#it felt like he was staring into my soul 😭😭

[fraternum-momentum]

i just spoke with a guy with the bluest eyes imaginable and it really was like this meme

[gay-dorito-dust]

hiiii!!! im not too sure if requests are open, if they arent please just ignore this!!!!! i really really loveeeee the way u write angst!😭✌️ could i please request blade, dr ratio, aventurine and sunday reacting to finding their loved one on the floor barely alive? UGHHHH I IMAGINE THE SHOCK AND FEAR AND BREATHLESSNESS aqhjddkkxnsk

thank u smmm!!!!!😭🩷🩷

Aventurine

Didn’t think it was possible to physically feel his heart being ripped from his chest anymore then it already had, until he spotted your bruised and barely conscious body lying on the floor in a way that made his blood become ice cold.

‘No.’ He whispered to himself in disbelief as a tight feeling blossomed within his chest. It felt as though he was being painfully constricted or squeezed tightly by an invisible hand, a feeling that only grew worse with every step he made towards you until he was finding it hard to breathe.

‘No.’ Aventurine whispers again, not wanting to think of anything that he was seeing before him as real but more of a realistic nightmare. ‘Please don’t take them away from me, I’ll have nobody left.’ He pleads as he drops to his knees and struggled with unsteady hands to pull your body towards him and holding you tightly in his arms as he rests his head against your chest, desperate and hopeful of hearing your heart beat as proof that you were alive.

‘Haven’t you taken enough from me!!?’ Aventurine screamed at the top of his lungs, staring up at the ceiling as though the Aeons would hear the rage, the heartbreak and the pain within his voice. ‘Haven’t I suffered enough by your hand?! You have taken everything and everyone I have ever loved and now you think you can take from me again just because you feel like it!?!’ He continued to scream, letting everything he’s kept inside out as rivers of tears streamed down his cheeks, blurring his vision of you as he looked down at you as he felt his soul cry out for yours.

Everything within Aventurine was hurting and it was hurting like hell but that didn’t loosen his hold on you one bit, if anything it made him tighten it, almost as though he was the only thing stopping the deities from claiming your soul as theirs. Aventurine would fight them to keep you if he must and he didn’t care what the consequences of doing this would be, his left hand was more unsteady then ever as it desperately grasped for your hand, intertwining your fingers and squeezing; letting out a whimper when he didn’t feel you squeeze his hand back like you always did to reassure him that you were not going anywhere.

‘Please.’ Aventurine begged as he pressed his forehead against your own, not wanting to walk through this life if the one person who stood by his side wasn’t going to be there. ‘Don’t take them away from me, not now, I don’t want to be alone anymore.’

Sunday

He’s seething and seeing red.

He’s unable to contain his anger as he rushed to your side, clasping your hand tightly between his own, as though he could transfer some of his strength to you in hopes it would allow him to look in your pretty eyes again.

‘My love, I beg of you, tell me who did this to you.’ He pleads as could only watch your body with a sense of hopelessness and desperation for a sign. ‘Tell me who did this to you and I shall make them pay tenfold.’ He adds as his anger became harder and harder for him to conceal, how could he possibly keep his composure when you had been attacked because of your ties to him? Someone was out to get him but did so through underhanded means rather than direct confrontation and for that Sunday couldn’t help but think of a multitude of ways to capture this cowardly assailant for harming you.

When you did not answer him Sunday felt parts of his sanity begin to slip away as his breath hitched in his throat and his hands tightened on yours. ‘My love I beg of you to stay with me, for I cannot loose you now nor ever, I forbid you from leaving me this way. I cannot breathe without you, I cannot smile without you, for you are my lifeline in every sense of the word.’ He says as he felt the colour in his life begging to fade from view and become monochrome.

You were the colour in his life, you always have been, and without you he couldn’t see the beauty nor value in anything anymore as you were the most valuable thing to him. Sunday felt himself grow cold with every second they passed where you didn’t do anything to tell him that you were okay, all reason had left him as revenge took it’s place and almost as though a switch had been flipped within his head, Sunday stopped crying as his face became a blank slate.

