than that, fucker."

"Do not tempt me, Peanut. I showed you mercy this time, but I cannot guarantee this next round I will be as charitable," Wade smirked and cracked his knuckles, surprised to see Logan lean back onto the couch with his arms folded behind his head.

"Pffft. You don't fuckin' scare me. You can do your worst. Though I'm sorry to say you're not gonna get the chance. Ya wanna know why?"

"Why?" Wade practically demanded with his hands on his hips.

"That's why." Logan lifted a hand to point behind Wade as the merc whirled around to confront what may have got the drop on him and found.....nothing. Nobody.

"Wait a minute.....did I really just fall for the oldest trick in the bo-AAAHCK!" Wade let out a scream as he was pounced from behind by a playfully growling Wolverine and landed hard on his stomach with his face hitting the floor. He had seriously misjudged the other man's current ability to fight back.

"Heheh, you really are a fucking idiot. Now let's see how you like this shit...," Logan immediately dug into Wade's ribs from where he sat perched on his back and was more than thrilled by the scream that ripped out of the merc's mouth. He knew there was no way a loudmouth like Wade wouldn't be ticklish.

"Nohohooo Logan wahahahahaait! Ahahaheeheehehehehe! You cahahahan't tihihihickle meheheee! I'm-I'm the 'ler! Nohohot yooooou!"

"The what? What the hell are ya talkin' about now?" Logan didn't let up though while Wade tried to sputter out an explanation.

"The cohohohommunity! Ihihihit's a thihihiing! I g-guess tehehehechnically I'm a swihihihihitch buhuhuhut stihihill!"

Logan raised his brows, looking more confused than before as he ended up just shrugging it off and shaking his head.

"Nevermind. I really don't wanna know. Now shut up and laugh, asshole," Logan's big hands ran up and down his sides, squeezing his waist and making it back up into his armpits as Wade flailed and shrieked and desperately tried to clamp his arms down.

Logan couldn't help but laugh at Wade's reactions with how he had barely started in on him yet.

"Geez. Have ya really been this fucking ticklish this whole time? Looks like we've got some time to make up for," his fingers fluttered around under Wade's arms, producing wild cackles as he wriggled like a worm and tried to scoot across the floor.

"Get off get off! Nooohahahahahaha! I'm nohohohohot tihihihicklish! I'm nohohohohohohot!"

"Well if you're not ticklish then all this shouldn't be botherin' ya, right? Or do you prefer me stabbin' ya better?" Logan smirked as he used the three middle fingers on each hand to simulate his claws as he repeatedly poked at Wade's ribcage with rapid fire speed, "Hehe, now you're dead."

"Gaahaahahahahaha!! Nohohohohot the clahahahahaws! Mehehehehercy!" Wade begged, trying to reach behind him to smack Logan's hands away. Spoiler alert, it didn't work.

"Mercy? Ha! That's a fuckin' good one. Hey, whaddya know. I guess you are funny after all. Hehehe, tickle tickle tickle, fuckface."

Wade's hysterics were increasing in volume by the second and Logan snorted in amusement at the thought that they might get the cops called on them for a suspected murder happening in the apartment.

"Holy shit. Keep it down, will ya? You're gonna wake the-"

"What in the name of Satan's asshole is that horrible noise?!?!" Blind Al shouted in annoyance as she wandered into the room and nearly tripped over the two men roughhousing on the floor.

"Blind Al! Blind Ahahahahal! Hehehehelp mehehehehe!" Wade screamed as he managed to roll over underneath Logan and reach out a desperate hand towards his elderly roommate.

"You're such a dick. Ya know ya don't have to emphasize that she's blind all the time, ya inconsiderate moron," Logan rolled his eyes with a smile as he now had better access to Wade's ribs and stomach and dug right in.

"Baahahahah-Buhuhuhut thahahat's her nahahahahame! B-Becahahahause she's blihihihind! Gehehehet ihihit?!"

The older woman's lips pursed with disdain.

"Please keep torturing him. I will sleep good tonight knowing that stupid motherfucker is suffering," she gently patted Logan on the shoulder as she turned around and made her way out of the room.

"You got it, boss lady," Logan nodded with a smirk and scratched furiously at Wade's stomach, easily avoiding the flailing hands trying to stop him.

"Blihihihihind Al! Aahahhahahha! You trahahahaahaahaitor! Ahahahafter ahahall I've d-dohohohone for yooohoou!"

"Maybe you could gag his bitch ass too," she yelled back over her shoulder, making Logan chuckle.

"She's got a point. You're loud as fuck. Always makin' fun of how I snort while you're over here shrieking like a fuckin' little girl."

With that, Wade was struck with inspiration as he thought of a way to get Logan to stop.

"Yehehehes! Oh yehehehes Lohohohogan! Dohohohn't stop! Th-Thahahat's ihihihit! Tihihihickle me! Tihihickle mehehehe untihihihil I pahahahass ouhohout!" Wade pretended to moan between his laughs as he put his hands flat against the floor to demonstrate that he had no intention of preventing the tickling, though it was a major struggle for him to keep them there.

Logan tilted his head as he stared down at Wade in bemusement.

"Can't tell if you're tryin' to psyche me out into stopping, or if you really do like it that much. I wouldn't put it past ya to actually enjoy being tickled. Not the weirdest thing about you. Either way, if ya say not stop then I won't," Logan smirked and proceeded to tickle him even harder as he kneaded into his hips.

"Noooooohohohoooo! Okaahahaay! I lihihihied! I cahahahan't tahahahahake it! Pleasepleaseplease stooohahahahoooop!" Wade squealed and kicked his legs around and uselessly tried to grab at the other man's wrists to pry him off.

"Now was that really a lie? Are ya sure it wasn't an educated wish?" Logan loved to bring that stupid shit up every once in a while, knowing it would get under Wade's skin.

"So fuhuhuhunny I forgohohot to lahahahaugh, ahahahasshole! Nohohow gehehet off meeeheeheeheee! You fuhuhuhucking mahahahade yohohohour point!" 

Logan was about to make another quip when he heard loud barking and turned his head to see Dogpool come flying over the back of the couch towards them in superhero slow-motion.

She then rushed in to grab Wade by the hair as she pulled with all of her tiny body weight trying to free him.

"Yehehehes! Mary Puhuhuhuppins! Saahahahave pa-pa! Thaahahahat's it!"

"Yeah.....that dog weighs like eight pounds. Hehehe, don't think you're getting away from me just yet, bub," Logan snickered as he dragged Wade closer and plunged his fingers into his armpits, earning another shriek as the merc futilely clamped his arms down and thrashed even harder.

"Looohohohogaaan staaahahahahahahap! I'm-I'm sohohohohoh glahahad to seeheehee-ahahahahhah-see yohohou ehehehembrace thihihis sss-sihihide of you buhuhuhut-AAAAHH! FUHUHUHUCK!!"

A loud ripping sound was heard as Logan looked up in wonderment to see Wade with a hand gripped to his now bald head as Dogpool stood there with his whole hair piece in her mouth.

Logan couldn't help it. The sight of Wade laying there with those fucking staples sticking out of his head and the dog now gnawing on his toupee like a chew toy was just too comical.

He started to laugh. Really laugh. Laughing too damn hard to keep tickling Wade as he literally fell over, holding his sides while his whole body shook in uncontrollable guffaws.

Wade was finally able to sit up as he glared at his hysterical friend, but he had a smile on his face too.

"Really?! That's what makes you laugh?! You seeing me getting hurt is funny to you? Pretty fucked up, you sado," he pretended to sound annoyed, but really he was anything but. It was rare to see Logan laugh like this besides when Wade was tickling him half to death so he'd let him have this for the moment.

Still he had to strike back somehow for this indignity.

"Puppins attack! Kill, my little munchkin! Kill!" Wade shouted as the dog rushed towards the fallen man and jumped onto him. But Dogpool didn't have a mean bone in her body and only knew how to attack with love as she affectionately licked Logan's face much to his aversion.

"Blech! Wahahade! Gehet your dohohog!" He bellowed as he continued to laugh, but other than trying to shield his face with his arms he didn't do much to stop her.

"Okay okay, come here, sweetie pie. Lets get you away from the bad man who tried to kill your pa-pa," Wade reached over and pulled her off of him, setting her into his lap.

Logan finally fought down the giggles as he sat up to find Wade staring longingly at the destroyed toupee in his hand. He kind of felt bad for the guy and thought he should offer some words of encouragement.

"Yeah, that thing's fucked. Big time. But hey, I think you look better without it," he nodded, using his shirt to wipe off his face as Wade gave him a genuine smile.

"You're only saying that because you're drunk," the merc teased back as Logan shrugged in response and grinned broadly.

"You're probably right. I wouldn't touch ya with a ten foot pole."

"That's okay. I don't mind doing all the touching...," Wade gave him a quick squeeze on the side as Logan snorted and lurched away from his reach and got to his feet.

"Don't fucking start that again. I'd say we're even now. Besides, you don't wanna fuck with me now that I know how damn ticklish you are. It's a stalemate. We can put this all behind us and move on. Now if ya don't mind I'd like to get some sleep," he waved the other man away as he grabbed some blankets off the back of the couch to set up his sleeping area.

Wade just smirked as he began walking out of the room with Dogpool in his arms.

"Silly silly Wolvie. I'm not sure you realize the implications of your actions. But I'm afraid this is far from over. You, my friend, have just started a war."

Logan's face fell as he only stared back at Wade in wide-eyed silence.

"Nighty night, Peanut. Sweet dreams," Wade smirked devilishly, waving with wiggling fingers as he flicked off the light switch on the wall.

[stillfoodforguys]

After going over budget on my home renovations, I somehow had to tell the intimidatingly tall and bulky man in charge that I couldn’t pay him for his past week of work. He grumbled in frustration when I told him, scratching his head as he thought about how to deal with the situation. The silence was eventually broken by a low rumble coming from his large belly, followed by an unusually friendly smile.

“It’s alright pal, I think we can work something out. Here’s the deal: you sit in my stomach for a few hours, and I’ll consider everything paid.” It was an unexpected offer, but I didn’t really feel like I had the choice. As soon as I said yes, the man gave me no time to change my mind, aggressively grabbing the collar of my shirt and tearing it off me before clasping his rough hands around my waist. I nearly thought this was about to turn into a sexual favour of some kind before he opened his mouth, wide enough to fit my head inside and seal away with a powerful gulp.

I could feel my skin getting soaked in drool while he worked my body deeper down his throat. I instinctively squirmed at the sensation of his tongue delving into every crevice of my body; I suppose he thought getting to savour my taste was part of the deal. Wanting to enjoy more of the raw flavour I had to offer, he removed all the clothing from my lower half and began to suck the rest of my naked body into his mouth. I was annoyed at first, but the way his tongue slithered along my shaft and cradled my balls felt embarrassingly good. Maybe I wouldn’t mind this after all…

A few more gulps brought my legs and feet down his gullet, making me curl up into a ball deep within his stomach. Even though his gut groaned and rumbled pretty loudly, I figured I should still be able to hear the noise of power tools buzzing through the thick layers of fat surrounding me. But the outside world seemed almost silent, and after ten minutes or so I could feel his stomach start to squeeze me tighter. When I asked why he hadn’t continued to work after swallowing me, I got a raunchy belch in response, followed by a chuckle as he slapped his bulging belly.

“It’s not like you’ll be enjoying this house anymore. I guess you didn’t realise a few hours in my gut would be turning you into mush, huh? See, I figured the least you could offer me for working so hard would be a decent lunch, and you sure were a nice big piece of meat…”

With the knowledge that he intended to treat me like no more than food, I began to struggle furiously within his gut. But my movements became more restricted as the fleshy walls closed in over time, slowly smothering me while his stomach grew warmer and wetter, preparing to deal with its contents. The man’s utility belt clattered to the ground as he dropped his shorts, taking hold of his own personal power tool to get even more pleasure out of his meal.

When I finally gave up my fight to survive and accepted my upcoming digestion, he shot thick ropes of cum across the wall in front of him, giving it a fresh white coat as his final contribution to the house.

[hoseoksluna]

— WIP 𐙚 part 4 of wine

pairing: fuck buddy!jungkook x f. reader

about: the first time jungkook owns oc’s orgasm

word count: 0.417

note: because i started writing part four so late in the week (friday and i barely had time during this weekend to write) due to the fact i struggled hard, here i give you at least a little something on updating day. im really sorry its not the full thing yet, but i promise i'm working hard and i'll post it for you sometime next week. i'm really excited about what i've written and i can't wait to show you. please enjoy the little excerpt && keep your fingers crossed for me. love you all <;3

side note: happy belated birthday to my husband yoongi, the poetry to my words, the sanity to my mind. my anchor, my everything. i miss him terribly and i love him.

warnings: clit rubbing, shyness, riding fingers, jungkook penetrates her mid-climax and has a very tender reason for it

𐙚

He moans onto your neck, nose tracing the column on its way to your ear.  “How do you touch yourself?” 

A sudden shyness overtakes you and you turn your head, needing to hide in his neck this time. You remain silent, the words lodged in your throat. 

Jungkook sees you. 

“Do you rub your little clit from side to side or in circles?” he questions, helping you answer. 

“I—I like both,” you whisper onto his skin, moving your hips so his fingers slip to your clit, the sweet spot where you need him the most. He grabs the back of your thigh and lifts it, spreading you open, meanwhile you chase the firmness of his fingers.  

“Just like that, ride them,” he husks, eyes dazed, fixed on the roll of your pelvis. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” 

Head on top of yours, you nod, never ceasing your movement, transfixed, just like him, by the constant way the pads of his fingers fondle your clit before dipping between your lips. The heat of the summer tightens in your lower belly and it’s a desperate litany of begging what your mouth utters, despite the fact you’re really not sure what you’re asking for, but you let him hear it. You’re close, so unbelievably close, yet still have a road to walk on before you, and you close your eyes to feel the delight of his touch more deeply, only to find that you manage to do nothing of the kind. 

When you sense his eyes on you and by instinct you reciprocate his stare, that’s when you feel the depth you sought after. Mouth parted, pupils dilated, eyelashes a drowsy catastrophe, messy hair casting a soft shadow over the planes of his blissed-out face. You want to kiss him. You want to make him feel as good as he’s making you feel—

“Let me do it now,” Jungkook says hurriedly, sensing the nearness of your climax.

“Yes,” you croak out, halting the movement of your hips—and ‘yes’ is the word that ripples out of your mouth a hundred, a thousand more times when he spreads you wider and rubs his fingers on your clit from side to side. 

He feels the pleasure in sync with you, accepting all of your yes’, twisting his face the moment yours does, quickening the rapidness of his hand once he switches to circles to carry you to your summer-breathed paradise. 

And when you come all over his hand, he slips two fingers inside your hole.

[urinarythreatinfection]

Hi, I really like your work with Sanji! Can I request a fanfic where the reader is a person who didn't get love from his parents as a child, but only money? The reader is a woman, if anything! How the reader will try to show her love to Sanji is your choice! Thanks in advance!

This was a bit hard at first but I ended up getting into it eventually. It might've turned out a little more angsty than I thought but I felt like it worked really well. If you aren't at 1053 i'm really sorry I put it in there bc it worked really well too.

Insecure Love

Sanji x Fem Reader. Angst/comfort and some fluff. Major Spoilers for episode 1053. 2740 words.

Sanji adores you, you’re perfect to him. Beautiful, amazing, talented, everything. You are the best woman he could ever wish for. Sometimes he even lays awake at night thinking of the memories the two of you have made, goofy smile on his face he’s so enamored. There is one problem though, just a teensy one, you’re not at all affectionate. You don’t stop him from being affectionate to you, but you don’t exactly reciprocate or initiate. Instead, you give him gifts, which was nice at first but he started to feel a bit conflicted about it the more it happened. He would rather get love from you rather than a material good you’d bought somewhere. What’s worse is that the gifts have stopped, it’s almost always just money now.

“Here.” You say blankly to Sanji while he’s cooking, handing him cash. He spots you and his eyes trail to the berri in your hand, a small frown on his face. “Is it not enough?” He jolts and quickly shakes his head.

“No, that isn’t it. Thank you.” He forces a smile and takes it, pain in his chest. Your boyfriend tries so hard to make you feel loved, cooking for you, complimenting you, showing physical affection, but all you do is hand him cash like payment for a service; like his love was simply something nice you pay him for. He’s tried refusing it before but you had gotten upset, putting it away with a sad expression until he agreed to take it. Now you look at him as he pockets it, telling himself he’ll use it to buy ingredients for a dish you’ll like. After he puts it in his pocket he hugs you, kissing you for a bit before pulling away. “I’m going to finish cooking soon, my love, would you like to stay here?” His eyes are expectant, hoping you’ll stay, but you shake your head.

“I’ll leave you to it, you should focus.” With that, you leave him alone in the kitchen. He looks at the ingredients he was chopping, the money you gave him weighing down his heart. Is this really so one-sided? Has he just been bothering you this entire time? Maybe he’s just a toy you can play with, a music box that sings for you when you put money inside. Those thoughts crowd his head as he cooks until he accidentally lifts a hot lid with his bare hand, burning his skin; but before he can go to treat it... it heals on its own. The cook grits his teeth, clenching his fist. What a creepy ability. He puts his head in his hands and takes deep breaths, it’s okay, he loves you, you’re still together.

“Are you alright?” Robin asks him as he sets food down in front of the girls, including you, completely spaced out.

“Oh, sorry Robin-chan.” He snaps out of it and smiles at her. “I’m doing okay.” The cook leaves to serve the rest of the crew, steps noticeably heavier than normal. The women watch this, then look to you.

“Did you two argue or something? What’d he do?” Nami asks, ready to defend you, but you shake your head.

“I don’t know, I thought he was okay earlier, I handed him money and he accepted like normal.” You’re confused, and they both look at eachother.

“Like normal..?” Nami asks again.

“Yeah, I’ve been giving my allowance to him since we started dating. I know he sometimes struggles with food budget so I like helping out.” You explain and the two girls stare at you.

“(Y/n) what have you been doing so far in your relationship with Sanji?” Robin questions you and you start to talk, explaining that you’ve been getting him gifts since you both started dating; but you ran out of ideas on what to give him so you’ve started to give him money when he makes you happy.

“Wow…That’s horrible.” The navigator states, starting to pity Sanji.

“Like a sugar baby?” Your jaw drops slightly at Robin’s comparison and you quickly shake your head.

“A sugar baby!?” You’re shocked but start to think about it. “Wait, is that what he wants?”

“Obviously not!” The navigator snaps at your obliviousness. “He basically collapses the moment a woman does something for him but you’ve just been giving him money?”

“Wouldn’t you like that though?” You point out and she frowns.

“That’s different.” She considers money an okay gift for her, though even she would get annoyed if she had a lover that would only give her money and ignore anything else. “Plus you hardly show him affection, I thought it was just your guys’ thing so I didn’t say anything but you’re clearly bumming him out.”

“I haven’t refused anything from him though, and I don’t get mad at him for flirting with other women.” The navigator sighs, mentally facepalming, this isn’t working out. You’re too oblivious and Sanji’s too much of an idiot to tell anyone something’s wrong, much less a woman he loves. Robin comes up with something.

“Tomorrow you should come to our room at noon. We’ll assist you” You tilt your head, confused, but agree.

That night, Sanji heads to bed still sad and only getting worse. He can’t sleep, he’s been having trouble doing so since that happened. ‘She was there, she must’ve seen.’ An unnatural thing, becoming the same type of monster he always despised. You must’ve fallen out of love with him, that’s it. He can’t blame you, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t digging a hole into his chest. He curls up into a ball on his bed, grasping at the sheets next to him like you’ll be there.

_________________

The next morning goes as it usually does on the Sunny. Sanji wakes up early to make breakfast for everyone and when they wake up it’s time to eat. The difference now is that Sanji seems off, tired, he doesn’t yell at Luffy or Zoro and his happy comments towards Robin and Nami aren’t enthusiastic. When he sets down your plate in front of you you look up at him, trying to scan his face if he’s sick. He awakened late so it would make sense if his Germa genes weren’t as strong, maybe he’s gotten sick? You’re worried and so is everyone else, except Luffy who doesn’t notice until after eating. He almost says something but is promptly elbowed so he keeps shut. He means well but mentioning it right now will make things worse, plus, the girls have a plan.

Afternoon finally strikes and you walk into the shared girls room, they aren’t there. 'Maybe I came too early?’ You think to yourself, checking the time to make sure it’s noon. Suddenly you hear footsteps and the door opens, revealing Robin, Nami, and your boyfriend. They push him inside and he spots you, looking shocked; but before he could ask what’s going on the door closes. He tries the doorknob but it’s locked, switched so the lock is on the outside.

“Don’t even try unlocking the door or breaking it down. You aren’t allowed out until you two communicate.” Nami states and footsteps are heard fading away. You stare at Sanji’s back, his hands on the wooden door. Does he not want to be with you alone with you this much? Usually he’d be excited to have time to spend with you.