‘I’ll keep you safe my beloved.’ He said as he lifted you in his arms. ‘You’ll never have to worry about anything else ever again once I bring back the person who did this to you at your feet, pleading for mercy and to spare their pathetic life.’ He then presses a kiss to your forehead as he looked ahead with a pair of dead, unfeeling eyes. ‘I promise this to you and so much more, just you wait my heart, I shall gaze upon your eyes soon enough.’

Ratio

He kind of internally shuts down upon seeing you laying on the floor, barely alive.

He stands there for prolonged periods of time not saying anything but it was clear within his eyes that Veritas was struggling to comprehend the situation before him in a logical manner.

Everything was quiet as though someone had just removed all sound out of the room and all he could focus on was the fact that you were barely moving, barely breathing but the expression on your face made it seem as though you were in a peaceful slumber. Veritas would soon snap himself out of his own mind and made his way towards you before kneeling by your side, he then placed two fingers to the pulse point in your neck and letting out a uneven sigh when he felt your pulse beat softly against his fingertips.

He hasn’t even noticed that he had been crying until he felt something wet hit his clothed thigh and reached up to touch his cheeks that were wet with the trail his tears had left. Nothing felt real yet everything was becoming too much for the scholar as felt himself actively trying to disassociate from everything as a way of dealing with the possibility of you dying.

His body is wracked with fear of an uncertain future as he kept his fingers glued to your pulse as a way as to ground himself in the reality that you were still alive despite what your current state looked like. He remained by your side silently, not a single word left his lips as he remembered your last conversation, it wasn’t pretty and a few unsavoury words were exchanged before you left his office with a heavy heart.

Veritas felt partially guilty for your current state even though everyone knew he had no part in it but he felt guilty regardless for how things were left between you two. He regretted not apologising for his blunt words and harsh criticism earlier, and now he had to deal with the horrible idea that that could’ve been your last ever conversation you had with him, along with the idea that you thought he might’ve hated you as you were left alone in a empty room after having been attacked in what you believed were your final moments.

Something of which that wasn’t true at all, Veritas loved you dearly and held you close to his heart whenever you were apart, finding himself longing to come back to your side and fall asleep together within the comfort of each others arms. However that didn’t mean much when he could barely hold you without touching a wound by accident and keeping his hands to himself for the rest of the day in fear of hurting you further.

Veritas had never felt such raw fear in his life until you were almost taken from him and on such negativity terms too. Something he wishes to never experience ever again.

Blade

Death refused to claim him and so it decided to try and stake its claim over you -the one person whom Blade cared deeply for -which didn’t sit right with Blade as he wordlessly held you in his arms, his jaw clenching at the sound of your pained whimpers.

‘Death won’t have you,’ he began, ‘I won’t allow it to because if it refuses to give me what I have been long since owed, then I will keep you from its clutches for as long as I can until it submits to our whims.’ Blade then kisses your forehead. ‘I will not let it claim you when you have so much to do, whereas I on the other hand, have nothing left ahead of me.’

Blade hated seeing you hurt but this only made him want to hunt down whoever did this to you and make them pay with their life, but he knew he couldn’t leave you on the assumption that they might come back and finish you off when he turned his back, so he stays by your side like a guard dog with his hand at the hilt of his sword constantly as he awaited for help.

Blade never thought he’d find himself in a situation where he wished death didn’t come, especially when that person was you because you were his guiding light, his only love and he would do anything to keep you safe and protected from all harm that came your way; even if that meant denying death to have your soul.

In comparison to him, you had so much more to offer and so much to accomplish in life, and Blade knew he would never forgive himself if he were to let you die before you even saw the fruit of your labour with your own two eyes. He wanted you to reach the stars and see that all your work wasn’t for nothing and then see you reach heights that he could only dream of touching.

He didn’t care what happened to him, he could heal as fast as he was hurt but you, you couldn’t heal like he could and the wounds that littered your body would become scars, scars that would look similar to his own that reminded you of what you had survived by the skin of your teeth. Blade didn’t want to loose you to something he could’ve easily prevented from happening, he felt as though he had failed you and for that he couldn’t forgive himself for what happened to you, calling it a mishap on his behalf in ever leaving you unguarded.

So now he stayed close to you, hand at the hilt of his sword, tempting fate to try and take you away from him again.

[the-offside-rule]

Franco Colapinto (Williams) - Dulce

Requested: no it just reminds me of the time i tried mate on my exchange year in spain😭

Warnings: nope

Y/n set up her phone on the counter, the familiar red light blinking as she began recording her TikTok. Today's video? Making mate for the first time. Well, at least pretending to. She had watched her boyfriend Franco make it countless times, taking it very seriously, as any true Argentine would. Today, though, she decided to throw in a little twist; a joke that would surely catch him off guard.

The kitchen was warm, and she could feel Franco's presence nearby, lounging in the living room, trying to act uninterested. He always grew curious whenever she pulled out the mate gourd, even though he pretended not to care. Y/n started the video with a playful tone, smiling at the camera. “Alright, guys! Today I’m going to make mate. Argentine style. My boyfriend is the expert, but I’ve picked up a few things.” She threw a glance over her shoulder, catching Franco's eyebrow rising slightly, though he remained focused on his phone.

She handled the yerba with an impressive level of confidence, pouring it into the gourd just as Franco had shown her. So far, so good. She leaned toward the camera, whispering with a mischievous smile, “I’m going to show you how to make it the right way… with a little twist.” Reaching for a small jar of sugar from the counter, Y/n kept it hidden from Franco’s line of sight. The moment the jar clinked, she felt Franco shift on the couch, his attention now fully on her. His head popped up, eyes narrowing slightly. "Che, amor! What are you doing?" Suppressing a grin, she maintained her TikTok persona. “Adding a little sweetness, babe! I’ve read that sugar makes it taste better!”

Franco's eyes widened in shock, and within seconds, he was off the couch, hurrying toward her. "No, no, no, no!" He exclaimed, voice panicked. “Y/n, no podés ponerle az��car al mate!” He stared at the gourd like she had just broken an ancient law. Y/n could barely keep a straight face as she continued to sprinkle the sugar onto the yerba. "But it makes it sweeter! People put sugar in their tea all the time, why not mate?" Franco, clearly distressed, snatched the jar of sugar from her hand, holding it up as if it were some forbidden artifact. “Because this is not tea! Es mate, entendés? You’re supposed to taste the bitterness, the soul of it!” He gestured wildly, his accent thickening with the urgency of his words. “It’s tradition! No se toca con azúcar!"

That was it; Y/n couldn’t hold it in any longer. Laughter spilled out of her, causing Franco to blink in confusion. "Oh my god, you’re so cute when you get all worked up! Franco, relax. It’s a joke. I’m not actually putting sugar in the mate." For a moment, he just stood there, staring at her, trying to process what she said. He glanced back at the gourd, realizing she hadn’t actually added any sugar, she just pretending for the camera. His tense shoulders finally relaxed, and a sheepish smile crept onto his face.

"Dios mío, Y/n." He muttered, relief lining his voice. "You almost gave me a heart attack. You don’t mess with mate like that. It's sacred." Y/n laughed again, reaching out to ruffle his hair affectionately. “I know, I know. But it was too easy to mess with you.” Franco grumbled something under his breath in Spanish, but his smile was already tugging at his lips. Y/n turned back to her phone, giving the camera a playful wink. “That’s it for today’s video! Franco’s mate-lover approval is very serious, but we got him good!” Franco leaned over her shoulder, eyeing the camera with mock suspicion. “Next time, I’m making sure you’re doing it right.”

Y/n smiled, leaning back against him. "Deal. But maybe next time, you should be the one making it on camera." She giggled, poking his cheek. “Claro.” He chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “As long as you promise no more sugar jokes.” She smirked, turning off the recording. “No promises.”