“Is something wrong?” You ask him and the cook turns quickly, not prepared for this. He isn’t ready yet! He still needs to prepare his heart for the breakup and practice his apologies for you falling out of love. “Sanji..” You reach a hand out to him and he flinches, pressing his back against the wall like he’s afraid of you. He’s scared to be touched by you, scared that when you feel his skin you’ll retract from fear and disgust from the steel-like flesh. It isn’t right, these misunderstandings cause pain and you bite your bottom lip. What are you doing wrong, what did Nami mean by saying what you were doing was horrible? You step away from him and turn around, the both of you too insecure to speak. Fortunately, being trapped in this room will force you to.

‘She can’t even bear to look at me.’ Negativity clouds his judgment, irrational thoughts filling his mind. “I’m sorry.” An apology, it sounds guilty. This must be a sign.

‘He’s breaking up with me…’ There’s too much stress, him avoiding you, being told something is wrong, and now this breakup. The dam of stone formed by the years of trauma starts to crack, tears dripping from your eyes. Sanji doesn’t see it, but he can hear your shaky breaths. It causes his eyes to widen and his worry for you overpowers his instinct to pull away.

“Mon cœur!?” Your lover walks to you and scans your teary face, his hands cupping your cheeks.

“You don’t have to call me that,” His heart breaks, you’re breaking up with him so he would have to stop calling you that. Your next words confuse him, though. “I know you don’t want to.” …He doesn’t want to? Sanji blinks a few times, why would he ever not want to call his everything what she is?

“What are you talking about? I-”

“Stop forcing yourself!” You yell and he jolts. “It must’ve been hard. Your love for women made you stay with me for so long but I know you don’t love me. Being hesitant about my gifts, not talking to me as much, and you're starting to look tired too.” You step back and put your face in your hands. “You must be staying up late thinking about how you could break up with me.” He stands there, shocked. Him… breaking up with you? The perfect woman completely out of his league? Tears flow from your eyes faster and he tries to make sense of it all, his brain so focused on his own faults that the thought of you being insecure of yours is unable to cross his mind.

“Do you mean the berri you’ve been giving me?” He manages to put together and you nod. He continues to think. “You… it wasn’t payment to you?” He doesn’t know what else to call it so he settles with that word.

“Payment?” You wipe your eyes and sniffle. “Is that why you’ve been staying with m-”

“No, nonono of course not. I thought..” Sanji quickly interrupts you, stopping that thought. This is different from what he thought was going to happen, but it still hurts to speak his mind when it only reminds him of what’s wrong, well what he thinks is wrong. “I thought you were giving me those things as payment because you didn’t want to pay attention to me. So I wouldn’t bother you, that my love was just a transaction.” He says the last part more quietly and your heart drops. This is familiar, you’ve felt this exact way before when you were young. Going to your parents for love and only getting money in return to shut you up and get you away. You start to shake and cry harder.

“I-I, I didn’t know. I’m sorry..!” You’re just like them, but Sanji doesn’t care; hugging you.

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault.” He’s already forgiving you and you haven’t even explained anything.

“No, it’s n-not okay.” You say while shaking your head, it’s nerve-wracking to talk about your past but you choose to. For him. “I… I thought I was doing the right thing. That I was different from my parents who would give me things instead of love, I always made sure t-to never tell you to go away or reject you but I ended up making you feel the exact same way I did!” You pull away and cover your face. “I’m horrible!”

‘The same way she did?’ He processes what you said, what’s happening. The struggle of trying so hard to be different from family only to end up like them is something he knows as well. His hand goes to his chest, pressing down and feeling almost completely dense skin instead of the regular squish of flesh; just like his brothers. “You don’t think I’m a monster…” You quickly shake your head. “Why didn’t you say so? Are you sure- I mean you never wanted to be with me!” Whenever he was cooking or if he went shopping you would just give him money and wave him off.

“I..” You think about that, then start to get embarrassed. “I didn’t want to bother you, what if I get overly clingy and get you mad?” Sanji hears this and it’s like weight has been dropped from his heart, but hearing you say this so insecurely still makes him slowly sink to the ground. “Sanji?”

“Bother me.. being clingy.” Gods, he would do anything to have you cling to him when he’s cooking or shopping. “You could never, ever, not in an eternity, ever bother me by being ‘clingy’”

“But don’t you get busy? You work so hard cooking and when you’re out shopping you’re talking with women, wouldn’t I make it awkward if I butted in?” He hangs his head in shame, the few times that you’ve agreed to go shopping he has flirted with other women; but he had assumed you didn’t care. In a way, he would do it on purpose hoping to get a reaction, even looking back at you. Anything to show a sign you loved him, that he wasn’t a toy, but all he was doing was making things worse. This lack of communication was only causing pain to you both. How could he ever make this up to you? He was already unworthy and now he had dared to cause such suffering to the love of his life. “Baby…” You crouch down and cup his face so he’s looking at you, his eyes are teary.

“I hurt you.”

“We ended up hurting each other.” You wipe his tears with your thumbs. “Do you still want to be with me? Even if I've been messing up?”

“I should be the one asking you that, treasure. My love.” Sanji hugs you, pulling you close to him so you’re on his lap. You can feel his hesitance, the fear that you’ll pull away because he’s different now, but you don’t. Instead you press closer to him, lifting your head up to look at him. You don’t really initiate kisses, so you’re nervous as you place your lips on his. He’s only shocked for a moment before he kisses back, resting his hand on the back of your neck. This is the longest series of kisses you’ve had, almost a minute before you have to pull away. “S-Sorry, I’ve gotten better at holding my breath lately.” A bit awkward it’s from something he dislikes, though.

“So I don’t have to worry if I kiss you alot?” You ask and his pupils basically turn to hearts.

“No, you don’t.” Before you two can kiss again there’s the sound of the door unlocking, making you quickly get off of Sanji’s lap as he stands up so Robin and Nami don’t see you in an awkward position. They almost think that nothing has happened but seeing the two of you clearly panicked changes their mind, making Robin smile.

“It went well, then?” Robin chuckles happily as the two of you flush. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

_______________

Sanji hums as he cooks, a good mood from making up with you so amazingly. His ears perk up when he hears you come inside, not needing to look to know it’s you. “I’m almost done, my love.” He states as he expertly flips a steak. You don’t say anything, which confuses him but before he can turn around he feels your arms wrap around him and your body press against his back. His girlfriend, who hasn’t shown real affection until yesterday, is clinging to him while he cooks. Is this a dream?

“Don’t turn around, I’m still a little shy.” You say quietly and it echoes in his mind. Shy… shy… Gods, you’re too cute. His face goes red and he falls to the side, blood seeping from his nose. “Sanji!?” You manage to stop him from slamming fully onto the ground, shaking him. He’s in heaven, this is heaven.

[appllelisa]

i need people to listen to me here

his whole arc was bound for redemption. Was he a good villain ? Fuck yeah he was, and I'll admit I don't like his writing nowadays (although I haven't seen anything but his interlude I haven't even played the recent event so I can't speak much on it, )

But he was bound to redeem himself and it's so SO good that he did, I get why people prefer Scaramouche more than Wanderer cause yeah, villains are sick but he was redemption was a good way to wrap up his arc. He redeemed himself and is now understanding the beauty of humanity and life and HIMSELF, it's a delightful thing ! And even if I'm not the biggest fan of how he's written I can still admit I love his redemption !

People who view Wanderer like this fascinate me. Like how was he supposed to. Stay a villain. Completely ignoring how limiting him to being.. 'psychopathic' (not a big fan of using that word in this context) ignores the nuances of his character, how was he meant to continue being an antagonistic force??? We kinda. Crushed any hope that he had abt being able to ascend to godhood. We took the gnosis from him, then gave it to Dottore, who is part of the Fatui- the organization he BETRAYED. Dottore views Scaramouche's attempt to seize godhood as a fun little experiment, but now that he's seen that he failed, Dottore wouldn't be interested in trying again... We backed Scaramouche into a corner, man. He can't do ANYTHING. He can't go back to the Fatui and his literal only goal for the past 400ish years that he was so close to achieving was smashed in front of his face. He can't go back to that previous ambition either.

That's why I don't understand some people's pushback to him.. accepting Nahida's mercy?? And staying with her in Sumeru?? What else was he supposed to do??? And then it's like. Yeah, of course he's gonna internalize some better behavior because yEAH Nahida is a good influence. She stops him from isolating himself and pushes him into participating in things (like in the Darshan event) to allow things in this world to have meaning to him. So he stays. Because.. this undoubtedly makes him feel better. He's so much gentler to people as Wanderer, and that's because he's learning to once again be gentle with himself. Idk, I've always felt that this was a very natural progression...

[bandtrees]

this has always been one of my favorite lines in this scene it’s so striking to me. i think debating over callum’s level of lucidity and what can or cannot “fix” him is deeply antithecal to what the story is trying to express with him - but the idea that callum is still there and still a person who does have the capacity to love mingus, just not in a way she can ever comprehend or accept, because she can't comprehend or accept anything outside her narrow worldview, is sooooo good.

there is no way of actually knowing if callum is proud of mingus, much less recognizes her at all - but it's added to by the fact there's only so much of that she would accept even if he could. ultimately, she wants validation and power, his prestige, from him, she wants a supportive parental figure she never had - there's only so much of that callum is able to provide even in a world where her stint to fix his memory actually worked. he's like a hundred. he never even MET her. to say nothing of all he's missed in the past fifty-odd years. to say nothing of how his age may have messed with his mind deteriorating even without the pre-existing brain damage.

and mingus' phrasing here implies he doesn't even look at her when she visits - which brings me to the visit that radicalized her: the one after her surgery, where he was watching gingi out the window.

obviously, callum watching gingi is mostly for the thematics of it all, how similar the two of them are in ways mingus refuses to recognize, but theres also the thought of... callum's been sitting alone in that room for over half his life, barely lucid if at all. of course he's going to be drawn to a brightly-colored thing making noises and knocking stuff over outside. if he can't respond to stimuli of the people around him he's at the very least going to latch onto something more visually interesting than Brown Wall and Brown Figure.

but it's not like mingus can think of it like that, because she's internalized so much about her grandfather and built up such a specific, personalized vision of him - she doesn't see him as an elderly man with (a fictional equivalent to) dementia, she sees him as President Callum Crown™, the man she personally has to please and live up to the legacy of and make proud, disregarding the fact that's not something he has the mental capacity to even do - because she's so obsessed with validation and complete control that the only way she can get it is by either subjugating others and forcing it out of them (what she does with her townsfolk), or just completely projecting on someone who, for her purposes, is basically a blank slate.

which is maddening to her in its own way, see how crazy she drives herself trying to restore callum's memory in the first place - but also, would she be happy even if callum could see her for who she is? post-game, when she's working on herself, that's an irrelevant question as she's pushed past that need, but as we know her? absolutely not.

i love the ch3 standoff between norm and mingus as a show of "Okay guys let’s see who can dehumanize this disabled guy harder (via pedestal-putting) and justify themselves for it better" and why i think it is so important that it’s gingi who reads the postcard and ultimately speaks for callum instead of either of them, or even the narrator. they can’t read, and they struggle to, but they manage to get it right even when people are telling them to stop. and the fact they’re able to do it at all, are given the chance to do so, and are ultimately the one to wind down this conflict shows that the world of dialtown, while not perfect, really is how callum would have wanted it.

both gingi and callum are some of the most altruistic and human characters ever, and the crux of their parallels is that they are denied this by close-minded people because they happen to Behave Strangely. it's why seeing mingus act the way she does hits so hard - she loves her paw-paw, yes, but if she were to see him in a vacuum, a one-limbed man who can hardly think, much less speak for himself: or even his younger self, who was struggling to make ends meet with his odd inventions...

...well, the feeling norm's imagining here would probably be mutual. mingus' relationship with bigotry is a very fascinating one, she's very close-minded but views certain oddities (ie her flesh-head) as having earned their place and thus being fine - she's a freak too, by her own admission, but she's doing it for a just and wider purpose, so it's fine. which is, ironically, the ideology callum forced upon himself.

callum was obsessed with helping people, pushing himself to do more and more, because it was the only way he ever found respect. if he didn't help people and have grand visions for the world and make himself "useful" to society at large, then what would he be, if not a freak?

mingus and her paw-paw are very similar people, from their well-intentioned extremism, to their stubbornness and paranoia, to their inability to view themselves as anything more than a vessel for that grand cause they believe in (callum in the dialup, mingus in restoring her paw-paw's memory) - which is funny, because if mingus was able to view callum, and herself, as a flawed human person, she would come to understand how similar they really are.

:(

[leclerc-hs]

me or him? - cl x hs

Pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader, ex!harry styles x fem!reader Summary: a request from anon, in which your ex (harry styles) shows up to the paddock and brings jealousy to Charles Warnings: some smut, language, bad writing?? Word Count: 1098 Author's Note: You ask and I shall deliver!! Sorry I didn't make Harry as toxic in it, it was hard for me to make him too much of an asshole because he's such a cutie patootie LOL. I really did want to make him more of an asshole. Maybe I'll make another. I hope it's up to your standards for now! I tried my best ❤️ French edits made by @shewantsvengeance!!!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

YOU COULDN'T HELP but feel like the universe was playing a twisted joke on you. In what world would Harry Styles be attending a Grand Prix, let alone the Monaco Grand Prix, and to make things even more surreal, he’s in the Ferrari garage. Where you presently stood beside Charles.

To the casual observer, it might not have seemed like anything out of the ordinary. Just another celebrity making a visit to the paddock. But there was a significant detail that set this celebrity apart from the rest: he happened to be your ex-boyfriend.

It was a detail of your past you didn’t get to mention. To be fair, you and Charles were still a relatively new couple, and you hadn’t found the right moment to discuss past relationships with one another just yet. 

“You look so beautiful, ma chérie.” My darling. You both were hidden in the corner as he pecked a gentle kiss onto your lips. Your hands slowly wrap around the back of his neck, a knot formed in your stomach. You needed to give him some warning.

“Cha, I need to tell you this fast. My ex-boyfriend is here.” You whispered it so fast and so low you don’t even know if he heard you correctly.

You and Harry hadn’t parted on bad terms; in fact, your breakup had been quite mutual. However, it was also fair to admit that it was messy in terms of ending up in each other’s bed every so often. But that was before. Before Charles.

“Y/N?” A voice interrupts, and you both quickly separate from each other. You felt like a deer in headlights.

“Harry! How are you doing?” You gave Harry a small, polite hug, still avoiding eye contact with Charles. The thought of his reaction made you nervous, and you couldn’t get yourself to meet his gaze. 

Charles had never exhibited a penchant for possessiveness, or at least, you had not perceived him as such. Nevertheless, in this instant, the proximity of your ex-boyfriend, who gazed at you as if you were the sole focus of this entire room, ignited an uncontrollable urge to clench his fists and drag you someplace else. Somewhere far away from here.

“Doing well,” Harry began, his gaze unwavering on your face. “I thought I’d run into you at the annual Christmas soiree,” he mused with a chuckle, following it with, “I’ve missed you.”

You almost choked on your response.

Charles could sense his frustration intensifying at the undivided attention of Harry seemed to be giving you. Although you continued to avert your gaze from Charles, the vice-like grip of his hand on your hip conveyed an unmistakable message of his discontent.

Harry’s gaze traveled, from your face down your body, following the path of Charles’s hand that had claimed its place. A slight frown forming on his lips.

“Harry, meet Charles, my boyfriend.” You said with a soft smile. Harry extended a hand towards Charles, who, though still visibly tense, accepted the handshake.

Silence filled the space between them, unspoken words hanging in the air. You found yourself ensnared amid an unvoiced rivalry. Harry who struggled to divert his attention from your face for more than a fleeting moment. Charles who wanted to stake claim.

Charles felt increasingly invisible as you and Harry further engaged in conversation. He couldn’t even decipher what you were discussing at this point. His focus had shifted entirely to observing the way Harry was looking at you. Like he wanted you. Like he had no shame.

It made Charles livid.

“Ma chérie, we need to go grab my helmet. I left it in my driver’s room.” Charles cut off the conversation by pulling you away. Not even sparing another glance to Harry. 

You didn’t get to see the expression on Charles’ face as he hurriedly led you into his driver’s room. You didn’t even have a chance to take a single step, as the moment the door was shut, you found yourself pushed up against it and your dress was bunched at your waist.

"You're helmet was literally in the garage Cha," you squealed out.

“Are you trying to drive me insane?” His breath was hot against your ear. You felt goosebumps arise almost instantly at the sound of him shoving his race suit down his legs to free himself. 

“Thinks he can have you back.” He scoffed. “Thinks he can stare at what’s mine.”

He spit directly onto his hand, mimicking the gesture of spitting on the sidewalk. An act of frustration. Almost instantly, he brought his fingers between your fold. “Ma chérie, you’re already so wet.” He hissed as he rubbed his cock through your slick folds.

“Always,” you breathed out heavily as he pushed himself all the way in. “Always for you.” 

His hands were fervent, rubbing and pinching all the right areas to send you quickly towards the edge. 

“Yeah?” He emitted a deep, guttural moan, quickening his rhythm as his hand descended to the spot that you yearned for most. You began nodding your head fervently in response.

Yes. Yes, you’re the only one. You’re the only one I ever want.

“You all wet for him? Hm?” He sneered. “Talking to him got you all hot and bothered?” He was playing with fire.

“No, never,” you were shouting. Needing more. More of him. 

“You’re my little slut, ma chérie?” He groaned in your ear. His hips rapidly picking up the pace. You found yourself utterly incapable of forming a coherent response; the strokes of his cock so deep you were in bliss. Instead, all that escaped your lips were unintelligible groans, a testament to the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body. “Look at you, so cock dumb. Can’t even speak properly.”

It didn’t take much time at all. Your intense desire for him, your deep connection, it all culminated in a swift and intense climax. Him, lost in the same ecstasy as he quickly finishes all over your backside. Dragging his heavy cock over your ass to smear his cum into you.

After a few moments of heavy panting and the gradual return of normal breathing, you finally turned to meet Charles’ gaze. His countenance bore a mix of elation and something more complex, not quite sadness, but perhaps a touch of insecurity.

“Cha, you’re the only one I want.” You confirmed the phrase with a firm kiss to his lips. You felt him smile into it. His hands squeezing any area of your body he grabs onto. As if you would wither into thin air if he didn’t. 

“You’re stuck with me, ma chérie.” He pulled away. “I’m never letting you go.”

[butterbabyflapjack]

✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

The Ice Truck Killer’s back in town, and somehow he's stuck babysitting you; Miami's newest would-be killer.

Helping you out wasn't at all his original intention–he'd rather see you dead, you know far too much–but he supposes he could spare an evening to undomesticate that hungry beast inside you. Show you how to really live your life.

In which Brian helps you kill someone who utterly deserves it, and the kill room turns into a horny sex-fueled bloodbath.

✧˖° wordcount (chapter 2): 17k

✧˖° chapters: one, two, three

✧˖° ao3

✧˖° taglist: @Impala1967 @fan-goddess @ireallydontknowohcrabs

✧˖° warnings: serial killer fem!reader, reader insert, explicit sexual content, rough sex, passionate sex, fucking in a kill room, dark romance, dark comedy, canon typical depictions of blood and gore, enthusiastic consent, mutual pining, impact play, playing with your food, serial killers in love, banter, dirty talk, voice kink, trauma bonding, babysitting a serial killer, implied sexual abuse of a child (you're killing this mf don’t worry), torture (you’re torturing this mf don’t worry), Brian is his own warning, enemies to lovers, biting, daddy issues?, blood play, a bit of angst a dash of bloodlust & a heavy splash of spice, Brian loves to fluster you and he won't shut the hell up going about it, Brian survives season 1 in this house

✧˖° author's note:

im having too much fun with this, but also editing chapters this long inflicts psychic damage so please forgive the inevitable rough spots. i’m sure there are some but i’m so over editing. i tried making it shorter but every time i tried it just got longer its 17k 😭😭

anyway hope you’re ready for your date with a wanted serial killer💕

(there’s a few nods to the books throughout, including Brian’s little red car)

✧˖° chapter 2

You still can’t believe you’re actually doing this.

Accepting Dexter’s brother’s help–the Ice Truck fucking Killer, which you can still hardly believe. Begging for it, even; for him to help you kill someone.

The Ice Truck fucking Killer…

Even now, you have a hard time wrapping your head around it.

You’d dedicated so much time and energy into catching that serial fiend, and now he was practically your mentor. So unlike his brother, yet so strikingly the same. Dexter was hungry to know everything about a person before killing them; performing weeks, even months of diligent research on every facet of their beings. 

But Brian…

He hadn’t asked a single question about who he’d help you kill. It could be your own mother, for all he seemed to care. A wolf with a scent for blood. He gets a whiff, he doesn’t hesitate, he comes running.

He’d agreed to help you so much more willingly than Dexter had, and for that, at least, you’re grateful. It remains to be seen if you’ll be grateful for anything else.

It doesn’t matter that this man that you’ll kill’s not a killer. He still has this coming. Has it coming from you, and doubtlessly deserves so much more, so much worse, and–

The whirlwind of thoughts inside your addled head will not settle, will not calm; battering the walls of your mind into harsh, jagged edges of unease and doubts and questions upon questions and–

Struggling to swallow, you once more do your best to ignore that storm inside you. Sucking down a deep breath. Forcing yourself to.

You can do this.

The cards of it are already falling out of place, all around you, and you can’t pick them up again, can’t shove them back into their previous shape.