[neuvilletteswife4ever]

Hii! First time on youe page!Requests? Bet. A performance was demanded of me...And now I have delivered...ENCORE(I miss my fnaf phase ok?😭)

Well, here is the request. Yandere fatui harbingers with a darling who is on a hunger strike(bacically refuses to eat unless freed).

Ty 4 reading my request.

YANDERE FATUI HARBINGERS X A DARLING WHO REFUSES TO EAT

Warnings:

Kidnapping, no consent, killing, unhealthy obsession, torture, force-feed, needles

"Eat! Eat it!!" Scaramouche yelled at you annoyed while trying to force a spoon into your mouth. You refused. You wouldn't eat until they freed you from this miserable place. You didn't care if you starved. But you knew that they wouldnt let you starve because of their lovesick obessions. No way that you would starve on their watch.

"Eat it." Dottore said coldly, his voice making shivers run down your spine. The other fatui harbingers agreed as they stared into your soul. Gosh...you were sick of those lovesick smiles.

"I'm not hungry..." You said turning your head away and crossing your arms.

"Now now, come on dear, don't be like that now." Tartaglia stared at you, his eyes filled with lust and obsession. Pantalone agreed.

"Right, and then who would i spoil with gifts if you died from starvation?" He said, his smile wide as he enjoyed your scent, your beauty, everything about you.

"N-no. Not happening, I refuse..." It was obvious you were hungry, but you couldn't break your promise to not eat until they released you. All that starvation for what? To end your promise now? You wouldn't give up that easily. That's not you. You know better than that.

Everyone sighs deeply, as they glared at you.

"I'll only eat (a tiny amount) if you remove this chain from my ankle.." You managed to mutter out.

*The Fatui Harbingers eyes widened. The thought having you roam around free without them constantly gushing over you was ridiculous. It was obvious that you'd attempt to escape if they did remove the chain.*

"My dear, my dear. You leave us no choice." Arlecchino simply says, her eyes darkening as the others suddenly looked even more obsessive than they already were. You wondered what she meant by "you leave us no choice".

The Fatui Harbingers kiss you (without your consent) and leave the room. They make sure to have atleast 500 fatui agents outside of your room to prevent you from escaping. Even if you had a chain on. But they couldn't take the risk. Especially after your previous attempts.

1 Hour Later

The doors to your room opened and there they were. With fatui agents (the fatui agents were blindfolded because the fatui harbingers didn't want anyone to simply look at you, even the slightest.) carrying 50 dead corpses to your room. The corpses looked familiar...wait! Those were the corpses of your relatives and friends!!

"Now, let's make a deal my love. If you don't eat, we will kill anyone that's dear to you." Capitano smiles obsessively behind his mask.

You saw your mom and dad brutally tortured to death based of the injuries. You began bawling your eyes out as you felt a sharp pain in your back. It was Dottore. He injected a sharp needle that would make you faint and be unconscious for some hours. They forced your unconscious body to eat.

When you woke up you saw Columbina patting your head gently in bed as the other fatui harbingers watched you sleep. Their eyes never leaving. It made you really uncomfortable.

"Isn't it just better to obey us, love?"

(Im sorry if these are cringe and weird. Im still learning how to write proper yandere stories.)

[trevorsgodmother]

𝓢𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼… (C.S ☁️)

Warnings: Just tooth rotting fluff, kissing, literally that's it. POV: First person (reader) Summary: Chris and you are having a quiet night in...

Chris is laying down on his back, yapping about his day. I'm half-listening, reading my book at the same time while leaning against his headboard. I put my novel down and crawl over, laying on my stomach so now my face is hovering over his, upside down. A bit like Spiderman and Gwen in that one alleyway scene.

His words get cut off by a grin, slightly flustered by my sudden attention. "What're you doin'?" He asks innocently. I shrug, giggling quietly for no reason. He brought me out of my shell, helping me to become much more affectionate over the course of our relationship (maybe a backstory..?).

"Nothing" I shrug. His hands reach out to play with my hair which has formed a curtain around us (sorry to all my short hair baddies 😭), twirling the strands between his fingers subconsciously. It may seem weird to others, but we loved staring at each other. It never felt awkward or weird, just... comforting. We could go on for ages, with no words being spoken, just looking at each other like we were studying pieces of art. Our highest record was an hour straight.

Chris smiles softly. "I love ya so much..." He leans in to press a gentle kiss against my lips. The corners of my lips curl upwards. "I love you too..."

He lets his eyes travel all over my face, from the soft shape of my nose, to my pink lips, and eventually ending up at my eyes. I reach down and absentmindedly start tracing over his familiar features, his eyes fluttering a bit in contentment. My finger runs over his sharp jawline, gaunt cheeks, high cheekbones, smile lines, full lips and the crinkles around his eyes. I travel along a path i've ran my hand over a countless amount of times, like i'm mapping him out to stay in my memory forever.

Both of us adored the feeling, of being loved, not judged, and just existing silently with someone we share so much of ourselves with. He is pretty loud on a regular basis, and I had fallen for his golden retriever personality and extroverted soul, but quiet moments like this made me realise how calm he could be. And how much we enjoyed the silence and lingering touches.

Light rain pitter-patters on the window, adding to the relaxed vibe of the dark room. Chris closes his eyes, my feathery touches and the soft sounds of the weather plus our breathing making him tired. I chuckle, tapping the tip of his nose. "You sleepy?" "Yea..." he mumbles. We shift around a little until we're both laying down, his head on my chest and him half on top of me. I scratch his scalp tenderly, loving the feeling of his hair in my fingers.

He hums, breathing already slowing down. Our hearts beat in unison, a steady rhythm that lulls us to sleep. The night is spent cuddled up in each other's arms, mumbling half-coherent words in our sleep, just so comfortable with each other.

So content.

A/N: Literally almost threw up writing this!! (I ate a lot of candy today). Also a lil break from the angst. New AU possibly..? (Chris x quiet!reader) TL: @hearts4werka @stvrnzcherries @m00nl1ghts1vt @spaghetti835928383 @pvssychicken @moonlightsturns @snowysosturn DONUT STEAL 🥶 Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws <3 -Ropitipop 👁👅👁

☞ Masterlist

[deadghosy]

SLYTHERIN BOYS X OWL! READER HEADCANNONS

Prompt: a wild owl appears, gaining some Slytherin boy’s attention as their own personally pet and companion

Ft. The riddles, Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, && Lorenzo Berkshire

A/N: based off of how I use to do hazbin hotel x animal! readers. I appreciate reblogs, comments, and such as likes.

When your white owl appearance took place in the common room of the Slytherins. Draco was a little cautious to get close of you whilst Lorenzo immediately found you enchanting. He wanted to make you his wonderful companion. Mattheo also wanted to making the two Slytherins fight for your attention. Trying to bring you mice thinking you were “that” kinda owl. When really you liked fruits a lot, to which Theodore fed you once and you were attached to him.

“Guess they like me more..” Theodore says with a grin, petting you under your chin to which you coo at. Immediately Theodore felt his heart melt as he kept petting you, walking away using a soft baby voice. “Aww you’re so cute my little bambino..aww..” meanwhile the others are like “did he seriously just adopt an owl?”

Lorenzo is still the number one caretaker of you. He literally schedules what time you eat, when you need a bath, when you need a nap. He’s like he’s taking care of a baby. Even though Theo tells him it’s not that serious. Lorenzo is not taking chances as he teaches your tricks.

He taught you how to unlock cages incase you get kidnapped from the Slytherin common room. Or maybe something I excepted happens to you and they’re not there to protect you. Makes them sad to think about it.

Blaise, plays his music softly around you. He loves how you just prance around howling and cooing around. He find you a comfortable companion to just vibe him with. And you think the same.

Theodore, the one to just feed you and you would be on his shoulder when he is in common room. He loves you dearly as if he birthed you😭

Mattheo sometimes joke around about how he would pluck your feather for it to be a quill, and you were so happy after hearing that as you avoided him for a whole week before Blaise made him apologize. But most of all, he loves you since you are adorable.