You don’t want to.

This is happening.

You’re killing this prick tonight.

It’s too late now, not to, and you don’t want to turn back–

You can do this.

You can do this.

You…

You’re at the precinct…

On a Saturday…

Today is already going so wrong.

You just needed to submit a slew of paperwork for a court case early on Monday. Just in and out; it wasn’t supposed to take long. Yet now it’s nearly noon, and your partner–a thick man with a thicker mustache named Pérez–well he’s here, too. The pair of you without lives, always working. And he’s droning on and on about something–probably where the two of you should stop for lunch, as if you’ll be here that long (you already are), but you can’t hear him. Anxious eyes flitting from him and Masuka, who’s joined in on whatever this conversation, in checking the time on your phone.

Your anxious eyes grow wider.

Shit–!

You were supposed to meet Brian at the hardware store twenty minutes ago…!

Ignoring Masuka’s lame attempt at a joke, you focus fully on your computer. Sending off a few last emails, finger nearly breaking through your mouse with every click, before you’re grabbing whatever papers you were working on and even some you weren’t, scraping the mess of them off your desk, shoving them into your bag and you’re sure they’re all crumpled but fuck it, this can’t wait, Brian can’t wait, you should have left already–

“Hey!” Pérez calls as you abruptly stand, his deep voice following after how you speed-walk through the glass-enclosed walls of the precinct. “I was talkin’ to you!”

“Gotta go,” you shoot back bluntly. “Talk to Masuka.” 

“Bullshit,” he calls as you continue speeding off. “You don’t got nowhere to be!”

And you don’t know why you say it. You’re panicked, maybe–haven’t thought out a decent alibi like you really already should have. But either way, you blurt back on harried instinct, “I’m going on a date–you know, trying my hand at a social life? You should try it sometime.”

The surprise of that must shut him up–as it should, you don’t date–because he doesn’t yammer after you any longer as you push out of the room’s heavy glass doors. Impatiently stabbing the silver elevator button before you so you can fully escape, all while inwardly smacking yourself because now Pérez is definitely going to grill you about a date that never happened first thing on Monday–about a date with a serial murderer both he and you chased after personally, along with everyone else on your team–about a date where you’re going to fucking kill someone and fuck–fuck–!

You’re bad at this. You’re so bad at this. You’re a homicide detective, you should know better, know what you’re doing, know what to look out for to not get caught, but instead you’re leaving threads that anyone could stop in and pull at–

You need to calm down.

Why are you so nervous– you weren’t this tense before last night.

This is Brian’s fault, somehow, you just can’t place exactly why. Doesn’t stop you from blaming him, though.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

Slipping into your cheap, little car.

Driving out of the precinct’s lot.

In.

Out.

You’re meeting the Ice Truck Killer for a date where you’re picking out murder weapons. 

It’s not that big a deal.

Breathe.

In…

Honestly, you don’t even know why you’re doing this. The shopping part, at least; not the murder part. You have all the reason in the world to murder that vile excuse for a human being, but a shopping spree? 

Dexter’d left you a few of his knives. Not all of them, mind; just a select few, which was hard enough for him to do, you could tell as he left them. Those knives, what they do, what they have done… They’re an extension of himself. And you were grateful to him for having lent them. But when you’d received a call from an unknown number after leaving his apartment last night, you’d heard Brian’s deep, smoothly serrated voice on the other end.

“I’m surprised you pick up calls from unknown numbers,” he’d immediately teased, and just as suddenly you’d wanted to hang up on his smarmy, cocky ass. Only resisting because you do really need his help.

He’d said to pick a hardware store of your choice. To meet him there tomorrow, at twelve PM sharp.

“Why?” you’d asked, helplessly suspicious of him. Maybe because you knew what he was. Maybe because of something else you couldn’t quite name, just out of reach, its murky outline barely untouched.

“You want my help, don’t you?” he’d returned instead of answering, and you hated what his voice did to you. What it still does to you. Its silken roughness instilling fear and something else so very warm, unraveled and cloying and copper-sweet in the back of your turbulent mind. 

Luckily, your stifled lack of response must’ve been enough of an answer for him.

“You only get to kill a man once,” he’d purred in your ear, and you were glad he couldn’t see you worrying your lower lip. “You may as well do it right. Twelve PM. Don’t forget, my lovely protégé.”

But you did forget. Till twenty minutes past. And now you’re here, at Miami Lumber and Hardware, at 12:37 PM on the dot.

He’s going to kill you.

You’re halted a stuttered step whilst rushing through the parking lot as you think it, since it was only a figure of speech–but this is Brian Moser. He might actually kill you. It’s certainly not an improbability.

Once again reminding yourself to breathe, it still takes concerted effort to actually drag the air into your lungs.

You can’t help it.

Brian makes you nervous. This is just an unfortunate fact.

The man, is…

Cold. Calculated. Ineffable.

And yet, the way he’d held his brother last night, when Dexter had greeted him home…

Once you’d learned that Brian was Dexter’s brother, you couldn’t fully blame Dex for letting him escape Miami, not even after everything with Deb. It was fucked, but they were brothers; they were blood. But their closeness in that moment last night made you see, very clearly, that even monsters can have something resembling a heart.

And yet that heart is nowhere present when Brian looks at you. You can see that, too. The darkness of that viscid void which crafts him, reflecting light as a mirage, as a distraction; a light which from his dark cannot exist.

It certainly doesn’t make you any less wary around him. Not to mention how he might have some unpleasant feelings toward you for being part of the task force that ran him out of town, that even now would apprehend him. But it’s not like Dexter wasn’t part of that task force, too, so… 

Maybe he’d forgiven you.

You weren’t about to ask.

In any case. He’d agreed to help you. So maybe you should just be grateful for that and stop questioning everything ; just focus on the arduous task at hand instead of spiraling once again into doubt.

As you quickly approach the hardware store, you catch sight of a looming shadow standing just outside its wide, automatic front doors. A shadow you soon realize is Brian. Black buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up his lithely muscled forearms. Hands in the pockets of dark slacks. Onyx, browline sunglasses shielding his likewise onyx gaze, like he’s just too cool to give a damn, though really you suppose it’s just part of his disguise.

He looks good, just standing there. Effortless, modelesque. And the longish mess of curls that tease his jawline, along with the dark scruff of beard definitely suit him.

It somehow makes all of this so much worse that he’s attractive, and for a second you wish you were blind, just sightlessly bumbling into him.

His dark eyes must flit toward your slowing, cautious approach from behind his shades, because a cheeky half-smirk takes hold of one corner of his lips. Especially as his focus feels to drape over you.  Dropping languidly to the motion of your hands, unthinkingly clenching at your sides, which you immediately force to stop upon his notice.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he observes as you finally reach him, low and smooth as ambrosia on an unpolished blade, its edges always rough. “Thought you might’ve stood me up. And on our first date, too.” His brows are tugged in a light crease of woe above his handsome shades. “I was this close to having my heart broken.”

It’s ironic that his ‘cover story’ for whatever the hell this is the two of you are doing is that it’s some sort of ‘date’, too. 

Does that make it official?

God, you hope not. You can’t break your dating dry spell with someone you’ve tried apprehending.

“Pretty sure that’d require something inside your ribs to actually break,” you return; his smirk rubbing you the wrong way. Like he’s endlessly amused by the tragically Shakespearean comedy that is you. “Unlike whatever cobwebs are probably hanging there.” And, brushing past how he idles there watchfully, you’re already halfway through the automatic doors beside him when calling, “You coming or what?”

You barely hear his little chuff; half amused, half something darker, as the tower of him turns to swim within your wake. So much like a shark stalking after you that you’re tempted to drop the ‘too cool to turn around’ act and instead keep your vigilant eyes on him.

You’re still debating whether to turn or not when instead you’re physically jolted by him suddenly appearing right beside you; his smooth and lengthy steps easily outpacing the rigidity of your own. 

“So, little killer…” he slowly muses down at you, with a glint to his side-long smirk. Slipping his shades from off the bridge of his nose, before folding and tucking them in his breast pocket. All while you do your best not to look at him since every time you do you seem to lose your train of thought like some kind of idiot. “Where shall we start?”

Steps slowing to a halt, you peer about the overwhelming vastness of the giant store around you.

You have no idea where to start–wasn’t this whole thing his idea?

“You’re the one who wanted us to come here,” you mutter. Biting the inside of your cheek to somehow steady yourself before meeting the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t know what we’re looking for.”

He seems to assess you a moment, before he’s sliding one hand gently around your waist, which straightens board-stiff at his brazen touch. 

His smile grows as he eyes you, though by all appearance he’s just cordially guiding you by the small of your hesitant back toward the slew of bright red shopping carts bunched up near the front of the store. And though you’d like to think you’d smack his unwanted hand off of you, seeing as how you don’t need his help to grab a goddamn cart, you don’t really know what to think anymore. Somewhere, just… secretly glad? That he’s taking your reins of uncertainty? Leading them through whatever daytime fever-dream this ‘date’ is turning out to be.

Whatever makes this nightmare end more swiftly.

“Your teacher to the rescue, then,” he says, oh-so-helpful. Ushering you toward a cart, which you’re too mired by worry and doubt not to grab hold of obediently. Following where he steers you further into the massive store, and he’s won you over that easily, you guess. He’s your shepherd; you’re his sheep. But what are you supposed to do? Deny the help he’s giving? At this point there’s nowhere to go but down whatever darkened hole he leads you. 

Still. You won’t follow him down undefended. Stealing a glance, as innocuously as you can, at the Glock openly holstered at your right hip as he leads you deeper into the store, past the rows of registers. Its weight resting on your jeans a boon against that ongoing storm howling within you.

Brian seems to like the whole ‘obedient sheep to his shepherd’ thing, much to your chagrin. He smiles, anyway–a dusky crudeness to its soft shape–as his hand at last leaves your back, and instead he strolls alongside your cart casually.

You imagine the two of you probably look quite cute to someone who doesn’t know what the fuck is happening behind the scenes.

“Dexter told me he lent you some knives,” Brian says, conversationally. And he does make it sound so normal–like you’d borrowed them to fillet a fish, not a person.

This is the most fucked up small talk on a ‘date’ you’ve ever heard or hoped to be a part of.

He tsks his tongue in your silence, leading your way past a few aisles after glancing at their header’s above. And you don’t know what he’s looking for, but he’s your shepherd–you’re forced to trust him in wherever he’d guide you.

“Not exactly inspiring,” he muses. “He does get more creative, from time to time.” A shade of amusement hints his lips. “Very creative, really.” Though at length, he hums as if the state of Dexter’s a shame. “But he doesn’t play nearly enough with his food.”

“Is that why we’re here?” you finally find your voice. “Because you want me playing with my food tonight?”

He spares you a glance from how he otherwise scans all the inventory you pass. 

“It matters, how you kill a person,” he says. “At least, as I surmise, it does tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

He looks away, like he doesn’t actually care about this conversation.

“This person,” he says at last, as he leads where you’ll follow. “That you’re taking care of. He deserves this. Right?”

“Yes,” you respond without hesitation.

At that, he smiles his low, warm smile down at you. Allows its shallow warmth to burn through that storm you feel.

“Well… I don’t know the details–don’t need the details–but I’d venture further this is punishment…” The idea seems somehow amusing. “Am I wrong?”

No. He’s definitely right. Though you refuse to think about exactly why you’ll punish that bastard tonight. It always makes you see red, steals away everything else, and you’re already hopelessly distracted in Brian’s presence. So perhaps it’s lucky he doesn’t care, doesn’t ask, so that at least you’re left undistracted by that.

You’ll worry about making that fucker pay for what he’s done when you face him tonight.

How you strive to steady yourself is disjointed as Brian takes a loose hold of the front of the cart; escorting you down an aisle of hammers and other blunt-edged tools. 

“So shouldn’t however you kill this person be a punishment,” he offers mildly, “in and of itself?”

You don’t realize you aren’t responding; haven’t spoken in a while. Have stopped your cart from rolling for who knows how long while your knuckles begin to go numb with how tightly they cling to its bright, shiny handle–not until Brian’s shadow is suddenly so close to your side. And, blinking rapidly, you twist up just in time to see him lean down to your ear. Murmuring hushed words, just for you.

“Fuck Dexter’s knives,” he breathes, the heat of it sparking each hair on your nape to attention. “Whoever this bastard is, he surely deserves the worst end you can give him. A quick death is far too nice. Don’t you agree?”

He’s the devil on your shoulder, but you’re in no position to disagree.

A flash of that man you’ll kill, Gary, flashes through your mind before you can stop it. Shoved away with such nauseating hatred that you push forth your cart with enough newfound purpose you’ve left Brian behind. Vindictively eyeing each item as you pass, before settling on a box on one row. Judging its label with a tense jaw before tossing it into your cart.

Brian’s caught up in no time, though he strolls in no decided hurry. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he seemingly eyes the box of the belt sander you threw in.

“Well, that’s certainly creative…” he approves with a side-long grin.

“I’m not sure I’ll use it,” you admit, keeping your momentum forward. Focusing as best you can before his mere presence distracts you again. “I’m keeping my options open.”

And though you try desperately not to look at him, hindrance that he unwittingly is, you hear his smooth smile as he says, “A woman after my own heart. Maybe you’re not such a horrible student after all.”

Your cart wheels stop just long enough to glower up at him; annoyed by how his height always towers over you. “Since when was I horrible? I’m doing everything you ask.”

“After showing up here late,” he says, maintaining the affable bedside manner of the prosthetist he used to parade as. “And asking far too many questions.” 

Reaching for the small of your back again, his fingers steal away your objections as they curl so slightly into the curve of your waist, speeding your heart with their gentle pressure.

He leads you toward a row of rubber-ended sledge hammers. Leaving your side to take one off the rack. Testing its massive weight between his surgeon’s hands. Speculative, before breezily tossing it into the cart, which rattles beneath the bulk of it.

“So…” he drawls, too politely; changing the topic to something else. “Were you on the task force to bring me in…?”

The answer lodges somewhere in your throat. Caught there more and more the longer he passively watches you. And okay. Maybe he didn’t forgive and forget the whole ‘you trying to apprehend him’ thing after all.

“So was your brother,” you point out in lieu of answering, which in truth is answer enough, just the version with you too chicken-shit to answer directly.

You focus on moving forward; gripping your cart like a shield that doesn’t help at all against how you feel his little smile crawling over you. Focusing on your feet–on his feet, striding alongside yours. Staring at those burnished leather Elkans he wears, nearly black, clipping mute vinyl floors, and though you have no idea how a man on the run from the feds has the means to pay for shoes that nice you make a point of not asking.

“True enough,” he says. “Doesn’t make either one of you less of a hypocrite.”

Disgruntled, your gaze turns sharply up to him. “Would you rather I just cuff your ass right now and take you into the station?”

He seems to find the idea of that funny; suppressing a hum that’s not quite a laugh. 

“If you think you can drag me in.”

Idly, he unhooks from its post in the rows and rows of tools a pair of small, yet sharp needle-nose pliers. Eyes alight with something as he regards you; thumb roaming the instrument’s blunt, metallic edge.

“What do you think, detective?” he asks. “Could I have these jammed in your trachea before you pulled your gun on me?” 

The weight of your Glock feels to burn against your hip, itching for you to grab it, though you stiffly don’t move. 

“Maybe,” you admit. Not daring to pull your gun right now to even the odds of a hypothetical–or at least you hope it’s hypothetical. “But it wouldn’t kill me right away.” Your voice is hard. “I’d still shoot you in the back as you ran away in those fancy shoes.”

He does laugh at that. Strong and warm, as he steals a glance at his leather Elkans.

“Don’t you like them?” he wonders with a sly little smirk.

And of course you do, they’re handsomely crafted, but he doesn’t need to know that. So instead of answering, you just push off down the aisle with the cart.

“Can we just focus on the task at hand?” you ask as you hear his footsteps closing through the distance after you. Turning out of one aisle and into the next, with no destination in mind other than creating more distance between you. “I don’t exactly want to be caught in public with you.”

“Yes, that might ruin your reputation down at the station, wouldn't it?”

“Just a bit.” You toss a few items into the cart whilst assuring yourself that you’re making this rich bastard pay for everything. Tossing in a few more pricey-looking tools you probably won’t even use at the thought. “Especially when I told my partner that I was on a date right now.”

No sooner have the words left your mouth that you vehemently regret their utterance, cause why did you just admit that? And just like you worried, like you expected from Brian at this point, he smells the chum of possibly humiliating you on the water and slips forward for a bite.

“You’re already telling your friends about us?” he asks, a cunning fox, and maybe you will go for your gun. “How cute… It’s a little soon for me to be telling people about our relationship, personally, but… I’m glad you’re so enthused.”

Your ears burn for reasons unrelated to severe embarrassment, you’re sure. “He asked where I was rushing off to and I panicked, okay?”

You hear his little sigh. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

The cart rattles as you toss in a few more tools at random. “I’m new at this.”

“Yes,” comes Brian’s musing. “You’ve made that painfully clear.”

Desperate to ignore the awkward heat crawling up your face, you slow past a row of different saws. The wheels of your cart dragged to a sudden halt before a vast array of chainsaws, which admittedly seem a little heavy for you to wield, seem a little much and are surely overkill, but...

Still. You’re oddly drawn to them. One hand already reaching to test the sharpness of a bright, hornet-yellow one’s row of exposed teeth.

Time feels to slow as you study it. With you so distracted that you don’t even notice how Brian’s stopped his ever-incessant, clever commentary behind you; merely enjoying the merciful silence.

“What do you think?” you ask at last, unturning, as you mull the idea of you with a chainsaw inside your head. And it’s not a terrible image… “Too messy? Or…”

Silence, from your ever-yapping, homicidal mentor. And at last you glance back at where he stands, just behind you. His dark eyes, shadowed by dark lashes, trained to the blade-teeth you touch, yet as though he’s staring right through them.

As your expression grows inquisitive, he blinks, dragged from the seeming depths that leave him lost inside his own head.

“Hm?” he absently hums, like he hasn’t heard you.

Your interest curiously traces what little his expression ever betrays to you. “What?” you ask of his uncharacteristic silence, though he just impassively eyes you.

“What?” he returns; innocuous, mirroring you.

Your brows furrow up at that leaden mask he wears.

“Don’t what me,” you counter. “I saw you thinking about something. And if you don’t tell me what that is, you’ll swiftly learn how annoyingly persistent I can be when my bloodhound brain grabs scent of something.”

He regards you down the length of his strong nose. Seeming taller than he actually is, which is already imposing. Eventually carding back his hair; dark curls tangled in his fingers with his incensed glance away. “You really are a headache, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely I am. Now tell me.”

With mild exasperation, his dusky eyes return to you. Their grievance soon to fade in place of muted speculation. “I was just lost in memories. Private ones, I might add. Ones I’m guessing Dexter never told you.”

You’ve never seen him so… tentative. Not even in this miniscule amount. And your confusion, just like your interest, slowly rises. “What are you talking about?”

He eyes you a moment more. Unreadable. “I’m talking about our mother, Detective Nosey,” he says. Gaze assessing yours, as if searching for something there, weighing if he should tell you. And you’re not sure what he looks for, if he finds it, though eventually he continues.

“She was butchered with a chainsaw,” he says at last, far too casually. Reaching past you to drag one lengthy finger along that chainsaw’s serrated edge in the absence of your touch. His eyes gaining that faraway look again. “Right in front of us, when Dex was three and I was four. Dismembered limb by limb, as that engine echoed off the walls, along with her begging us not to look, to close our little eyes, and we were left in the mess of it. The blood of three addicts and our mother–two inches thick by the time that engine finally stopped.” 

His finger slowly drags down the jagged length of the blade, while you listen on in growing horror. 

“They didn’t find us huddled in that blood-damp, hellish dark for two days, and by then the only reason I cared was in protecting my brother.” He exhales a little laugh with zero humor to it. “Apparently that’s all anyone cared about. ‘Cause he was adopted by the first cop on scene, and I–decidedly–was not.”

His dark gaze turns to you, and you cannot comprehend what lie beyond its blackish surface.

“So, to answer your question,” he says, so nonchalant in your speechless shock from responding, “It’s not a bad choice. Though certainly messy.”

You can’t seem to think. The story he’s spun sinking a weight in you, dragging your stomach right through the floor. Left with not knowing what to say, blown away as you are by the cruelty held within such an offhand confession.

“Brian, I'm…”

Your tone is raw. Quiet. And he smiles at you unhappily; hand falling loosely to his side, away from the blade that dismembered his mother.

“Don’t,” he cuts you off bluntly. “What’s done is done. Pitied apologies never help.”

“I know they don't,” you counter, voice stricken, and you swallow with the effort to make it more firm. “But that's… That's fucked, Brian. And… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that happened to you.”

For a moment, he merely eyes you. Every line of his handsome face meticulously sculpted in place, held perfectly still.

“Are you expecting me to thank you for that?” he wonders at last.

You hate how vulnerable you feel, when he’s the one confessing something so traumatic that it surely formed him. His and Dex’s extracurricular pastimes sure make a lot more sense now.