Draco, this ferret boy would be afraid that if he turned into a ferret that you would grab him and eat him. But when Theodore told him that you only ate fruits. He felt pleased. Then he would transform and you two were animals causing mayhem together. (I believe in my head he’s an animagus)

Tom….you don’t see him often. But when you do. He leaves you a small snack, he doesn’t really show emotion towards you. But it’s nice how one time he heard a couple of Gryffindors going to steal you. Let’s just say those Gryffindors were scared to even go near you. You admired Tom from afar and he did the same to you.

Group head pets from you. Be prepared to be smothered with love and affection from your Slytherin owners.

Lorenzo absolutely ADORES sleeping with you in his room. 🥹baby is in love with your nightly coos. He thinks they’re so adorable to the point he may cry or just fall asleep with a smile on his face.

You’re very chilling to be around, surprisingly Tom lets you in his room. He may find a small attachment to you to the point he maybe wants to be in your soul… just maybe.

There was a part of time where the Theodore and Lorenzo fought over who was the best owl dad for you. You didn’t know who to chose so you flew over to Tom who just sat on the common room couch reading. Not giving a care in the world. The two Slytherins were shocked and disappointed as they banned you from seeing Tom for a few days.

“They’re like an air cat!” Mattheo said as you coo at him from the pets you gained. “Please don’t ever call our owl that..” Tom said with an unimpressed stare. Mattheo still says it to this day in Tom’s face.

If anyone forgets to feed you, they feel guilty. Not Tom though. He feeds you before he goes to his lectures while those others are like. “Who fed them before we left??” While Tom is like “Pft….imbeciles.”

They love when you coo at them. Tom would never admit despite his own brother saying it out loud💗

You are the most beautiful owl Hogwarts know, and sometimes Tom tries to talk to you as if you are a real person. Talking about pregnancy and how you should watch out for “those” type of owls…he’s just trying to protect and not kill an owl.

[anakinca]

Thinking about anakin crying in your arms while you hold him because he's never felt so loved before 💗😭

—❝the rest of our lives❞

anakin skywalker x reader

tw ; nothing, just pure fluff

a/n ; angel, you absolute GENIUS. this prompt is so fucking adorable i'm literally sobbing my eyes out 😭i loved this request so much that i literally had to crawl my way out of my deep dark hole of writers block just to write this, that being said, this is only a small imagine BECAUSE of said writers block.. but anyway, i hope you all enjoy this, angels !! also send me a message or comment if u wanna be added to the taglist <3

PEACEFUL NIGHTS LIKE THIS ARE WHAT ANAKIN CHERISHES MOST. The nights where he can finally come home to you—not needing to put up his whole tough front up for anyone anymore. He can express his every emotion, be completely vulnerable, and you won’t bat an eye. You’d only comfort him and give him the love and reassurance he needs to get through it, and not the backlash and the disappointment he always receives from any of his fellow Jedi. 

So, when the stars are shining bright in the Coruscant skies, and the lights of all the ginormous skyscrapers are peering into the windows of your flat, it’s there he finds solace in the comfort of your arms. It’s the very salvation he needs to not let his breath go to waste and to keep the light inside of him alive—as long as your heart stays beating. 

"Come here, Ani,” you whisper softly as you thread your fingers through Anakin’s hair. He leans forward to bury his face in the crook of your neck, sighing in relief as you massage his scalp and press your lips gently against his forehead.

The feeling of his hair against your fingers as you card them through his thick, sandy blonde hair is relaxing, almost as much as it is for him, his much needed relief. 

He can’t help but let the tears flow down his face as he gives in to the desire to be loved in your arms, and you can feel it dampen your neck slightly, your lips curving down. 

Leaning back to cup his face, you look at him with concern, "What's wrong, my love? Why are you crying?" You ask him softly. 

He swallows the lump in his throat as you wipe his tears away with your thumbs, "I just never had anyone hold me so gently before. It feels like I'm finally home." He mumbles out tearfully, not bothering to stop his voice from breaking like he usually would—he knows he doesn’t need to pretend when he’s with you. 