“No,” you say, feeling stupid, feeling childish, that you’re so unwound by such a ruthless tale while he clearly is not. And maybe you should just let it go, should just stop talking, but you can’t. “I just had to say it.” You meet his watchful gaze, your jawline hardening. “And if I could kill the fucks who did that to your mother, I would. I’d hunt each one of them down. And I know I’m not the one who should make them pay whatever price for what was done, but I’d still make them pay it.”

Some part of you’s already planning how you might, how you could–if they’re even still alive, or if indeed there was more than one person involved–it doesn’t matter, you’d kill them all, assuming Brian hasn’t already. Almost tempted to ask if he has, all while Brian just observes you in a silence which draws on. Something beyond the indecipherable veil of him fixed on you, keen at your edges, as if gauging your scent; toying the curious touch of his attention across your unseen depths.

Eventually, he subtly smiles, and you cannot comprehend that smallest stir half-buried within his gaze.

“C’mon,” he says, taking your waist again; hand warm and smooth across your lower back and he steers you further down the aisle. “We’ll save the chainsaw for next time. I’ve something more easily controlled in mind for a first-timer like yourself. And if you don’t like that, you’ll at least appreciate what we’re grabbing at our next stop.”

And surely you’d halt if he wasn’t more-or-less forcibly guiding you forward.

Next stop…? 

This nightmare date isn’t over yet?

Your arguments that there won’t be a ‘next time’ where you’ll be swinging around a chainsaw are effectively snuffed by the way his knuckles idly trace up the length of your spine as you walk together. The contact light, yet utterly fatal in regards to your ability to think in anything more than jumbled sounds that resemble language. And as he gauges a few items as you pass, he lightly ‘ ah ’s’ whilst nabbing a box one-handed; tossing it carelessly into the cart atop your already mountainous treasure trove of murderous hardware.

You glance from that box to him, already questioning, “A reciprocating saw?”

“A Moser favorite,” he says, roguish. “Electric. No outlet required. Perfect for when working remotely.” And yeah, it’s pretty obvious he’s done just that before.

He guides you toward the checkout counter up front before releasing you from the seeming hypnotism of his touch. Smiling at the college-aged girl ringing up your vast array of items, and let me tell you, your stomach shrinks upon seeing all that gear laid out in front of you, like a line-up of your potential crimes laid bare. Your insides cinching tighter with every item slowly rolling down that sluggish conveyer belt as he lays them all blasély upon it, like it moves that slow just to mock you, to shame you.

Pliers, hammers, a hacksaw. The sledge hammer you saw him throw in. Some sort of hose, a nail gun, a hatchet, a multitude of various saws and drills. Tarps, of course, and some kind of large metal clamp (what is that for?), a dremel, bolt cutters, the belt sander (you regret picking that out now), a motherfucking chain? A chain? What, are you beating this guy to death with a chain now?

It’s like a loony toon assortment of bullshit, only missing an anvil, that you’re sure will get flagged if the body is ever found hacked into a million pieces by every piece of hardware known to man. ‘Cause, oh, how convenient–someone purchased a million kill tools the night before the mysterious thousand-tool killer took someone out, and that person’s definitely been recorded on the store’s many security cameras.

You should’ve worn a disguise. You’re such an idiot.

By maybe the tenth item, the cashier seems to think this purchase is becoming somewhat odd. Go figure. And she eyes each item that she scans whilst stealing more and more weirded out glances at Brian and you. Which probably isn't a good thing.

You try to squeeze yourself out of existence behind Brian’s towering form. Let him take the fall for this.

Meanwhile, Brian flashes her his most charming grin. 

“We’re taking up woodworking,” he says, without a care in the world. “Gotta make sure we have all the right tools of the trade.” His dark gaze lowly glimmers. “What do you think? Did we get them all?”

It’s the lamest excuse, and yet the girl’s cheeks visibly warm and she giggles at whatever look he must be giving her.

The following conversation is perhaps the most shameless and painful thing you’ve ever had to stand there and witness; a form of torture in itself, when it’s supposedly you who was to do the torturing.

“Y-yeah,” says the girl, scanning a bit more absently. It takes her five swipes to get a claw hammer with a giant and completely obvious barcode to register, what with how her eyes are glued on the ‘date’ you’re hiding behind. “What kind of woodworking do you do?”

“Mostly construction, but I dabble in the arts. Walnut and pine sculptures, that sort of thing.”

“Oh really?”

“Really.”

“That sounds hard…”

“You just have to know what you’re doing~”

“You must be good with your hands, then.”

“Oh, I’m good with lots of things.”

“O-oh, like… like what? For, um, example?”

“I could offer a demonstration… You’d have to come out from behind that counter, first, though...”

She titters again and you think a vein on your brow might be close to bursting, though admittedly you’re not exactly sure why–her laugh must be annoying. Luckily that’s when he swipes his card for the outrageous bill–the front of which you note bears a name that’s not his, so as far as covering your tracks goes there’s at least that.

You lug what feels a million heavy bags into the cart whilst patiently smiling (grimacing) at your flirtatious construction partner.

“C’mon, David ,” you read the name on his card, already pushing the filled-up cart to go. But not before seeing him toss the flustered cashier a little wink before following after you.

Ugh. 

Gross. 

You’re storming out of the store, out into the parking lot as the cart wheels rattle before your way. Barreling forth in no particular direction and for no particular reason other than what you just witnessed inexplicably making you sick, when Brian’s hand suddenly latches around your wrist, arresting you solidly in place, jerking you gruffly to a halt right before the speeding blur of a giant, blue truck flies past the front of your cart by maybe an inch; the speed of it whipping wind against your startled face.

Frazzled, you merely stand there while your racing heart tries to escape your chest. Blinking far too quickly, before twisting your gaze back to Brian. Undoubtedly relieved by how he just saved you from slamming into a car–seriously, he just saved you? Yet even then, you force annoyance to your tone; perhaps to hide your embarrassment at just how irredeemably unfocused you really are right now.

“What?” you ask him sharply.

His eyes trace your face. Seem to note how your molars are grinding. And as you glower, he slowly starts to smirk.

Gods, you hate him.

“You’re walking in the wrong direction,” he says.

Which maybe you were, though you find you’re not fond of him correcting you right now. “Where am I supposed to be walking?”

He nods toward a little red car parked off in the distance through the lot. Pristinely polished. Expensive looking. “That one’s mine.”

“Of course it is,” you nearly roll your eyes at him. Twisting your wrist from his grasp in heaving the heavy cart forward again–after glancing both ways in ensuring you aren’t about to be flattened by a truck, this time. 

“You know,” you grouse as he walks right beside you, “you didn’t have to make sure that cashier’s still daydreaming about you tonight, considering the actual boat-load of homicidal gear we’re carrying.” And seriously, he didn’t have to lay it on so thick. “There’s no way she won’t remember you after that performance.” 

He keeps up with you so easily despite how desperate you are to outpace him, until eventually you just give up and push the cart at a normal pace. 

“As distracting as you awkwardly standing there was, I thought I’d better step in,” he says. “I was worried you might blurt out some sort of confession for a crime you haven’t yet committed under the scrutiny of her tiny-minded gaze.”

You feel yourself scowling. “I’m not an idiot.”

His soft lips purse like he somehow doubts that. Though all he says is, “Would you rather I have just let her keep forming ideas about everything she was ringing up amidst your incriminating, nerve-bitten silence?”

You bite your lip. Finally reaching his expensive car. “I guess not,” you admit.

He smiles down at you as you do your best to ignore him. “Good. Then stop being jealous.”

Your brows cinch hard at that, with you tearing your gaze directly toward him. Scoffing immediately, “Jealous of what? ”

With the way he scarcely seems to register your overt revulsion at the prospect, you wouldn't be surprised if nothing in life ever bothered him.

“Of me flirting with our cashier,” he says. Fetching from his pants pocket the keys to his flashy car, which chirps before you as its doors are unlocked, its small trunk automatically popped open.  

You take the opportunity to distract yourself by cramming bags into the trunk as though doing so were a timed olympic sport.

“You’re so full of yourself,” you say over the sound of shifting plastic bags, the thud of metal on car-trunk floor. “I barely even know you. If anything I was trying not to cringe out of existence hearing how shameless you are.”

You’re unprepared entirely for how he takes your waist from behind in both his hands; spins you around without warning. Nudging the backs of your wavering knees against the bumper of the car while he smoothly steps in, cornering you there, with little room left between your body and his.

He smirks at whatever your floored expression, trapped beneath the looming of his. Leaning down to your ear, pouring wicked words inside it.

“So what if I’m shameless?” he asks, amusement curled through his inflection.

When his lips just barely graze your ear, purely accidental, it's like a basilisk's spiked you with venom. Turning all of you to stone, your lungs helplessly forgetting to function.

“Don't be jealous,” he murmurs. “As delightful as that is, I’ll spare you the torment. You need to be focused, my woefully inept student. And besides…” he sounds to smile, “she’s not my type.”

He leaves you there just as suddenly as he’d pinned you. So effortlessly snatching away your ability to speak, as he turns instead to filling up the trunk you’re still teetering weak-kneed against. Left with the realization that his dark, graveled voice is as much a weapon as any in his arsenal of toys.

You’re still reeling as he pauses loading to instead open the passenger-side door for you; the sound of it drawing your flustered attention. Looking at you expectantly as you just stand there, trying to dislodge your heart from where it’s leapt into your throat.

“I’ll load the rest,” he says, careless as ever. “Get in.”

But you still won’t move. By choice, this time, not due to his unwanted effect on you. Warily glancing from opened door, to him; the leashless animal offering it for you. 

“I have my own car.”

“I told you, we’re not done shopping,” he lightly puts forth. “And it’s easier if we drive together.”

But you can’t shake how that seems like a really bad idea. Being alone with him. But what are you supposed to do? If he finds you too difficult to deal with, he might rescind his help from off the table, and you are partners in crime for the foreseeable future… 

Perhaps most convincing of all, in the end–what has you finally ungluing your apprehensive feet from off the asphalt–is the comforting weight of your gun, still strapped at one hip.

He can pry that from your cold dead fingers should he ever mean to take it from you.

Masking your hesitance, you drag yourself from where he’d pinned you against his fancy red car toward the seat he now offers. Cautiously watching that little smirk of his that spells trouble in half a million ways as he graciously closes the door after you, with you running one hand across the cool steel of your firearm the second the car door blocks it from his vision.

Gods, what are you doing? Getting in a car with the Ice Truck Killer?

You shake yourself–no– no –you can’t keep questioning everything. He’s Dexter’s brother–you’re fine. You’re doing what needs to be done–what you have to.

You tell yourself this, yet still nearly jump out of your skin as the driver’s side door is eventually opened, with Brian sliding right in.

“Hope you don’t mind a little breaking and entering,” he says whilst revving the car, shifting it into gear. 

Perhaps you’re too distracted to outright ask what that fucking means. “I think as far as potential crimes go, I’m a bit past a misdemeanor.”

“Wonderful,” he returns, with all the charm of a murderous Disney prince. And it’s clear Brian Moser’s a bad influence on anyone and everything trapped within the incessant pull of his orbit. 

No wonder Dexter drove him away. He’s too much of a risk.

And now he’s back, helping you –Christ, maybe this whole thing really is a terrible idea. And again, a war’s waged within you; one that results like it always does, in you reminding yourself for the hundredth time not to bite the dangerous hand that offers to help you. 

The song Brian flips on the radio is about as cheerfully opposite a song can be from someone who bleeds their victims like cattle. And as he pulls out of the hardware store’s lot, you glance back toward the trunk of the car; envisioning the cartoonish haul of bloodshed tucked away inside it.

“Are you sure we need to grab anything else?” you ask, with a glance at him. Which you immediately regret, because his rugged profile is…

Goddammit, why does he have to be hot? 

You tuck your traitorous gaze toward the window, staring at the world rushing by outside it. Spared for a moment from whatever this offensively attractive man does to you by merely existing.

“I could likely make due with what we have,” he says to the road; thankfully otherwise ignorant of you. “But I’m not going to. Our current haul’s for you, my impromptu protégé. This next trip’s for me, though you’re welcome to play with what we’ll grab there. I need tools to dispose of the body, à la Dexter’s requested style.” He tosses you a look, one brow quirked as if to dare you. “Unless you’d like to fetch me my old ones out of wherever you stashed them away in evidence for me…?”

Which– no– you would not. There’s too much risk involved in digging through the many boxes of the Ice Truck Killer’s things, even when you don’t know what else he has planned instead, where he’ll otherwise take you. 

“Would the barbies we confiscated be part of the required hardware you’d need me to steal?” you taunt instead of answering.

He simply exhales a small hum of amusement at that. Eyes on the road as a faint smile toys his lips. And in the end you suppose that playing with dolls isn’t really the strangest thing about him.

“Can’t we just see what Dexter has at his apartment?” you ask, assuming that’s not where he’s already headed. “I’m sure he has the right tools laying around somewhere.”

And it seems, in the maze of his mind, something’s chewed before being left unsaid.

“This’ll be a whole lot simpler if you just learn to stop questioning me right now, instead of making me steamroll your objections over and over again like you have been,” he says. Glancing away from the road; challenging you with a look. “I know what I’m doing. Unlike all others present.”

And though you fold your arms against him, you don’t otherwise protest. He’s not wrong, after all.

It isn’t until the pair of you near a mountainous scatter of buildings, erected high with white stone and sea-hued windows, that you realize the next destination of your homicidal ‘date’ is Miami’s Jackson Memorial Hospital–how romantic. Which you don’t really have an opinion on, until shortly remembering, like a kick to the gut, that he intends to steal god only knows from its highly secured, extensively monitored halls.

Your limbs are all stiffened with nerves as you turn to him while he breezes in through the hospital’s lot, one hand on the wheel whilst carelessly searching for a vacant place to park.

“We’re breaking into a hospital?!”

“We’re walking into a hospital,” he returns, smooth as sin. Though his merriment’s short-lived as he looks at you; dark eyebrows squinching up at whatever your expression. “Stop looking so paranoid.”

“I am paranoid,” you shoot right back at him; like it’s impossible that he doesn’t feel the same. “There’s a lot of security here, way more than some random hardware store. And although your little–” somewhat erratically, you gesture at his entire person, sitting there with one brow raised in watching you, “– disguise –is okay, it’s not that okay when there’s an ongoing manhunt for you by the fucking FBI–! ”

After weaving his car effortlessly into a spot, he watches you for a moment. Though when he should be slowly nodding in agreement, instead his lax expression falls unenthusiastically dull.

“You’re overthinking this.”

“You’re under thinking it!”

“Just follow my lead,” he more or less commands his ‘protégé’. Already stepping out of the car. Standing just outside it, for dragging moments; door remaining ajar, with only his long legs and dexterous hands in view. Before eventually he dips his height in glancing in at you as you stare across the middle console staunchly, refusing to get out.

“The longer you sit there pouting, the longer this will take,” he patiently says.

“I’m not pouting,” you argue, though you’re already riled enough into stepping gruffly out of the car. Unbuckling your belt as you do; stripping your holster off its length, before hiding your gun on your person; tucked away at the small of your back. All before making your way to the front of the car alongside where Brian waits for you. “I’m trying to make sure we don’t get caught.”

“Let me worry about that part,” he says; smiling as you unwillingly fall in step with him as he leads you toward that high-reaching tower in the distance, its glass shimmering like azure gems in the afternoon light. “Just focus on playing your part. We’re headed to an appointment. You, my timid, bumbling girlfriend, and I your dauntless, dashing prince.”

“I think you’re closer to a homicidal imp on my shoulder.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” 

The closer the two of you draw to the hospital’s broad and bustling entrance, the more cameras you begin to spot at the corners of your vision. Hidden lenses high on light beams, tucked near the corners of what seems like every wall. This place doesn’t take its security as a joke, and more and more it feels your panic forms a fist within your stomach, its fingers slowly tightening.

“Look…” you hear yourself saying, as offhanded as you can muster in that moment. Trying not to sound like you’re panicking, which you are, more and more with each step ventured forward. “I appreciate you helping me in whatever morally questionable way this is, but…”

Uncomfortably distracted, your words cut short as you spot through the crowd an overweight security guard, meandering just outside the hospital’s doors. A guard who glances at you and Brian, pausing just a moment, before idling slowly on.

You don’t know when you stopped walking, but by the time you tear your eyes away from the potential threat of him, Brian’s no longer beside you. It’s like you’ve only blinked, and he’s gone.

For some reason that’s even worse than having him near you.

“Brian…?”

Shit– should you even say his name out loud…? It’s a common enough name, and you two didn’t discuss using aliases, but–

What if someone puts two and two together upon spotting you and him? Hearing you say his name? Internally prying the longer hair and dark scruff off him, leaving only Brian fucking Moser behind?

Airway feeling tight, you scan the loose crowd of people before you until catching sight of Brian’s dark, wavy curls looming over everyone else's heads, and for once you’re glad he’s so freakishly tall. But as you spring forth to catch him, your steps start to drag once more, as the closer you draw toward those impending hospital doors the more it feels the world shifts out beneath you, and…

You can’t really think… You can’t breathe, you…

Are you having a panic attack…?

Are you seriously having a panic attack right now…?!

“...Bri… David…?!” 

You say it like you may otherwise drown, like he’s your lifeline, but there’s no way he hears you from his place so far ahead, even in such a thin crowd. And you need to just breathe, you’re overreacting–need to rein in your tenuous gaze from how it darts from lens to lens of every security camera, as if they’re all watching you, piecing together the company you keep.

“This isn’t… This isn’t a good…”

You’ve started backing up, now. Still staring at those hospital doors that loom before you, all while your heart slams into your ribs.

“–Brian–?!”

All at once, a large hand wraps around yours, leaving you no time to react as you’re brusquely swept aside before you can call after him a second time. And you choke out a little noise of surprise upon seeing Brian there, expressionless, dragging you toward a less crowded side of the hospital’s entrance.

He hauls you toward a small, manicured cluster of flowers and small palms, before steadying you within what seems a disapproving gaze, which certainly doesn’t make you feel any less like a panicking idiot.

“You’re entirely hopeless at this.”

You bite your lip to keep from biting something out more spiteful at him; still struggling to breathe. “You think I don’t know that?!”

At your heightened tone, he steals a glance at the foot traffic beside you before ushering you a little further away, further into the quiet. His hand grasping yours sliding slowly up the length of your arm, finding purchase near the crook of your neck.

It’s an oddly comforting motion, and you find yourself helpless but to peer up into the stillness of his eyes.

“Calm down,” he says, slowly, like he doesn’t fully comprehend why you’re so anxious. Like he’s never felt the dragging claws of nerves in his life. And though you’d normally expect him to mock you for falling apart like a moron, as you undeniably are right now, he at least seems genuine in talking you down. That, or you really are just that desperate to believe it. 

“Take a breath.” His thumb draws a single line just below your clavicle, whilst you struggle to do as he says. 

And, oh, lovely; here comes that mocking part you were so worried about, accompanied by him hiking a none-too-subtle brow at you:

“Not to make a tense situation worse, but if you’re this much of a mess just strolling into a hospital, exactly how are you expecting to follow through with your plans tonight?” But that’s not all. “And how do you work in homicide, for that matter? Aren't detectives used to working under pressure? Or did you blackmail your way into getting what you want there, too…?”

You’re not sure if you're wincing, bracing for the impact of his words.

…Is that it…?

…

That’s it.

For now, at least.

And you find yourself scowling. Hurt, which is of course ridiculous; you don't care what this bastard thinks. Though as you try to upsetly twist away, he only tightens his grip in response, keeping you captive before him.

Your scowl deepens before you’ve given up. He’s a lot stronger than you, and the last thing you need right now is to cause any more of a scene by punching him in the throat.

“I… Look, this… This is just… A lot,” you weakly defend. Warbling. You hate yourself. Feeling even more small than you already do with the way he’s always towering over you, and so you look away, pretending he isn’t currently holding you hostage. “Everything. Tonight. You, especially, I…” Struggling, you shake yourself. Frowning at the ground. At the sturdiness of his lithely muscled chest. “All of it. All Dexter’s and my week’s of planning. It’s all coming to a head so much quicker than I realized it would, and there’s already so many loose ends, nothing is as foolproof as I wanted it to be, and…” 

Breathe.

Again, you struggle to shake yourself. To keep your voice lowered and calm.

“I can’t… I can’t fuck this up,” you allege at last. Willing yourself to sound firm in this. “I feel like I fuck up so much, but I can’t mess up right now–not with this. There’s too much on the line, and not just for me. I can’t… My sister, I can’t…”

You don’t even know what you’re saying, not any longer. Fail even to realize you’ve stopped talking at all, until Brian’s thumb smooths along the skin exposed just above your neckline.

Your eyes, as if with minds of their own, are suddenly trapped in the hanging darkness of his. And you cannot for the life of you read his watchful expression.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he asks you quietly. 

After moments more of wavering beneath him, you slowly grit your jaw.

“I told you we had a deal, didn’t I?”

His hushed gaze passes across yours. “You did…”

“And what was your end of it?” you ask him–quiet enough to escape other’s attention, yet honed with accusation. “That if I changed my mind, you’d sit there and laugh at whatever that rotten bastard twice my size wants to do to me?”

He doesn’t respond. Merely watches, without denying, and doesn’t stop you as you finally succeed in shoving his hand away from you.

“I’m fine,” you allege; willing it with all your mustered strength to be true. “Sorry to disappoint you.” And with that, you’re already walking out from under the looming shadow of him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The hospital’s lobby is a bright, massive dome poured through with natural light, filled by the bustle of so many people. Patients, doctors, nurses, social workers… Security guards…

You catch sight of the portly guard you spotted outside, now lazily surveying the trailing crowd of people who surround you in the lobby. Your footsteps halting upon once again spotting him, hands wringing helplessly at your sides, until you nearly chirp out some sort of half-choked shriek to have Brian abruptly swoop in, scooping your hand in his. Entwining his long fingers with yours like a lover in leading you forth before you can nervously dawdle there a second longer, deeper into the sunlit bowels of this place.

“Relax,” he says; guiding you toward a little gift shop. To a small, vacant table just outside the sandwich café that’s attached at its side. And as he pulls from it one of its metal chairs, ushering for you to sit, you obey only out of confusion whilst your mouth peters open to object.

“What are we doing?”

“Stay here,” he says, as gradually you bristle against how he watches you.

“You dragged me in here just to ditch me?”

He looks away. Barely paying you any mind as instead his interest travels across your surroundings. Seeming to take note of everyone and everything that passes through his vision.

“Would you believe me if I said I’m trying to protect you?” he asks at last, with barely a glance.

You stare up at him as he continues to ignore you. Not knowing what to say to that. Not sure if you believe him.

In the end, it doesn’t matter whether he’s genuine or not.

“I don’t need protecting,” you mutter at length. 

He’s studious as his gaze returns to yours beneath him. Weighing something unsaid behind the veil that leaves him such a mystery, before eventually offering you his graceful hand.

One corner of his lips hints up at how surprised you apparently look to have so easily convinced him.

“As the lady insists,” he says, quite simply. His hand remaining offered. “Off to our appointment, then, my love.” 

Even then, when he’s agreeing with you, you find you hesitate before actually accepting his help. Something just feels off about him, always – in some way hidden, with almost everything he does or says. But you have a part to play in whatever his plan in this hospital. The part of his girlfriend, so you take his hand like a girlfriend would and allow him to whisk you to your feet, his pianist’s fingers intertwining again with yours as he leads you through the lobby. Toward a broad, offshooting sunlit hall.

Down one hall, and then another, with your grip squeezing more and more tightly with every step he leads you toward some unknown end; one that might see you both arrested.

“Are you trying to make my fingers go numb?” he finally asks you, and you belatedly realize just how dry your mouth is, how tight you’re squeezing. Struggling to swallow just so you can speak.

“Where are we going?”

He slows a step in glancing at a directory on the wall, before ushering you down another hallway, and at this point if you were asked to escape this maze on your own you’d be too lost to succeed. 

“You’ll see.”

“Or you could just tell me.”

“That’d spoil the surprise. Besides, what did I tell you about constantly questioning me?”

Something changes in his gait, just a hitch, but it’s enough for you to follow his pensive eyes toward a man at the end of the hall; a man who is swiftly approaching. Wearing teal scrubs and surgical booties, and it’s clear he’s in some sort of hurry.

“Speaking of not questioning me…” Brian muses, eyes on the man and his brisk approach. “I promise I’ll make this up to you–”

“Make what up to me?” you already question beneath how he hasn’t stopped talking–

“–but in the meantime just try and trust me with this next part, won’t you darling?–”

And you definitely don’t trust him, that’s maybe the last thing that comes to mind when you think of him, but you don’t have a chance to say that before Brian abruptly pivots the both of you toward the bend of an offshooting hall; effectively slamming the two of you into the man rushing toward you.

The man grunts out in startlement as you choke back a cry of surprise–the brunt of impact tearing your hand from Brian’s, sending you careening to the floor. But before the tile floor can harshly catch you, Brian’s snaked his lengthy arm around your waist; scooping you up against his side again, like a small, baby bird beneath his wing. Coddling you there as though you’re hurt, as though you’re fragile; turning your harried face up to his with a gentle hand steering your cheek while he asks, with such a visage of worry, “Babe, are you alright?”

You blink up at him stupidly. So surprised to see such a convincing show of emotion you still somehow find hard to believe.

Brian searches your expression as though for wounds he might mend, before tossing a vindictive gaze at the frazzled man before you. “What the fuck was that?!”

He’s pissed. You’ve never seen him so irate. And the man in scrubs blinks just as stupidly as you do. His confusion transformed to concern, then shortly shifting till he’s tight and defensive. 

He doesn’t say a thing. Biting back, you soon guess, on arguing with a supposed patient.

“You need to watch where you’re going,” Brian again berates him, and the man at last succeeds in swallowing what seems his objections. 

“‘m… Sorry,” he puts forth gruffly. Like he’s too impatient to mean it; raring to hurry off again. 

Brian’s harsh expression eases just a touch whilst his hand around your waist gives your side a little squeeze, and you can’t deny you don’t exactly mind being this close to him…

“You know what,” he extends at length, exhaling a tautened breath. “...This place is pure chaos. I think we might’ve turned right into you–I’m sorry, man. It’s been a hell of a day.”

The man’s expression loosens somewhat in relief as Brian turns in gently assessing you. “You’re not hurt, are you babe?”

Gods, you hate whatever ingratiating, carebear-tone he’s using. But you roughly swallow down distaste before forcing out flatly, “I’m fine.” Very much hating whatever this supposed plan of his is.

There’s a glisten in his gaze, just for you; lost before he looks to the scrubbed-up man before you again. “You good man?”

The man nods, “Yeah,” clearly in a hurry to see this awkward situation end. And Brian, ever courteous, sweetly sends him on his way.

“Well…” he says, with a smile a touch too clever, his tone a touch too cloy. “Off you go, then~” 

The man’s jaw stiffens, though he doesn’t argue what sarcasm bleeds through Brian’s otherwise kind dismissal. Just biting it all back before bustling off again, weaving his way past the both of you, hurrying once again down the hall.

You glance back over your shoulder, watching and waiting for him to turn out of sight, before raising a glare up at your supposed prince charming. “What the hell, Brian? That hurt. ”

The curve on his lips is devilish. As, with the theatrical flair of a seedy magician, he presents to you a keycard with the scrubbed man’s picture on it.

“Borrowed this from our friend,” he says mischievously.

You kind of want to laugh at how proud he seems about that, but you stuff that down along with how you might be somewhat impressed with how quickly he was able to nab that while also catching you before you hit the ground.

“After throwing me into him,” you grouse instead of applauding him. “Like a human smoke grenade.”

He smiles at your pouting, not even denying it. Cooing in that fake boyfriend voice, “Baby, I said I’d make it up to you.” Regarding you with all the playful craft of the devil himself as you wriggle and twist out from how his arm’s snaked warmly around your middle, creating some much needed distance between yourself and him. 

“You’re the worst boyfriend I’ve ever had,” you sourly comment, to which he charmingly grins. Taking your hand again before you can stop him, steering you closer once more; your naval beneath his own, such is the height of him.

“Oh… Baby…” he croons, like he feels so bad for you. Smiling so dark and sticky and sweet down at whatever your flustered face is doing beneath his. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Our date’s barely begun, and I’m only going to get so much worse.”

Releasing you from the near-fatal enchantment of his grip, he wanders further down the hall without you. Tossing back a little look across one broad shoulder as you just stupidly stand there, too frazzled to move. Hiking a brow expectantly.

“Better hurry up,” he spurs you. “Wouldn’t want our scrubbed-up friend to find you here after realizing his keycard’s walked off all by itself, now would you?”

It’s enough to prompt your reluctance into moving. As, no, you certainly don’t want a stolen keycard being found in either of your possessions.

The further Brian leads you through the hospital’s inner catacombs, the less natural light there is, until there’s no light at all beyond the buzz of fluorescence overhead, washing out everything until your world is stale and lifeless. And as more and more employees brush by, all wearing surgical scrubs, the more querying glances you receive as you’re passing by. Yet still, no one stops you. No one questions beyond a glance. Something about Brian’s confidence stopping them. So it would seem you’re still allowed here.

That is, until you reach a set of heavy, double doors hewn of metal, slotted with miniscule square windows. A dead end, at which Brian flashes his stolen keycard without a moment’s hesitance; completely second nature to breaking in. Holding it flat against the little black box of the doorway��s electronic lock, which beeps and flashes green before those heavy doors drag silently, automatically open.

Stepping through them after Brian, who steals carelessly in, your nerves are met with a wave of cold air as you wrap your arms around yourself to keep from shivering. Trying not to look as apprehensive as you feel, to be inconspicuous. All while Brian skates down these sterile halls like a lizard on ice. Like to pretend is a familiar second skin, perhaps even more familiar than donning the suit of himself. 

He nods you toward a drinking fountain near a pair of wooden doors; one on either side of it. Pausing in ushering you near.

“Now, listen, my lovely pupil,” he says; a flute-playing charmer to his spiteful, sharp-fanged snake. “I doubt our friend has access to the women’s dressing room.” His voice falls to a low, gentle murmur as some type of surgeon walks by, though it doesn’t stop him from continuing. “And loathe as I am to leave you fidgeting in the hallway by yourself, potential mishap that you are, I need to fetch us our costumes.”

Your gaze darts nervously about. “Is all this really necessary?”

There’s no way this is necessary.

His eyes are on the passing surgeon’s back as he gently takes your upper arm, guiding you into that little crook within the wall which houses the doors and fountain, before he steals a glance about yourselves ensuring you’re alone.

“All these questions,” he lours, his deliberation back on you. “Sit. Stay. I’ll be right back–try not to miss me too much.”

You’re left to insipidly grumble, “Wouldn’t dream of it,” as he leaves to scan his keycard at the door for the men’s dressing room. Though he twists a clever grin across one shoulder before he departs.

“Oh, I think you might.”

You don’t have time to bite back with something witty before he’s gone, and he’s gone for much longer than you expected or are at all comfortable with, preferring to’ve never been dragged in and ditched here at all. Left with pretending to get a drink every time someone busily passes so they can’t see how out of place you probably look. Unable to come up with any clever reason for why you should be here, in what you guess is the OR. If anyone asked what you’re doing, if you work here, you’d have no way to prove whatever lie you’d spin that you do.

You’re about halfway convinced to just ditch this handsome fuck to whatever devilry he’s up to while you instead hide in the car, when the door he passed through is suddenly opened, and with a sharp glance at the sound of it beside you, you almost don’t recognize him.

He’s wearing cerulean surgical scrubs, which billow yet somehow accentuate his tall, leanly muscled frame. Sky-hued booties are tugged over his overly expensive shoes. A laptop-sized black bag beneath one arm, which you assume was thefted from some poor someone in the dressing room, the bulk of it stowed with something. And you can’t help but stare as he ties on the blue surgical cap around his messy web of curls, the jawline-lengths of which stick out at mussied angles. Because it's kinda dorky, but also kinda…

Cute. 

Okay? 

He’s fucking adorable right now. 

And you stuff away your thoughts on this disastrous fact as you can’t help but gobble down an unhealthy eyeful of him, before staring at the wall as though its blank canvas is the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen.

He seems to take a moment to remember you’re even there. Though eventually he’s raised a brow at whatever your face is doing. 

Luckily, he doesn't further question whatever your discomfited expression.

“C’mon,” he says, leading your way down the hall. “Need to find you a place to get dressed.”

A small frown tightens your lips before you’re hurrying after him. “Why can’t I get dressed in the bathroom?”

“They’re attached to the dressing rooms,” he explains as you bustle to reach him. “I’m afraid we’ll have to get a bit more creative than that.”

Great.

Wandering through those chilled, barren halls, you try not to steal too many glances through the tiny windows of each operating room you pass, not wanting to look any more like a tourist. Morbid curiosity having you catch a few glimpse of surgical teams surrounding unconscious patients; short tapestries of teal and white and red.

Brian tries his keycard at a door opposite the rows of operating rooms, which flashes red, before he’s fluidly moved on to the next, which lightly beeps as he’s allowed entrance.

He sidles in just a step; gazing up, glancing down. And as you shift forth alongside him, you see a poorly lit stairway that seems a constructional afterthought. Quiet, empty, cavernous.

With a satisfied hum, Brian gives a small nod in motioning you follow him in. Leading your way down the stairs to a small, center platform. Both your footsteps echoing for many flights up and down this towering room, and the door feels to slam behind you with how hushed it is in here. And though you’re not exactly enthused at the idea of getting undressed in here, you suppose it's better than nothing, and does seem relatively unused.

Brian’s already shuffling through his leather bag as you meet him on the center platform, and he’s shortly offering you a pile of pilfered clothes the same color as his.

“Scrub up, doctor,” he says, with a playful lilt. “We’re expected in surgery.”

Though as you take the costume he presents, waiting for him to look away so you can do just that, you find he doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn from how you slowly, cynically eye him by even an inch. Appearing more expectant with every second, perhaps just as expectant as you, though clearly you’re expecting different things.

“Are you going to turn around?” you finally ask him.

His smirk’s so slight you barely notice it teased upon the softness of his lips. 

“What,” he says, like he’s harmless. “I’m surveying the scene. Making sure no one stumbles across you with your pants down. You’d probably tangle them ‘round your ankles and fall right on your face if that happened.” His handsome face dons a mockery of concern. “I’m protecting you.”

Heat rises up your cheeks. “Go survey the scene somewhere else!”

You’re both at once distracted by the sound of a door opening high above you, both your gazes jerking up as it sounds to creak open, then heavily shut. Echoing about these vacant halls without anyone actually sounding to step in. And after moments of you both still and silent, tautly listening in ensuring you’re still alone, Brian finally looks back down at you.

“Relax, will you?” he states. Grabbing the loopholes of your jeans; tugging you just a step closer as your eyes grow all wavery and big. 

Words are honey on his tongue as he asks, “If I turn around will you stop being such a baby about this?”

You bite your lip, hard, before grousing up at him, “Let go of me before I pull my gun.”

It might’ve been a joke, if you didn’t sound so serious. And though you’re not sure how a gunshot going off at Jackson Memorial is the best way to continue laying low, you could scrounge together some story of how you followed someone you suspected might be the Ice Truck Killer into this very stairwell, if you had to. Of how you had to kill that certain someone in defending yourself.

His expression doesn’t change as he seems to weigh your words, the possibility within them. The merest glint, like sun on black ice, reflected from the recesses of his ebony gaze.

“So touchy,” he slowly remarks, before eventually releasing you. Finally turning away; broad shoulders and slender waist facing the wall opposite you. “Hurry up.” And you take full advantage of the absence of his dangerous gaze to change your clothes as quickly as you can–shedding your pants down hasty legs, wriggling into the lower half of your scrubs and tying them round your waist. 

It isn’t ‘till you have your top pulled up over your head, bra fully in view, that Brian speaks again.

“You need to learn to loosen up, detective,” he says to the empty space before him. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

“Don’t quote James Howell at me,” you say, tossing your discarded shirt on the dirty floor before slipping the teal one over your head. 

He sighs. “Can I do anything without you being a bitch about it?”

When he glances back at you, it’s lucky for him you’re fully dressed, seeing as otherwise you would have slapped him. And you despise how your cheeks start to burn as his dark eyes trace over you, slowly down your form, stirring unwanted heat in their wake. As slowly, slowly, they fall to the bulk of your gun, tucked awkwardly beneath the waistband of your pants.

Eventually, his eyes return to yours. Somewhat playful as he asks, “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

“The gun one,” you return without pause. “I’m not happy. Not to see you. Any more questions?”

He merely raises his brows like one might to an ill-behaved child. “You can’t bring that; it’s completely obvious you’re carrying. Someone will notice.” He offers his hand, nodding toward the clothes on the floor. “Give me your clothes,” he says softly. “And the gun.” He says it like an afterthought, but his eyes are intently on yours. “I’ll hold onto them for the time being.”

Yeah fucking right.

There’s no way you’re letting this wolf in sheep’s clothing disarm you.

“Not happening.”

His handsome smile transforms to something else. Something with less warmth reflected on it, though still genteel enough. “You're going to get us thrown into hospital prison,” he mildly jests, before adding more carefully, “Don’t make me take it from you…”

You're not even sure it’s a threat. It could just as easily be him joking. It’s impossible to tell with him, or with any beast who doesn’t bare its teeth before lunging.

You thumb up the hem of your shirt in snaking your fingers round your Glock’s grip. 

“How about I hold onto the gun,” you plainly suggest, “and you lead us the fuck on so we can get what we need and get out of here, hm?”

His gaze is a shadow. Something lurking in ice-carved trees, a prowling aura you cannot see through darkness. But eventually, that snow settles with the seeming warmth of his smile. The corners of his eyes gently creased.

“Can’t wait to see you on stage tonight,” he says. Giving you a courteous amount of distance as he’s smooth to brush right past how you warily watch him. Heading back up those steps toward the door you came in, taking them easily two at a time. “At this rate, you’re bound to give quite the performance.”

He lazily scans the keycard at the electronic lock pad near the door, which gains you access once more to the OR.

“After you, little killer,” he says; hands slipped nonchalantly in the pockets of his surgical pants as he leans back on the opened door in holding it open, carefully regarding you as you remain for a moment down the steps. 

His eyes never leave yours as you dip down to grab your clothes off the floor in stiff, wary hands. As you make your way slowly up after him, impatiently tucking away your hair within the sheer, blue hairnet he’d previously bequeathed you.

One lithesome hand is offered at your approach, to which you hand over your clothes, and you assume he stuffs them away inside his bag before following after you as you hurry out into the hall, anxious to have him too close at heel.

His prowling, lengthy steps easily catch up to you, and it’s clear you could never outrun him.

“This way,” he says, before leading you further down the hall. Mildly checking what lie past the windows of a few doors, while a surgeon and anesthesiologist pass making small talk. He pays them no mind, while you avert your gaze nervously, until at last he’s humming out a little, “Ah… Here we are.” Flashing his stolen card at a door which obediently chirps and pops open at his request, and he holds its way open for you.

“Ladies first,” he says, with the watchfulness of a wolf.

You wish you could grab your gun as you pass him, but you’ve made it this far without being caught, so you just swallow your never-ending nerves and hurry past him. Hearing his low, throated chuckle right behind you as he follows you in.

Even that drags its claws down your nape, leaving trickling trails of gooseflesh down your skin that tingle and tease until you haphazardly paw them off you.

You wander into some sort of sterile supply room; one with several operating rooms attached to it, divided off by heavy doors. Rows and rows of metal, rolling carts with shelving are laid out before you, along with white cabinets lining each wall.

Brian wanders in past how you stand there uncertainly like he owns the place. Like he’s been here before, though he hasn’t. Or, at least you don’t think he has. It’s impossible to tell with him; he's a night-drenched enigma.

He tugs open one metal drawer, which rolls fluidly forth, before he’s swiftly closing and opening another.

“Tell me if you see any hardware,” he says as his eyes take quick inventory of everything he sees. “Saws, drills–that sort of thing.” Pausing just a blip to regard how you’re just standing there instead of obeying your murderous shepherd, instead wavering in place, not knowing what to do. “Go on,” he spurs, the patient teacher. “Get looking.”

You glance around the cold, fluorescent quiet, before questioning in a whisper, “What if someone comes in here?”

“What if someone comes in here?” he returns, rather dull. Already focused once more on the hunt. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but you look like a surgical tech. That was kind of the whole point. Just tell them you’re looking for saline flushes or a bag of dextrose or something.”

Saline flushes or dextrose?

…How many times has he done this before?

Cautiously, you get to searching, seeing no quicker way of seeing this perilous mission through. Unable to stop how you furtively glance around the too-bright silence at every little noise that isn’t Brian searching through drawers several shelves before you.

“Are you so familiar with this because you’ve worked in a hospital before?” you ask to distract from your nerves. “Or because you’ve made a habit of breaking into surgical units?”

You hear him slide closed a drawer and stride toward another. Completely heedless to the fully scrubbed male nurse who suddenly pushes into the room from one of the attached operating rooms.

The nurse glances at you both, before fetching a vial with a red lid from a cabinet right beside Brian. Walking back out again while you watch after him in anxious paranoia, and Brian seems not to notice him at all.

“Do I have to choose?” he muses, nonchalant, before exhaling a low and exclamative, “Ah- hah~ ”

You suppose he’s hit the jackpot, thank god–and, closing the cabinet you were sifting edgily through, you make your way over to see what he’s so happy about. Spotting him spare a short glance about before stuffing some sort of… is that a saw? –inside his opened bag.

He smiles at your questioning look.

“Oscillating orthopedic bone saw,” he explains, as though answering what you’ve failed to ask. As if that will suddenly make sense to you, when you still have no idea what an oscillating orthopedic bone saw is other than it’ll obviously make quick work of dicing marrow.

Why he couldn’t just use a regular saw for that, you fail to grasp. Then again, there’s apparently far more types of saws in this world than you’d ever realized before your adventures today. 

You see him grab a few scalpels. Some forceps of various size, along with some different metallic contraptions. One of which especially appears like some kind of torture device, and you expressely don’t question what it’s all for.

But he’s not done yet; by all accounts not having stealthed all this way just for nothing. He bags another sort of saw, like a thick wand with a small, circular blade at its fore, and something else you barely see beyond the tail of its electrical plug, before buckling closed his bag at last.