Your lips quirk up into a bittersweet smile as you kiss his tears away, "I'll keep holding you like this for the rest of our lives, Ani.” You let out a sigh, leaning your forehead on his to look into his eyes. His glossy eyes open, the deep ocean blue staring up at you, glazed over.

It's suffocating, to a degree, like drowning—drowning in what is him. But, as he looks back up at you, those same suffocating blue eyes hold a degree of love incomparable to any man before him, to any being in the galaxy.

“I'll love you ‘till my last breath, and I'll be here, even if you don't want me or no longer love me." You continue, wiping away another tear that sheds from his glistening eyes.

Anakin sniffles quietly as he listens to your words, his heart swelling and pounding in his chest. “I’ll always love you, no matter what happens… and I’ll make sure that nothing happens.” He whispers to you with utter devotion and love swirling in his eyes. The tone in which he said it made it sound more like a vow than a promise—and it’s from that, that you know he’s telling only the sincere truth.

His thick lashes flutter shut once more as your hand continues to move, his tears now coming to a stop as he relishes in the feeling of your tender touch.

And as you both lay on the bed, his face now buried once again in the warm crook of your neck, and your hand rubbing his back soothingly, you swear to yourself that you will protect this man with your whole heart and soul, even if you have to slay the dragons that dare to taint his winsome mind. Because you love him, and there's nothing in this world you wouldn't do for him—and you know he feels the very same, if not more. 

@thesassypadawan

[alikuarso]

To answer your question about Fresh: Fresh is actually a parasite! He dresses in his 90's-themed clothes and speaks in a silly way so that others underestimate him. His main and utmost goal is to Survive, and the way he does that is by infecting other people with his parasites and draining the life from their souls. Being seen as harmless lets him get closer to them and gives him easier access for possession. He hopes to eventually take over the multiverse, spreading his parasites in every corner of it and having absolute control.

He also has no emotions. He is capable of them, but for whatever reason he is unable to feel much, besides the rare instance of anger. He does frequently feel fear, though.

He is a bit sadistic, and he likes seeing others suffer. This is because when he takes over someone he drains their soul of life, which causes them pain. And to him, taking someone's body means safety, it means he can survive a bit longer as long as he's snatched their body. So he's come to associate the pain of others as something good.

And he's also aware of the creators/viewers, thanks to an event called the Loveball, which is canon to his character.

Going to copy and paste my own words for this [I was talking to a friend about Loveball]:

"So, like seven years ago there was a fandom-wide event called the Loveball, where people gathered their OCs and had them all attend an UTMV dancing ball. Fresh went, of course. There, he met a Frisk called Pacifrisk. Even knowing who he really was [90's parasite], they still believed he could be good. Before this, he hadn't ever really felt a connection to anyone, or even positive emotions in general. But Pacifrisk's faith in him made him feel positively towards them. This freaked him out. [No Fr@ns though, don't worry. That wasn't the intention for this plot.]

As a result, not only did he try to kill them, but he also went through with his plans: the Fresh Takeover [I forget what it's actually called]. His true reason for attending the ball. OCs were either possessed by the parasites or tried to fight against them. Apparently, some people used alcohol to ward the virus off, as Fresh hates substances such as that.

Fresh wanted to take over the multiverse, with this Loveball being the first step for his total domination.

But then right in the middle of things, a Sans AU [which I totally forget the name of X,D] grabbed Fresh and basically yeeted him into an alternate state of being. One where he could see the creators, all staring at him. An audience.

The Sans revealed the nature of Fresh's existence: That he was simply a character in a story. And if the creators got bored of him, he could easily be written aside and forgotten. Erased. His conquest didn't matter, in the end.

Predictably, this gave him an existential crisis. I'm not sure what happened after, but he stopped invading and went somewhere to contemplate his existence in a depressed state.

Afterwards, he had a new goal: To entertain. To convince the creators that he was worth keeping around. Similar to his previous goal of survival, but now with more dire stakes."