“I think we’re all done here,” he says. Motioning with his dark-scruffed, angular jaw back toward the door you came in. As if this endeavor was all so damn casual and not potentially life altering. “C’mon.” 

Your heart’s a skipping drum; your path from the hospital a restless dream. Neither one of you really talking as you follow him making his way so apathetically out of the hospital’s surgical unit. 

It isn’t until you’re out of the OR that he makes what you assume is the allusion of small talk whilst the both of you retrace your steps through this sprawling maze, which you do your best to keep up with as though not anxious at all about the slew of stolen medical gear you’ve got currently stashed away. And about halfway back to the gift shop (you think, such is your lack of direction), he nods you off to a patient bathroom to change, while he saunters off to do likewise.

You throw your scrubs in the trash, not knowing what else to do with them. Adopting once more your role of twitterpated girlfriend as he holds your hand and guides you, while you ignore how much comfort you draw from his touch. And by the time you’ve both finally breached the hospital’s doors, are tucked safely within the confines of his candy-red car once more, you’re so relieved you’re nearly giddy.

“Fuck I never want to do that again,” you exhale, while he gives you that little look you suspect is once more questioning why you’re such a headache about everything, which you promptly ignore. “Alright, drop me back off at my car.”

“Not yet,” he returns. Smirking at your incredulous glance. “We've still got some time to kill, amongst other things…” Gods, he thinks he’s so clever, doesn’t he? “And this isn’t a proper date if I don’t take you out to dinner before our show.”

Your stomach clenches at the mere mention of food, whilst he starts up the car beside you. “I’m not hungry, and this isn’t a date.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he says, lighthearted. “You can’t work on an empty stomach.”

“That’s precisely how I’d like to work tonight, thanks.”

“Why?” he asks, far too coy. “Afraid you might lose your dinner?”

Yes.

“No.”

A smile slowly spreads across his face as he shifts the car out of park; eyes on the road. “I know just the place. Reclusive. Romantic. ”

You feel yourself sinking lower in your seat as you stare desperately out the window.

Just what you need….

More time alone with this annoyingly good-looking freak.

“Fine,” you say flatly, but he lowers his lashes like that’s the most romantic thing.

“Are you always this in love with me?”

“I told you I’m not hungry.”

“Then you can watch me eat,” he returns, promptly ignoring your complaints. “I’m starving .”

The sun’s just beginning to set, molten hues burned against palm tree skyline, as Brian pulls into an alley lot beside some warmly lit restaurant and bar you’ve never heard of. The car wheels rumbling across old, cracking asphalt, before he weaves into a spot. Shifting his expensive car into park before getting out, and you sit there–tensely, silently debating in that war within yourself–deciding if you should just refuse to follow him on inside, only to jump as your door is abruptly opened for you.

How does he keep sneaking up on you like that?!

Lofting from on high, Brian offers you his hand, and he’s really going in hard on the date angle, isn’t he?

“Madam?”

Yeah. He really is. And he looks so cheeky about it, too.

But you just unbuckle your seatbelt and take his offered hand; adopting his beguiled tone as he helps you to your feet. “Thank you, darling.”

There’s the smallest blip before his smile spreads wider, showing teeth. 

It’s so disarming when he smiles like that. Like he actually means it.

“C’mon,” he says, good-natured. Ushering you on his arm through the dim-lit alley, out to where the front of the small establishment is radiating warmth and low, Cuban music. Its walkway strung rafters-to-lamp posts with strands of fairy lights that dazzle against the oncoming night. Muted laughs and clinking glasses gliding out into the night from inside.

It’s homey, this place. Like a hole in the wall where everyone’s a regular, and you just know the food is worthy of licking your plate. But it’s hard to enjoy the comfortable, intimate ambiance when it’s the Ice Truck Killer leading you toward the elderly hostess who pleasantly greets you both; who leads you toward a secluded corner of the room, to a booth procured for you at Brian’s request.

He doesn’t glance at the menu as he slides in opposite you, one arm spread along the ruby-pillow backrest of the seat you share, curved as it is around the darkwood table. “Ready to order when you are.”

You pick up the menu as if it might contaminate you, the idea of food so presently revolting. “I take it you eat here a lot?”

“You’d be hard pressed to find better Cuban food,” he says. “The pollo sofrito’s good if you’re in the mood for chicken.”

You never thought a wanted serial killer would be so casually recommending you meals like it were the daily special. And you don’t want to order a thing. But when the waiter arrives and Brian orders two pork cubano’s (guess he really is starving), you just read the first thing off the menu you see, not really registering what it even is.

It takes a long moment to notice the way Brian’s cleverly smiling at you across the table.

“What?” you ask, but he only shrugs. Arm still comfortably outstretched along the curving seat’s backrest.

“Nothing.”

Yeah fucking right he’s thinking nothing. You’re starting to suspect this man is always scheming. But instead of calling him out on it, you find you’d rather pick his labyrinthine brain about something else. Something you’re surprised you’re so curious about, the more it presses upon your mind, though you don’t know fully why. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow…

You’re just curious.

“Can I ask you something?” you wonder across the table, and he quirks a raven brow in your direction.

“Seems to me you already are.”

It’s enough of an invitation.

Still, you uncomfortably rub your arm. Tuck away a strand of hair to steady yourself, before pressing onward. All while he watches you with what seems a gentle, mounting interest.

“I barely knew who you were,” you say, “before… Well…” 

Before you were branded as the ‘Ice Truck Killer’.

You glance around, as if someone might be listening, might be privy to even your thoughts. Brian, meanwhile, doesn’t shift an inch from how his focus lies on you. And when at last your eyes return to his, it feels his own have never left you.

“I was at the hospital when Tony Tucci was fitted with the prosthetic you made him,” you say, in a slightly more hushed tone. Just in case someone might hear you, though you must admit Brian chose this table advantageously for a pair of would-be executioners like yourselves. “The grand reveal party, or whatever that was.”

His interest is visibly piqued; the curve of his rounded lips twitched in thought. “You were…? Huh… I don’t often forget a face.”

“I was only there for a few minutes,” you say, “and we never spoke.” Watching him closely as you add, “I saw you flirting up Deb, though.”

You pause, not sure if you’re waiting for him to respond to this, but he doesn't say a thing. And for a while, neither do you. The two of you merely observing one another from across the silent table. Attempting to peer inside one another, it would seem; to glean what secrets one’s words would keep out of reach.

“You guys seemed so cute together,” you murmur at length. 

His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t deny, doesn’t agree with you. 

So you continue; left with no other recourse than to do so. 

“Was any of that real?”

Far-off dinnerware clatters lightly outside your mutual intensity. The soft chatter of restaurant patrons mingled with the low hum of Cuban music, drifting slowly past your ears. And it’s all you can hear for a while, as the man before you remains in watchful silence.

Eventually, he scarcely inclines his head.

“Not even remotely,” he says, with such bare conviction you find it hard to doubt his words are true. “She was a means to an end. Nothing more.”

Still, some part of you doesn’t believe that. Doesn’t want to believe that. You saw how much Deb loved him. What his betrayal put her through. Hell, she was engaged to the murderous bastard–was never the same after meeting him. 

He didn’t care at all for her? Not even in the slightest, most incomprehensible way?

“Why?” you ask, instead of denying what he’s told you. 

He barely moves. Scarcely appears to even breathe in how he watches you. “Why what?” 

Worrying the inside of your lower lip, you try again. Aren’t sure why this is even hard for you to word. “Why… How… How could you not care about her…? With how much she cared about you? She was completely in love with you.”

As you wait for him to respond, his expression slowly tilts into a frown. 

“She didn’t care about me,” he lowly says. “She cared about Rudy. A man who doesn’t exist. She cared for a ghost, whilst despising the animal hidden inside myself. The only thing she loved was my leash; the bars of my cage, and I don’t like hiding inside it.” His umber eyes trace across your expression. Calm. Unreadable. “I don’t want Dexter to hide, either. Nor you. Why lie to ourselves about what we are? It goes against the laws of nature.”

Some shade of discomfort, something sinister and tight, creeps up along your nape upon him placing you in the same league as he and Dexter.

“I’m not like you,” you faintly protest, and he smiles; a cruel, bare curve.

“Sure you’re not.”

You don’t know why that ties so many strings inside you, wrenching them all into knots. And as the food arrives, with you and Brian accepting your plates in polar opposite displays of enthusiasm, you’re still hopelessly unsettled. Toying with the pasta you apparently ordered, far from anything resembling hungry, while Brian picks up one pork cubano and eats in giant, animalistic bites like a man half starved, and if there was ever any reason to doubt he was a relative of Dexter, seeing him eat was all the proof you needed–better than a DNA test.

“You know,” he muses between wolfish bites, undisturbed by your previous conversation. “You keep saying you have to kill this guy.”

“I do,” you mull at the table, stirring your directionless fork across your plate, before glancing up at him. Seeing his dark brows lightly pinch for a moment.

“Why?”

For a moment, you can’t even register the question; confused, and surprised as you are that he’s asking. He’s always professed he didn’t care.

But now that he is asking, you’re hesitant to explain. Not wanting to relive what makes you see that vicious, unforgiving red; that makes you hollow and hateful and nothing else. 

You don’t want to talk about it. But words are already falling from your lips.

“My nephew is the cutest kid,” you say, sounding very far away to yourself. Still stirring noodles you no longer seem to see. “She’s six. Ava. Quirky in this dorky, fun-loving way.” Your little smile at the thought of her fades. “Honest. Trusting.”

Too trusting; you push the thought away. Try to focus past that red which already bleeds along the edges of your vision, poisons your every heartbeat until you can hardly think.

“Her mom, my sister,she… She’s a single mom. Always working. And I can’t babysit as much as I’d like.”

Your fork stops stirring; words ashen in your mouth. And you can’t seem to go on. Lost in a void of yourself.

In your silence, Brian’s nothing if not perceptive.

“What’d the babysitter do?” he quietly asks.

Your eyes flit up to him. Hand numb around your fork. 

You don’t want to think about it. Not until tonight.

“Does it matter?”

“Seems to matter to you,” he calmly returns; dark eyes never leaving you.

There’s a stone in your chest where your heart once lived. A foreign, ugly thing that doesn’t belong there.

“I found out he was… redefining the meaning of ‘story time’,” you hear yourself say, unwilling to go into detail. Such vile disgust raising its hands round your throat, smothering you, that feels like they could at any moment consume you. “Turned it into a game she didn’t like. One where he took all her clothes off...”

You’ve already said too much you don’t want to think about; you won’t continue. And Brian, ever watchful, doesn’t press for more. Though, after moments of dragging silence…

“You’re a cop,” he says. Hushed, yet quite bluntly. “And you and Dexter have been planning tonight for... what? Two weeks?” His expression is carefully unmoved. “Why didn’t you just arrest him?”

It’s like he already knows the answer. Just wants to hear you say it out loud. And though you’re loath to give him what he wants…

“Because I broke into his house, instead,” you find yourself admitting. 

Brian’s eyes are hawk-like. Perceptive to your every shift in expression. “Were you armed?”

You don't immediately answer. Or really answer him at all.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “He wasn’t home. But I found a bunch of hard drives under one of his floorboards while I waited for him.” You’re surprised your lip doesn’t bleed with how harshly you bite the inside of it. “One had my nephew’s name on it.”

You don’t know when you dropped your fork, only that you’re no longer holding it, and as you glare at the table it feels your jaw might snap.

“Turning him in is too good for him,” you murmur, so lowly you almost can’t hear how every word’s afflicted by hate. “I want that bastard dead. I want to feel the life stripped from his pathetic body, piece by excruciating piece. Want to hear as he chokes and sobs and gags and begs for mercy he never gave, and make him feel all those terrible things he made all of those little girls feel, and then I want to personally ship what’s left of him to hell.”

You stare at the table for a long time. So long you forget where you are, who you’re here with. And when again you look at Brian, it feels his study never left. Remaining ever-watchful as he takes another giant bite of sandwich.

It’s almost funny how he can eat at a time like this. There’s no way, in this moment, you could register what hunger even is.

“The belt sander’s starting to make a lot more sense now,” he remarks between hungry bites. 

He’s so calm…

You should stay calm, too. Like he is. You’ll have to be in order to get through what you’re going to do tonight. But even knowing this, it still takes substantial effort to somehow shake yourself from this ugly beast that’s crawled inside you. To shed its cruelly comforting skin and continue being human, instead of whatever vicious creature it would see you transformed to.

He seems to notice you struggling, or perhaps he’s just bored of your strangled silence. Either way, he swallows his next famished bite before you feel him reach beneath the table. His fingers just barely brushed across one of your knees, soft across the fabric of your jeans.

It makes you jump, not expecting his sudden touch; your eyes darting sharply up to his.

He smiles slightly to receive such rapt attention.

“Don’t worry,” he says. And you find the stillness of him, the firmness, oddly soothing. Infecting your nerves and rewiring them into something more at ease. “He may not know it yet, but his road to hell is coming.” Slowly, he smiles as he watches you. “So long as you don’t chicken out on me, that is.”

For a moment, you can only stare. But gradually, his taunting scratches through that stifling weight which feels to press on your every surface, until you don’t know whether to cry or laugh, to scream or scoff or slap him, it’s all so overwhelming. But in the end, you’re somehow smiling, just like him. Its barest curve a mirror of his own.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you venture softly. “Seeing me fail. Watching what happens.”

You’re surprised when he doesn’t immediately agree. And you can’t deny in him a sort of avid curiosity. A sort of hunger. A primal thirst, as he eyes you quietly from across the table.

“Not as much as I’d enjoy watching you work,” he says at last.

There’s only you and him. This room, it’s noise, it’s chaos–all of it sinks away, far and deep into a void, until there’s nothing left. And all you see is Brian, watching you like that from across the table. And all he seems to see–right now, and since first sitting–is you.

[rarastmblr]

“Minamoto Teru”

The Perfect Boy — Minamoto Teru

He's smart. Always perfect and answering correctly in academics.

Tests? Perfect. Quizzes? Perfect. Recitation? Perfect.

You can't help but be so grateful when he helps you out and tutors you in subjects that you're having a hard time with.

He's handsome, attractive. No wonder he has so many fans. I mean, who could resist such a handsome face?

His hair; Every strand was so soft to the touch that it felt like a gentle caress. You couldn't take your eyes off it and feel nothing but adoration for the golden hue that filled your vision.

The blonde tresses captivated your soul and forever imprinted itself inside your heart.

His eyes; The blue eyes sparkled like pools of sapphire, reflecting the sun in all of its brilliance. Every time you looked at them, there was a feeling of admiration and profound joy that you couldn't quite explain.

He is invested in his interests and engaging in conversation with him allows one to appreciate his positive outlook on life.

He takes action to bring his goals and dreams to fruition, and is resilient and self-sufficient in the face of adversity and challenge.

He has the poise and class to graciously accept every experience. He is encouraging and motivating of the people he loves and engages with.

He's kind. Some think that he's cruel when he rejects the confessions of the girls who have a crush on him.

But he isn't, not at all. He's not cruel, just straightforward but in a way you'll understand and not hate him for it. He'll apologize and then reject you.

He is caring, tender. He is honest about his feelings and empathizes with the struggles of his friends.

There's a reason to why you love Minamoto Teru but you can't seem to answer such a question when you are actually asked why.

It's because you can't pick which of the many things that Minamoto Teru has that makes you love him so much.

You watch him as he reads the contents of your love letter about your love for him.

As he finishes reading, he gives you a smile. You can't tell whether it's a smile of pity or if it's a sign that he accepts your love.

“I'm sorry—”

The first two words were enough for you to know what his response was.

That had happened years ago, if your memory was correct, maybe when you guys were still first years.

Ever since the confession, you guys have grown distant. From the occasional greetings in the halls to only pass by each other without making any eye contact.

You admit the sudden distance between your relationship was your fault. A day after the confession you were the one who would hide away from him out of embarrassment because you got rejected.

You avoided him like a plague.

Even when your classmates had told you that Teru was looking for you because he wanted to catch up with you and other things, you wouldn't go.

Even if it was Minamoto Teru himself who would walk towards you and try his best to start a conversation, you'd somehow be able to slip away from him.

Now, in second year, Minamoto Teru is still the perfect boy that you always admired ever since you guys first met.

I think back to when we were so close and I would wonder. What would have happened to us if the confession never happened. Would we have been more closer than we already were?

As the both of you pass by each other, a pair of blue eyes look back at the back of your figure. Once? No. Twice.

Unfortunately, you took no notice of the longing gaze.

A/n: This isn't really a long fic, I'm so sorry 🥹. I'm just adding plot to the reader and Teru's relationship. Man I'm a sucker for when the relationship has something like a distance and the guy is the one who is desperate to mend the relationship together again. Also I think I didn't really mention supernaturals/apparitions here 🫣 woopsy.

[juuuulez]

WE NEED MORE CARL JERKING KFF HEDCANNONS PLSSS

can’t believe i’ve just done a carl grimes jerking off trilogy…….but i have no regrets

once again, turned this one into a small oneshot, with x reader!!! soooo enjoy (also could definitely be read as same reader from capulet)

NSFW under the cut, all characters depicted are 18+, MDNI.

Due to your relationship being secret, yourself and Carl often had to go outside the compounds of both Alexandria and the Sanctuary to truly enjoy each others company.

Because of this, you two struggled to be intimate with each-other, as the time and place was never right. It was always too dangerous, or there wasn’t enough time.

Usually, you’d meet in the woods. It was like a fun game, stalking around the trees, careful not to make any noise. Whoever saw the other first got to lunge, try and capture their prey.

The two of you would roll through the twigs and grass, fighting to see who could pin the other down, prevail as the strongest. It didn’t really matter, except for bragging rights, until your next scheduled tousle.

You’d ended up near a fallen tree, Carl still squirming on the floor as he attempts to get you off him, but you’re determined to stand your ground. You snake your hands up his arms, using all your strength to pin his wrists above his head.

That’s it, he’s lost. As such, he accepts his punishment (or reward, for feeding your ego?), letting your mouth come down onto his to capture it in a hot kiss.

It’s heated, feverish from the start, licking into Carl’s mouth, your tongues swirling together in a mess of teeth and spit. It’s always like this, as if it’s the last time you’ll ever see each-other, that this moment will cease to exist ever again.

You take mercy on him, releasing his wrists from your grip, allowing him to grab onto the flesh of your hips. Now, you can snake one hand into his hair, the other gripping just below his jaw.

Wanting to shift into a better position, one where you can feel him under you, you sit up. Eager to keep your lips connected, Carl follows, shifting backwards enough so that he’s leaning against the fallen tree, with you seated on his lap.

A steady rhythm grows, arms tangled around each-other, holding on like a lifeline. You develop a slight motion of rocking against him, the movement encouraging your heated makeout session, Carl palming your ass over the thick fabric of your jeans.

Eventually, breathless, you pull away. It calms down, transitioning into something softer, peaceful. You kiss over Carl’s face, lips dancing on his cheeks, forehead, nose. In turn, he tilts his head back, resting against the tree while you adorn his body with your love.

Deciding you’ve spent too long here, guards down, you begin to stand. Carl’s hands fall from your hips, his back straightening again, eyes downcast.

You follow his gaze, a small grin spreading on your face. “My poor boy.” You coo, leaning back in to kiss at Carl’s cheek, an embarrassed blush spreading across his pale skin.

There was an obvious tent in his jeans, arousal having developed over the course of your making out and heavy petting. It was impossible to miss, and you openly acknowledging it caused Carl to squirm at the attention.

When you reach down, letting your palm ghost over the bulge, his breath hitches. “You don’t have to. It’ll go away.” He assure you, that nervous glint in his eye. So cute.

“No, no, I want to.” You tell him, one hand settling on Carl’s hip, the other working at his belt buckle. He calms down a little at this, leaning back against the tree, submitting to your actions. Yet, he’s still watching you observantly, wanting to gauge your every reaction.

His cock is half-hard in your palm, slender and pale as the rest of him. You give it a few slow, leisurely strokes, savouring the way it hardens under your touches, growing to its full length. The tip reddens, a pinkish hue enveloping the head of his dick, appearing strained just from the slightest ministrations.

Carl let’s out a soft moan, causing your gaze to flicker up to him. In response, he clamps his teeth down on his bottom lip, silencing any other reactions. But your smile is sweet and caring, despite how you’re currently jerking him off, leaning in to continue kissing over his cheek, then down to his neck.

“It’s okay, baby. Let me hear you. It’s just us.”

It’s impossible to resist, causing Carl to grip onto your arm, his other hand fisting the leaves and dirt as he pants heavily next to your ear. You practically thrive off his reactions, learning exactly what makes him feel good, trying to wring as much pleasure from the boy.

When you squeeze over the head, his legs jolt upwards, body curling inwards, towards you. You continue the motion, running your thumb over his throbbing tip, watching as Carl drops his head onto your shoulder with a needy moan.

It’s perfect, so perfect.

You continue to pleasure him, whispering sweet nothings into his ear as you twist your hand over Carl’s cock, over and over, manipulating your actions as he nears the edge. Faster, tighter, and then you’re putting a firm pressure on the swollen head, nibbling on his neck, as sticky streams of white finally spill onto your enclosed fist.

“Good boy.” You whisper, continuing to milk out his orgasm as you nurse Carl’s softening cock, careful not to let it brush against the rough fabric of his jeans.

With a sultry grin, you bring your hand up, watching his wrecked face as you lick the substance from your palm. It’s salty, coating your tongue and lingering on your tastebuds, leaving the hand shiny with saliva.

The lewd act causes Carl to gasp, eyes blown wide as he watches you, absorbed by this side he’s never seen before. His body still tingles from the aftershocks, and when you lean forward to kiss him again, he can already feel himself returning to attention.

He’ll never jerk off alone again.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I was thinking about killer and his emotionlessness in st2. And people struggling to portray that in writing (for those who wanna portray it), but based off some personal experiences I won’t go into specifically, maybe here’s some ideas for anyone who needs them.

Maybe write his emotionlessness aspects as a firm belief, integral to his sense of self. Write it as a deeply ingrained coping mechanism that was only encouraged and reinforced by the people around him, who wanted him to be and behave that way because it meant they got what they wanted from him—consistently shamed or invalidated or worse if he showed an emotion that wasn’t wanted.

He has detached from himself, the body, his surroundings; most things don’t feel or seem real, including himself.

because killer thinks of himself as emotionless, and he very likely doesn’t feel some emotions such as guilt or remorse or even love in an emotional way and struggles with empathy which are things trauma can absolutely cause, its also important to keep in mind that it is abuse and trauma that has caused this.

Trauma and abuse has led him to dissociating and numbness, repeated everyday violence and murder and abuse has been completely normalized and accepted as a part of his existence.

His apathy is a result of all of this, constantly being pushed to his limits emotionally, physically, and mentally over and over.

Due to the circumstances of his world, the abilities of Resetting and the like, even death has become the norm. Both of himself and others. He is surrounded by so much of it that it no longer means anything to him.

His thoughts of things being ultimately meaningless, his knowledge of the Players making him believe that no one really has free will in the end. It all only makes him disconnect from himself and his body.

However. Just because killer does not believe himself capable of emotion, does not mean he isnt expressing any. His body can still react to things—crying when stressed, flinching and wincing in pain—even if Killer himself just doesn’t understand stress or enjoys his own pain. Especially if the pain wasn’t “that bad” in his eyes.

You can write it as if Killer believes his body sometimes does things on its own without his say so. Grabbing things without his awareness to fidget with because he needs stimulation, attempting to stab someone if even being touched causes his body to react negatively, as if the touch was painful or frightening. Constant fidgeting and shifting, and getting frustrated about why it can’t just stay still.

(He might eventually face a bit of resigned acceptance to this, eventually just having to accept that the body apparently needs to do these things. And no matter how hard he or anyone else tries to get it to stop, it’s impossible, and likely to just make the fidgeting ‘worse’.)

If his body cries from stress, he’d probably be extremely confused; steadfast believing he doesn’t feel anything, and just wipes it away—perhaps dissociating even further or getting frustrated, because he doesn’t believe thats something he’d do.

Experiencing cognitive dissonance, because the action of crying suggests something’s wrong but he feels..nothing. Neutral, as he always does. Or if hes physically hurt during a mission, his body could be crying from the physical sensations and yet killer is mentally riding the high of “finally” experiencing emotion.

If someone is berating him or verbally abusing him, he might be confused by the body’s tears because there is no physical harm. He doesn’t feel offended or hurt by what this person is saying to him, so why would he cry. He doesn’t think it’s logical, and thus will rationalize it away as just something up with the body.

He might look back during his moments in Stage 1–happiness, fear, guilt—with either a sense of detached confusion or maybe amusement, believing that other side of him to have been rather dramatic. Maybe he’s even curious about why the world seems so much brighter when someone like Color is around.

Because killer doesn’t connect the body to himself in his mind, he probably has a hard time visualizing it or showing any care for it beyond making sure it’s functioning and still useful. And he doesn’t really feel any empathy for it either.

It is also very possible to have people react to the way he doesn’t react—such as simply standing and quietly watching whenever nightmare punishes someone in the gang, not seeming bothered by it at all, as opposed to anyone else who is witnessing. This can be compounded by any signs of dismissiveness and downplaying what happened.

You can have people treat him differently, react to him differently, either being disturbed/uneasy by his appearing to not have any emotions—no anger, fear, hatred, disgust—in situations they feel he should.

Appearing unbothered or unphased by things said or done to himself or others as if they don’t matter—either because it is normal for him, or because he is so commonly dissociated that no one notices that he dissociated in these moments.

Others may even be outraged and offended by his apparent lack of concern or compassion, and even more may interpret him as being arrogant. Others may make it a personal thing to try and provoke from what they believe an appropriate response to be from him. (They’ll probably end up being killed or mortally wounded in this case.)

Writing people’s reactions to him and his lack of reactions, besides those big dead black eyes and empty grin, will definitely help set him apart from others around him.

He will likely struggle to accept the idea that he can feel genuine emotions; and may outright reject or rationalize/intellectualize away anything that contradicts this belief of his. He may avoid anything or anyone that provokes reactions he doesn’t understand—as a form of self protection. Especially if someone or something has convinced him that his emotions are inconvenient, useless, weak, or dangerous.

It’s also quite possible that hed be reluctant to acknowledge his body’s needs or emotions, to let it “speak” in a way, uncertain of how it will react or what it will make him do. Especially if his body has destructive breakdowns when repressed stress and pain catch up to him, and it makes him feel out of control.

Automatic responses like sweating, shaking, changes in breathing, temperature fluctuations; all are likely to be observed in a detached way and not really linked to any specific emotional state. Insomia, changes in eating habits, and chronic pain are likely to be some biggies for him.

He probably doesn’t actually know why his body appears to be in so much pain—besides the amount of DT accumulation and the history of physical trauma—but he’s more likely to take some twisted glee in being able to feel it than care about where its coming from or why.

He’s probably also likely to have a decreased immune system and might be prone to sickness, due to the results of chronic stress and the results of repressing it all; but he’ll probably over intellectualize it away.

Another form of self protection for him could be his typical silly, dumb, hyperactive facade being a deliberate choice on his end. Because it not only leads to people overlooking or underestimating him, it protects him by keeping people away.

If he pretends to feel what others seem to want him to feel in certain situations, they’re less likely to start pestering him and trying to provoke reactions from him. It also helps keeping people entertained, makes him seem unpredictable, and most of all, doesn’t allow anyone to look at him and find him lacking. Find him boring. Enough to potentially get rid of him, or replace him.

He may not may not actually care about others’ opinions of him—praise or criticism—but people sure seem to want him to, so he’ll pretend to if it’s beneficial.

[eyeliveinabook]

Your apartment is haunted

You never really thought anything of it, after seeing the ghost for the first time and doing some research you learn that the ghost that haunts your apartment is the same age as you. That kept you up at night sometimes feeling bad for the ghost to be stuck here, so you developed a routine with the ghost. You would write a question for him on your white board and he would respond. Sometimes they where dumb question like what his favorite animal was or they would be serious like what was his job when he was alive. Most of the time he would write the answer back to while you where at work, or in the shower. He never answered them directly in front of you. Until one night you are watching Fifty Shades Freed and you hear the marker moving on the white board, pausing the movie you go to your dinning room table and see one simple question

Have you ever had sex before?

You blush at the idea, no you are still a virgin.

"That's a pretty personal question to ask." You say erasing the board. when you turn you here the marker moving again. When you turn around there is a new statement.

Didn't answer my question sweetheart.

"I am not going to answer it, I don't have to." You say out loud, as you are walking back to the couch you notice what feels like cold hands touching you, rubbing your shoulders and neck. You stop enjoying the sensation not noticing that the sensations start sliding down your arms until you feel silk tie your arms behind you back. It's not uncomfortable just a bit of an odd sensation. When you try to look to see what color the silk is you don't see anything.

Suddenly your shirt is pulled up exposing your breasts, you feel the hands play with your pierced nipples. Pulling at the jewelry and twisting it gently. Then you feel some harsh slaps. You can't stop the moan that comes out of your mouth. You can feel your wetness growing between your legs.

Then you feel pressure on your shoulders like someone is pushing you down, You get on your knees and feel something hard pushing it way into your mouth. You gladly accept, wondering how big the ghost's dick is. Thankfully it fits in your mouth with just the tip barely poking at the back of your throat. You brace yourself and start breathing through your nose only while the ghost rams into your mouth. You keep thinking about if someone was to see you they would assume you where crazy or just really horny. You then start to wonder if the ghost is going to force itself on you. You know that the thought should terrify you but it doesn't instead it only makes you even more wet.

You feel drool running down your chin and start making gagging noises hoping that he will take the hint and stop...he doesn't.

After a few more minutes of this a warm sensation enters your mouth and you struggle to swallow all of it. But you enjoy it, does that make you a slut? A slut that enjoy's ghost cum. It doesn't taste like anything, while you pounder what the real thing will taste like the ghost unties your hands and puts you on all fours.

You feel your pajama bottoms being pulled down, then you feel a cold muscle feeling its way through your panties. It circles your clit numerous times and plays at your entrance. Soon your panties are moved to the side and you feel this cold wet muscle again, but this time it goes straight for your wet hole. It circles it like it did with your clit then goes in. Once inside it keeps going in and out, you are a moaning mess. Then you feel a finger playing with your clit. You feel like you are on cloud nine.

"Please don't stop, Please, please, please." You beg. Feeling close to your end. "Oh god I am so close please don't stop." You can't believe how slutty you sound begging a ghost to keep tongue fucking you and playing with your clit. Finally you hit your high and it takes everything in you not to scream.

Before you head can even begin to clear you feel another muscle at your entrance.

"Wait please!" You say, the ghost ignores your whimpering beg and rubs your clit with it's dick. You so sensitive you try moving away but you quickly get a smack on the ass a few times. You stay put and let the ghost keeps humping your pussy. Finally you can't take it anymore.

"Please I'll let you do anything just fuck me already!" You scream at it.

Suddenly there is a knock at the door and everything just stops.

[vegasthehedgehog]

Kiyoi

There is something about the way Kiyoi has always been independent, aggressive, and often following the "I don't need anyone" archetype . This shows that he doesn't know what healthy relationships look like or why they matter. He never had anyone he felt he could rely on. He did not even want his friends to know what his dream was or that he took the idol thing seriously. He did not have anyone he thought would be his support if he failed and most likely assumed he would lose the artificial friendships that he did have if he showed his real self to them. His whole demeaner screams lonely, hurt, and scared.

Kiyoi has always been so sure that nobody is around him for any reason other than to use him. He does not think anyone takes him seriously. He doesn't trust that anyone could ever be sincere. That is why when Hira comes into the picture, he doesn't trust him. He seems to see it as a way to go from being used to using someone. He never truly accepted that Hira truly just wanted to be around him because of him. This is most likely why they parted ways like they did.

This has been on my mind because of the development we see later on. It becomes even more clear that Kiyoi does not want to be aggressive or the one to make the choice. He has always wanted someone to prove they take him seriously, that they want him, that they love him unconditionally.

We see Kiyoi struggle to open up and communicate and how hard it is for him. We see his tendency to flee when he is scared or hurt. We see there communication suffer because of misunderstandings. But most of all we see them fight for each other even well fighting against each other.

This leads me into the bathtub scene. Kiyoi is no longer this mean aggressive man that we once saw but instead someone who is quietly asking Hira to give him more physical attention. This is a big deal because we start out with him physically throwing Hira to the ground but now we are here.

I am leaving so so so so much out but this show really took over my brain and I don't have anyone to talk to about it. Its been a while since I watched it and these scenes still live rent free in my head.

[cookieblobber]

The Possible New Future of the Sonic Franchise - Thanks to fucking Sonadow

WOW! SO…THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED 💀

A few days ago it was rumored a Sonic Generations remaster was happening and will be revealed in the State of Play, which then revealed Shadow will be playable. It was really unknown what the hell this meant, but many theorized this was going to be a Bowser’s Fury/Kirby Return case: Game from an old console is remastered/ported with a whole brand new campaign that may or may not be related and possibly intertwined with said game’s story or lore.

They were correct.

Oh yea did I forget to mention BLACK FUCKING DOOM IS BACK?????

There isn’t much yet to go off of right now in terms of what’s being planned here besides this excerpt on steam

————————————————

Alright, enough showcasing, what the hell am I talking about by this game (that was just revealed) being a new future for the Sonic franchise? Well, it’s mainly due to these two things: the usage of Black Doom, and this fucking logo

A little bit of a history lesson -

Shadow the Hedgehog (2005)

….wasn’t really a well received game. Besides how many viewed it to be trying too hard to be edgy and dark and gritty, its gameplay was a lot left to be desired. Confusing and lore retconning writing, weird awkward gameplay, you probably already know by now, it was arguably where SEGA/Sonic Team got scared of doing spin-offs with other characters. The concepts and ideas were there, there were still reasons to like the game and like how Shadow improves as a character in the canonical story of the game, it was a small shiny stone in a pile of coal. Besides 06, this was the most development or focus Shadow would ever receive as a character before his massive change in writing in 2010.

Due to the 2010s change in writing style and how characters were written thanks to SEGA to avoid any association from “erm Sonic tried to be serious at one point? Cringe!”, Shadow possibly became the most controversial character of the cast, with him going from a really intriguing 3 dimensional character about trauma, loss, and trying to move on from the past, to many feeling like he’s regressed into a Furry Vegeta or a tryhard loner who doesn’t need friends to help him, the IDW comics being a big example of this. He still had a few good moments like his whole prologue in Sonic Forces, but even then it wasn’t anything intriguing like his story in Sonic 06 where he learns to accept his future might turn out shit, but he’ll always fight back with his team if things get dark (see what I did there?).

Before I continue, I would like to say - blaming Ian Flynn for how Shadow’s written in the IDW comics where he’s more brute and moody…..doesn’t seem correct, imma be real. I know he may have the occasional odd idea of the characters, but it’s very clear the way he’s written is due to certain mandates from SEGA and how characters/the world should be like. If Shadow’s whole moody brute demeanor is truly how Flynn views the character…..how does that explain how he was written in the Archie comics? aka the older comic series Flynn wrote for before SEGA started to get strict with the franchise, aka the series many believe to have had really great Shadow moments? I’m not saying there can’t be criticism for how Flynn may sometimes write characters, but in the case of him being the sole reason for how Shadow is written, that assumption made on him is a lil unfair.

Regardless, in recent times, it’s no doubt that the franchise is starting to rebuild it’s confidence again: acknowledging the old 3D games, including 06, having a more serious story with layers and depth like in Frontiers, Frontiers itself reintroducing Sonic’s friends and their struggles, making them playable once again in a 3D game (again, Shadow was cool to see in Forces but, you could only go so far with a simple reskin of Sonic). Not to mention after the update that brought back these characters, we got Sonic Superstars where the main selling point was that it was a co-op game, and Sonic Dream Team having a focus on the franchise’s more forgotten character: Cream the Rabbit (not to mention bringing back a sorta SA2-style gameplay where 6 characters were grouped into 3 styles of controls). Oh yea also prior to all that, Amy was made playable in the original Sonic genesis games via Sonic Origins.

———————————————

So, what does all that have to do with the future of the franchise, and why is Shadow 05 important here?

First off: Shadow is getting that same treatment as other friends, but possibly on an even bigger level: being a new playable character in an older title and being a big enough deal to get his own story and reintroduce people to what makes him who he is sadly no co-op gameplay but hey that would require completely changing this game from what it was initially was. This is really perfect timing as with the upcoming release of Sonic Movie 3 and Shadow being the next foe for Sonic to face off, Sonic x Shadow Generations will be a perfect title for new fans to dive into and learn more about Sonic’s history and dive further into Shadow’s history, just like what Sonic Origins was for fans who just came back from watching Sonic Movie 2.

This whole thing is also a massive implication that other characters than Sonic may start to get their own campaigns again, building more lead-ups to possibly full on spinoff games. I should say this again: Forces did try to do something with Shadow, but for the most part it was just reusing whatever the game already had to create a quick and easy 3 level prologue that…doesn’t really add all that much to the overall story (at this rate you can probably assume Forces tried to do a lot of things Sonic is now attempting to do, however due to the kinda era it came from, it didn’t have much going for it). Sonadow Generations seems like something bigger and more personal to the character involved, something that could possibly rival the OG game’s campaign.

The fact in this story, they’re going so far as to make Black Doom the main antagonist of this campaign and giving back Shadow’s tribal logo is a massive sign that this is a true attempt to revisit Shadow’s entire legacy. They could’ve easily just made his whole ordeal involve what happened in Sonic Adventure 2, after all that’s what he’s most remembered for, but going as far as to properly acknowledged a lesser known game as being part of the Sonic lore instead of dismissing it simply because it wasn’t well received, it continues to show the confidence this series has started to regain. Sure, it’s weird, it’s wacky, it’s wild, but it doesn’t make it any less something to acknowledge or at the very least make good out of something bad. While we did get hints of Shadow 05 still being part of the canon via the Eggman logs in Frontiers mentioning Black Doom, having him come back officially was still a completely wild thing to see; never in a million years would anyone have thought he would come back as the main villain.

The biggest part of this whole thing is: if SEGA is allowing for Shadow 05 to be fully acknowledged

.

this might mean they’re starting to pull back on their restrictions on the character.

——————————————

As I stated before, it is very clear they wanted nothing to do with this game or anything similar to it ever again, I mean the fact we never got any spin-offs after this really shows they weren’t gonna come back to other characters ever again. But now…everything’s on the table. If Black Doom is making an appearance, if Shadow’s tribal logo is back as part of his identity, what else could there be next? Will Shadow start to use guns again? Will he ride his motorcycle, and other vehicles like in 06? Hell, will motherfucking Mephiles come back again for this campaign?

Not to mention the description of the game stated that Shadow will confront painful memories, will we see Maria in HD getting shot, or the commander from Shadow 05 who was out to get him making a reappearance? This might be the first time in a whole decade since other human characters (not counting Sage since she isn’t exactly fully human) making an appearance again in the Sonic franchise. Again, we may have gotten hints of them still being a thing with the likes of Frontiers’ Eggman logs bringing up GUN and Maria, but actually showing up in-game means other humans can still make appearances in-game.

(Take this part with a massive grain of salt but I’ve heard that Ian Flynn in the past has expressed he wanted to bring back Black Doom and Mephiles, but SEGA didn’t allow it, now that one of them happened, it proves that there indeed has been less restrictions now)

If there are less restrictions being made on stuff like acknowledging Shadow’s game, what could this mean for how Shadow himself may be written now? We’ve seen how apparently well written Shadow was in Sonic Prime, could this carry over to the games and comics where he has a less frustrating depiction? I mean, the fact Ian Flynn was hired for one massive mainline game (Sonic Frontiers) and suddenly they’re doing all these lore related things for the franchise or going back to pull up any old stuff and see what they can do with it, it shows there is a level of trust between SEGA and Flynn and letting the man cook. And it makes complete sense too, he’s been a long time writer for the franchise since the Archie comics, he seems to have a great understanding of the characters.

If Shadow 05 is getting this level of acknowledgement, what about other more forgotten games? Will we one day see Sonic 06 be better acknowledged, or more likely a character like Silver having a bigger role in something related to the events of 06? I mean for some reason recent episode titles of the upcoming Knuckles show revealed one episode called “Flames of Disaster,” who’s to say they aren’t already looking into 06 for some ideas for not just the movie canon, but as well as the main canon?

—————————————

I’m drifting off a little but I’m sure you get by now what I’m tryna say. This game, as it may seem like just a simple small remaster with extra content, may end up creating something bigger for the franchise going forward. Seeing how Sonic Team is behind this remaster and not Blind Squirrel (the people who made Sonic Colors Ultimate; while possibly rushed by SEGA, they’ve also have had a questionable track record with remasters), and hints that Flynn is behind this story, I think we are in great hands with this game. This may be the first remaster to finally be flawless in every level, which I know is a little sad to say when it comes to this 30+ year old franchise, but hey, can’t win them all!

——————————————

Before I end this comically large essay, I would like to make one final note on this whole topic. As I was writing this and taking breaks last night, I came across a tweet that was kinda starting to go around about this game.

To summarize, the tweet essentially claimed that Sonic was still stuck in the past. The franchise was still relying on nostalgia pandering as its identity, and due to the contents of Generations being a whole celebration of Sonic’s history (and what unfortunately started SEGA’s cling onto Green Hill and Chemical Plant), aka alleged nostalgia pandering, it proves the franchise’s identity is still about how when Sonic used to be cool. It hasn’t attempted to evolve in the past 14 years.

You can probably guess what my thoughts on that take is after reading this whole post.

.

.

.

.

.

No.

I don’t think so.

As I already showed, the addition of Shadow’s story more than proves this is still stepping forward. It’s taking an old beloved game and instead of just updating graphics or performance and leaving it at that, they’re making something brand new out of it that may define future ideas for other characters that isn’t about Sonic. Not to mention this game barely attempts to be all like, “Revisit all these iconic locations from your childhood!!!” SEGA is clearly looking at Generations not as that one game they can rely on for easy nostalgia pandering, but as a successful and fun game from the last decade in its own right. I mean to the general public, it’s considered to be “one of the few good Sonic games.”

It can be argued that the addition of Shadow and Black Doom may be pandering to the audience into Shadow but…really? They’re tryna solely pander and play on the nostalgia of a small minority of players who liked a game that was considered to be the start of Sonic’s downfall in the 2000s and make that the selling point of this remaster to the general public? Where some in said general public may argue that they’re about to ruin a rare good Sonic game with stuff that they think no one ever liked??? I don’t really believe it.

Hell, speaking personally, I’ve never played Shadow 05, I don’t own a GameCube, maybe a PS2 but even then I didn’t get much games at the time. While I sorta played around with the franchises growing up, I fully got into it around when Sonic Mania came out (and even then it took me a while to finally play it). So even though I may be hyping up Black Doom’s return, I myself am not coming from any rose tinted glasses or anything, these are just observations from the many discussions I’ve seen online or videos showcasing these games. Same would go for a lot of people into that game as many while loved it, still would acknowledge where it fumbles and how it’s definitely not the definitive Sonic experience to have.

Sonic has begun to evolve, experimenting with new ideas and offering new and different ways to enjoy the franchise. As mentioned earlier, lots of shit happened in the past 4 months. While I agree that something like Frontiers relying on the same old levels for Cyberspace to be stupid, that shouldn’t undermine the actual new stuff it offers for the franchise. I feel like we’re already far beyond the franchise needing to be like “hey remember Green Hill???” as it’s main identity for a game/the franchise. And even then, this shouldn’t mean Sonic can’t look back on previous entries anymore ever again.

Many want Sonic to be like other franchises, like Mario, Kirby, etc, they’ve been also occasionally doing the look back on an old title or old past, so why not let Sonic do the same? We shouldn’t immediately respond to a callback with claims that it’s poor nostalgia pandering, as the take away imo always should’ve been that there should be a balance between original and new and looking back on what worked.

I am happy to say that regardless what this remaster is, we are in good hands again.

———————————————

also unrelated as hell but pray for this man, he has not uploaded a Sonic video in 4 months, I think SEGA killed him by over feeding him with content 😭

[amywritesthings]

SEEING YOU, SEEING ME (4/7)

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.7K

Summary: After handling a life-or-death favor for Tess, you're in deep shit. Until she can make things right, she suggests you lay low at her place for the week. The issue? It's also Joel Miller's place, and you're pretty sure he hates you.

Warnings: 18+! No Minors! Pre-TLOU, One Bed Trope, Masturbation, Sexual Tension, Manhandling, Light sadism, Touch Starved!Joel, Mentions of death and violence, Age gap/difference, Slow burn, Semi-Enemies to Fuckers, Alcoholism

( Read on AO3 )

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter | Masterlist

CHAPTER 4: CAN'T QUIT YOU, BABY

Joel has been gone for hours.

You’ve laid in his bed this entire time, thinking.

You shouldn’t; this new world can’t afford daydreaming, that much you’ve learned the hard way. Breathing, eating, surviving — those are the only important pieces of the puzzle they call enduring, but you can’t find a reason to want to eat right now and the image marinating in your head is making it a little tough to breathe.

Because you can’t stop thinking about him. Joel, Joel fucking Miller, and the way he stared down at your lips in plain sight. The way you witnessed a momentary lapse of judgment in real time, making him just as human as you. The way his fist curled white-knuckle tight when you toed the line of a conversation better suited past midnight.

You came here forty-something hours ago thinking Joel Miller hated you.

He may be disinterested or, God forbid, indifferent, but he doesn’t hate you.

You’re now not sure what is worse.

Because you certainly don’t hate him.

The opposite — you smell him on these sheets, these pillow cases, and if you shut your eyes hard enough, then you can see him: Joel staring from the other end of the table — staring at you — like he’s seen you this whole time.

Before you’ve realized, your fingers have unbuttoned your worn denim jeans and found their way slipping under the waistband, seeking relief.

You shouldn’t, but you can’t help it.

You shouldn’t, but it’ll be quick.

(You’re already halfway there.)

The second your fingers touch your clit, an audible gasp leaves your mouth. Electric; you waste no time getting to it, circles tight and deliberate. Brutal.

Exactly how you think he’d do it if he were here, staring down at you, wanting to take everything from you and then some. He’d be merciless, accepting nothing less than driving you past the point of pleasure and pain.

Maybe he’d hold you down.

Maybe he’d put his hand over your neck.

(Maybe I can make you feel alive, darlin’.)

The imaginary baritone voice in your head causes the orgasm to crash like the wave of a cresting hurricane, and your back involuntarily arches off the mattress. The world — the quarantine zone, the apocalypse, the end of times — disappears in a blissful blank space.

A space filled with the scent of him where you can drown.

It feels like minutes pass where you linger in the aftermath, muscles melting the stress of the week away.

Click.

And just like that, the bliss is gone as the front door of the apartment swings open.

Ripping your hand from your jeans, you scramble to sit at the head of the bed and out of view. Joel’s heavy boots glide through the threshold of the house, locking the door behind him.

“You still in bed?” he muses, calling from the living room.

You frantically re-button your pants, struggling to find your voice.

“Hey!” you call, uncharacteristically chipper and out of breath. “Hi, sorry, I took a nap.”

By the time you’re fussing with your mangled hair, Joel’s already in view. He leans forward against the divider, watching you, forearm raised over his head and pressed into the trim. His other hand finds its way to his hip.

“A nap?” he repeats with a hint of surprise.

“Can’t really afford them most days,” you reply, belated glancing up at him. “I thought rather than snooping, it might be productive to get some shut eye.”

He considers it for a beat, nodding to himself before raising a brow: sure, whatever. Joel’s hand gently opens and taps at the wall.

“Gonna make some dinner in a bit if you’re interested.”

“It’s already dinnertime?”

That raised brow drops to knit with the other. “How long were you out? Sounds like one hell of a nap.”

The guilt pools in the pit of your stomach.

“I’d love dinner,” you swerve, nodding eagerly. “Thank you.”

Joel lingers, thinking about something he isn’t saying out loud, and taps his fingers one final time. That hand pushes him from the wall and towards the kitchen where he begins prepping for dinner, leaving you still in his bed.

Eventually you leave the mattress to join him in the conjoined kitchen and living room.

For most of the night, you say nothing.

Waiting.

For food, for nightfall, for another day where Tess isn’t coming home and you’re stuck with these parasitic thoughts of the older man generous enough to share his food.

Now it isn’t just the dim light that he’s attractive in: it’s every fucking angle, every goddamn sound, every single movement.

(So this is what it’s like to feel.)

Dinner is relatively silent. The scrape of forks to ceramic fill the apartment once again, and he’s already positioned his glass container of whiskey in the center of the table.

Something of a nightly ritual for the smuggler.

He’s already working on his second glass, as are you. The combination of surviving on little food and the haze of the alcohol brings an idea to mind. 

“Does the radio work?” you ask out of nowhere, surprising yourself with the intrusive thought out loud.

Joel, nearly finished with his rationed portion, looks up with suspicion.

“The radio?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you answer dumbly. “For music. Jeanine in the south quadrant has a radio station.”

“Does she?”

“You didn’t know that?” 

“You think I talk to Jeanine in the south quadrant?”

“Fair point,” you reply. “But yeah. She’s figured out the whole radio thing and I thought… since you had music the first night I got here—”

“Sure.”

Your voice dies on your tongue with Joel’s flippant agreement.

(You expected a flat-out no.)

Sliding out of your dining table chair, you cross the room and pointedly avoid the Top 100 book still sitting where you last left it. Crouching over the fragile relic of a box, you meddle with the dials for a few minutes until a familiar voice croons from the station.

It’s Led Zeppelin’s I Can’t Quit You, Baby clear over the radio waves.

Right at the beginning, too, bringing a large smile to your face.

“Fuck, I missed this song.”

It’s under his breath, but there’s a chuckle from Joel somewhere in the middle of the room.

“Have you ever heard of Led Zeppelin?” you ask over your shoulder.

“Have I ever heard—” The audacity of the baited question switches up his typical monotone approach. “Kid, I grew up listening to this. Don’t talk to me about Zeppelin like I don’t know ‘em.”

“So did I,” you supply in a sing-song, standing up straight. “See? Not so different.”

Joel sours, crossing his arms over his chest. You turn to face him, slowly moving your shoulders to the beat of the bass. “I’m sure you never saw them play live, though.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. Final tour of ‘77. I was eleven.”

“Shut up.”

“I did. They came to Houston.”

“Shit, you really are old,” you tease, scrunching your nose as you sway. You're met with a large roll of his eyes in return. “You're lucky. I never got to go to a concert before all this.”

“Damn shame.”

“I know,” you agree, "but I’ve seen photographs in books. Richie Thompson, you know him?”

“Sure.”

“He was somehow able to keep old photographs he took twenty years ago at a… festival? He showed me them a few years back. They were sick.”

“I can only imagine.” Joel’s scowl returns slowly as the sway of your shoulders begin to influence the rest of your body. Your torso twists with them, slowed in your impromptu dance as your head moves in time to the guitar solo. The older man clears his throat. “What’re you doing?”

“What am I doing?” you repeat, raising your hands with your pointer fingers up. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Don’t know,” he bluntly responds. “S’why I asked.”

“Pretty sure it’s called dancing, Miller.”

“Dancing?”

“Yeah.” You curl your fingers, one then the other, to the rhythm and make small steps towards the sitting man. “Danc-ing. Oughta try it sometime.”

“I don’t— Wait.”

Yeah.

You should wait.

Because your hand has found its way playfully to the shoulder of his denim shirt, suggesting he stand with you. You begin to crouch towards him, grinning ear to ear. Your hips wiggle behind you as you bend closer to him with tipsy abandon, and Joel’s eyes dart from your face to behind your ear.

The chair scrapes in a screech against the floor.

Joel stands tall, assertive, and drags you into him by your right elbow.

“Stop.”

You freeze in your sway at the growl in his voice.

The flat of his palm curls around your waist, forcibly keeping you close. He steps a boot into the space between your feet.

Suddenly Joel Miller is crowding you, hovering there, and you lose your breath.

“Did I do something?” you ask despite yourself, but you don’t recognize your voice. It’s small, needy, and it flickers an emotion across the tired lines of his face. In this proximity, the warmth of him radiates through his denim shirt. “I’m sor—”

When you lift your chin to meet his eyes, your head juts back to avoid going nose to nose with him. From here you see every single tired line, every single scar, every twitch in his face. Joel is on top of you, zero to sixty, and hasn’t moved yet.

Fuck.

You eyes round at the implication, but Joel doesn’t notice.

Not when he’s too busy staring at your lips.

And it stays that way for a minute.

“I can’t do this.”

He finally speaks, but he doesn’t move away. From beneath him, you can taste the whiskey on his breath.

“Okay,” you agree with an unconvincing nod.

(Do what? is a question you won’t ask.)

Joel’s hand squeezes your waist with purpose, jolting your body as he lulls in closer. 

“Had too much to drink.”

You nod again, but say nothing to his statement. Wouldn't dare; not when he's so close that you'll brush his lips if you try.

(He’s barely touched his second drink.)

The hand at your waist and the combination of his forward foot push you sidelong, a half-hearted sway, then directly backwards — a second step, a third — until you're both walking past the threshold of the living room of this open-space apartment—

Right into the makeshift bedroom.

Joel takes the lead with hesitant precision and you allow him, heart pounding in your ears.

Then the possessive hand on your waist twists and pushes, abruptly spinning you around. Your hands collide with something cold, flat, to steady your legs.

The wall.

The only divider skewing the view of the bedroom from the front door.

Joel is warm and solid behind you, broad chest pressing you into the flower-scattered wallpaper with purpose. You glide your cheek against the wall where the paper chips and ebbs on your lips, nose, until it presses to your forehead.

His large hands raise to encase yours, pinning your palms to the surface.

“M’not a good man,” he admits against the shell of your earlobe, and you want to outright moan. From this proximity, the baritone southern drawl vibrates through your head and shoots straight down. “I’ve done things—”

“Everyone’s done things,” you tell him weakly, cutting off his confession.

“Not like me,” he assures, hawkish nose nuzzling the hair at the nape of your neck.

You lean back, using both pressed palms as leverage to arch your hips into the crotch of his jeans. The strained sound that falls from his lips is deliciously sinful.

Only a thread away from snapping.

Your head drops back to his shoulder just enough to breathe to the ceiling. His salt and pepper beard tickles your skin. “You don't scare me, Miller.”

“I should.” His lips hover along your neck, tickling with ever labored breath. “Ain't got nothing to lose at my age, but you—”

Of course.

Of course this is what it boils down to.

Anger bubbles in your belly, twisting the arousal. Joel’s grip on your hands loosen, offering an opportunity to counterstrike: you rip them from the wall, left then right, and spin before he can stop you — and he does try, yet it's too late by the time he slams you back into the wall, now face to face. Your hands find their way to the pockets of his denim button-down, angling a forearm barrier between you.

The way Joel Miller’s eyes have blackened since you last saw them is downright wicked.

You blow some hair from your flushed face, chest rising and falling with anger. 

“Is that the only thing stopping you? Huh? Because you're a lost cause at your big age?" When he doesn’t answer, you crane your neck to hiss closer to his face in a mockery of his drawl. “I've done heinous shit. You still got your whole life ahead of you. You could settle down while the world's ending and be as fucking ignorant as the rest—”

"Hey."

His hands, now finding purchase on your shoulders, push you harder into the wall as he growls in return.

“Watch. It.”

You’ve kicked the hornet’s nest.

And in the moment, you can’t find a single fuck to give.

“I may not be a year away from earning an A-A-R-fucking-P card like your mopey ass, but I’m not untouchable, Joel.” The lines of his face smooth at the sound of his first name. “I'm not some fragile thing wearing white. And I sure as fuck don’t need someone to tell me what I have to lose, so quit acting like you're saving me.”

The pressure remains, but the smuggler stays perfectly still. His nostrils flare with every inhale. You rest the back of your head against the wall, allowing the light from the open window to illuminate the bottom half of your face.

“Whatever it is you think I deserve? It isn't what I want. I see you, Joel, and you see me.”

Joel studies your face in what little light remains, Adam’s apple bobbing with apprehension.

Then his left hand leaves your shoulder, seizing your jaw mercilessly in his hand with his fingers. You make a noise, small yet audible, and have no choice but to obey when he drags your gaze higher to his face.

“Don’t ask for things you don’t understand,” he warns, low and venomous. “I say you’re young ‘cus you are. I had my time to date. Hell, I had my time to divorce. Been way past that puppy dog shit. Nothing about this would be soft—”

“I don’t care.”

“—or kind—”

“I don’t care.”

“—or real,” he emphasizes by squeezing your face to the point where he could bruise. You wince, standing on the toe of your boots to accommodate the pain. “I ain’t like that anymore. So when I say you don't want this, m'telling you because you deserve better. More. Not something... hollow or broken. Because when I touch something, it always—”

He catches himself there, realizing the emotion bubbling in the back of his throat before it can rise. He lets go like your skin has burned him, backing away by a full foot. 

You stay pressed to the wall, watching with a wide gaze of regret and longing.

(You didn’t mean to push him, just like he didn’t mean to make your jaw sore.)

Joel runs a hand down his face, fighting to get a grip on reality between several blinks. He turns to make his way around the wall, but you see it: the way the same hand drops to adjust himself in his jeans.

You want to follow him and drop to your knees and—

“Go to bed.”

Joel breaks the fantasy before it can start with a growl of a demand, back turned to you.

“Go to bed. Don’t come out here. Just forget about this.”

“Joel—”

“I ain’t askin’ you, girl.”

He barks over his shoulder, scowl flaring his nostrils. The yell makes you jump, but you listen: step by step you venture backwards, away from the wall you once found yourself pinned against until your boots hit the edge of the mattress.

After a moment, the crooning radio flickers to silence.

You hear the couch creak with the weight of him when he flops down onto it.

He doesn’t say goodnight.

Author's Note: How are we feeling, Joel Nation? I hope his manhandling wasn't too jarring. Since this is pre-TLOU, I imagine Joel is very touch starved/averse, so it made sense to me to write him as such.

As always, reblogs/comments are everything. Thank you so much for all of the support on this little story! ILU all.

[thoughtfulchaos773]

3x09's Misdirection/Sleight of Hand

Just my opinion on the misdirection(s) in the Apologies episode.

All the screen stills of the episodes on Hulu give you a good indication of what(who) the episode is about. This is the still for this episode:

Just wanted to put that out there.

Paying attention to Martin Scorcese's There's something else happening here" - subtext is what he's talking about in film- reading between the lines.

Another quote- Magic at its best. For it to be a truly magical moment, it has to be spontaneous. It has to be something that just happens.

In my opinion, this quote will become significant later in the show. We should focus on the 'sleight of hand' in magic, known as misdirection in film.

I think like Carmy- we don't know the spontaneous moment- and we're being misdirected like Carmy is being misdirected, it's like a magic trick happening in his mind.

So the magic trick begins with Carmy and the Faks breaking down boxes and Ted Fak stating that Claire is the one pissed. She's the one haunting Carmy, and they make sure to really distract you by carmy driving this point home:

She's the peace- but some of us were tricked; people see Carmy saying she's peaceful for him. Are eyes are not deceiving us- this same peaceful person he had a panic attack about is peaceful for him? He's saying 'the' peace. He's saying she's peaceful- but realize he's not saying she's the peace for him.

The audience knows this because we're consistently reminded of Claire almost every episode. This serves as general information given to both Carmy and the viewers—a red herring. He thinks about her every day, but why is he thinking about her so often?

Fast forward to the Faks advising Carmy to apologize, and he tells them it's too hard. Why is it too hard for him to end things with Claire? The show, or Carmy, won't reveal this just yet because it will be significant information in the narrative.

More misdirections with information that the viewer is tricked into accepting. We've been getting callbacks that Fak is Carmy's best friend. We're given this information, but it's not true. Carmy answers truthfully the first time Claire asks if he's his best friend (hint- Sydney is his best friend).

Fak gives us another hint he's not Carmy's friend, naively pointing out he knows all of Carmy's nuances. Later on in this episode, we get key information about Carmy's nuances that shows Fak is wrong about what or who Carmy is truly thinking about.

Carmy then with the fak's influence tells us claire is the one haunting him.

Right after the declaration, we cut to Sydney. She's the clue, with a poster of the movie "Say Anything" behind her. Throughout this episode, we witness the struggle between Carmy and Sydney, where they say very little to each other—essentially, nothing at all. If they would just say anything, they could get somewhere- perhaps have their magical moment. I also want to point out that in the film "Say Anything", the girl’s father reassures her that she can tell him anything. Emmanuel has a similar presence in Sydney’s life; he wants her to confide in him about her relationship and business partner's troubles.

Before this line of being grateful- Sydney says "I just wanted to say"

This is more clue that the apology and truth that it is Sydney Carmy is always thinking about that he hasn't realized yet. In this scene Carmy is trying to understand his dish- he's trying to 'crack' it, he says- and he's determined- meaning solve the mystery or the magic trick of what he made (his whole mind is playing tricks on him, and he's trying to crack where his mind is at).

Before this moment, he says, I've been meaning to talk about- so he has been thinking about Sydney often and what he wants to tell her something- and we (Carmy) are distracted with what he wants to say to Claire- really it's about what he's been wanting to say to Sydney.

Then this is all Carmy can say for now. But it's clear he wants to say so much more to her. It's too hard for him to talk to Claire, but what about this situation with Sydney? It's difficult, but you can tell he longs to face what they need to discuss.

This is Carmy after she leaves, taking another 'crack' at the trick he's made- almost discovering the misdirection. Nearly solving the puzzle.

People have talked about what staring at the surprise means, but I want to emphasize that it connects back to the beginning of the episode. For a magical moment to occur, it must be spontaneous. This is something Carmy wants with Sydney, but he isn’t ready to accept that spontaneity and fun just yet. He needs to end certain things in his life before he can truly begin anew.

This provides more clues about his relationship with Sydney and not necessarily Claire. None of these actions, such as trying to have closure with Claire in the walk-in, occur until Sydney shuts down with him and stops talking. It doesn't happen until Carmy cracks a bit of the dish he made. I think he realizes that at least part of him understands the dish was about Sydney; it's been about Sydney all along, and Claire is the misdirection. As for the dish also pointing to Chef Terry wearing the same hair accessories, it's Sydney reminding him of the good things in his life.

But back to more clues: this is about Sydney- after the I really love you from Claire, we cut to Sydney.

Mentioned before but giving us another clue about who's haunting Carmy, who's pissed at Carmy, who Carmy really needs to apologize to...

Then, the episode concludes with another twist for the audience, who must accept the surface-level information of the trick still being done- that Carmy's mind still lingers on Claire with the symbol of the scrunchie. They're misdirecting the audience once again.

It is really fun to point out all the possible clues and thoughtful making of a relationship in a TV show. Imo, the spontaneous moment is telling us for the magical moment/ the sleight of hand to be revealed, for the ship to happen, carmy has going to be in a place of fun, surprises, and spontaneity, and the big moment between them will happen when we least expect it (or least nonshippers won't expect it).