His creator @loverofpiggies has some posts about the Loveball, tagged under either the 'fresh sans' tag or the 'loveball' tag, which I recommend you check out! ^^

But yeah, to answer your question: The reason Fresh fought Ink was probably 1: because he saw it as a good way to keep himself alive and 2: So that he could be relevant and interesting to the viewers.

Hope this answered any questions you might have about him! ^w^

THANK YOU BECAUSE THERE'S NO WAY I WOULD HAVE FOUND ABOUT ANY OF THIS OTHERWISE😭😭😭 THAT'S A LOT

Now I want to draw fresh existential crisis mood, That's something I never would have imagined existed

Im still a bit confused about fresh not having emotions¿ but I think I got the idea, but still, why does he feel fear?

I think fresh is becoming my favorite now, help, error do something

(Thank you again for your time✨️)

[alastorss]

we've seen Alastor with deaf reader. but what about Alastor and blind reader?

how confusing it would be for them meeting Alastor for the first time with the radio filter overlaying his voice

and how confusing it would be for our deer man to find out he grew soft spot for reader? bc they find his voice very soothing to listen? since their hearing senses are hightened due to the blindness

so in one of their shared peaceful moments he asks reader if they want to see him. and to answer their startled expression he just brings their hands to lay on his face.. for them to "read" his appearence..

sorry if there are mistakes, Im not eng. love your writing sm, thanks for quality food you bring us, fluff-starved people!

💕

a/n: hiii hun!! i'm so so sorry i took so long to respond to this, but i really wanted to write something for this because aaaaahhhhh that's such a good idea omg 😭❤️ i hope you like it!

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Alastor once believed himself to be the demon of all demons.

He was everything a Sinner wanted to be and everything a Sinner feared in one soul—a package wrapped up pretty with a bowtie. He loved it. Thrived on it.

There was something so delicious about terror.

He played into his horrifying image. Purposefully made his presence known; broadcasted screams for all to hear. Power and fame only made him greedier for souls.

Being the center of attention came naturally for him. As natural as breathing, friends would jest. He attracted eyes wherever he went. Some admiring. Some not.

So it was quite a shock when you bumped right into him on the street and didn't immediately comb him over with your eyes.

"I'm sorry," you quickly stammered out, fiddling with your own sleeves.

Finally, you looked at him, but he could tell you were just looking for the sake of looking. Absently, you stared at him as you waited for a response.

Perhaps you expected him to chew you out. To lay a hand on you or to drag you into the alley so he could kick you until you bled. He could see it in your expression.

His heart uncharacteristically ached.

Instead, he steadied you by the shoulders and fixed a stray lock of hair out of your face.

"Carry on, my dear," he mused.

He was surprised with how pleased he was when you smiled at him. Big and wide—charming, really. He was hooked.

Alastor became a frequent in the area, always keeping his eyes peeled for you so he could take your arm into his and ferry you around. You insisted that you were fine, that you didn't need help, but he denied that those were his intentions. He simply wanted your company.

(And to scare off any other demons who had hit you or spat at you before.)

Eventually, you grew fond of him, too.

You could hear him so clearly—the trail of death and despair he left behind was loud, after all. Screaming souls followed his every move. For some reason, it comforted you.

He never tried playing nasty pranks on you. Never tried sneaking up behind you just to scare you, or hit you just because he could.

Alastor did not feel like a demon anymore.

Sinister and cruel, he thought the words didn't suit him when you were walking hand-in-hand.

For as many lives as he took, he had a soft spot for you.

His very presence brought you ease. You knew no one dared to approach a weak Sinner like you when you had him dangling off your arm. He found ways to fill the silence when you weren't chatting, just assuring you he was there.

"You're too kind to me," you once said to him. "You're not an angel trying to trick me, are you?"

"I am!" He chuckled, feeding into your little joke.

The way you laughed made his heart squeeze in the same way it had when he first met you. For a moment he felt nothing but guilt burn in his stomach.

He was the demon of all demons, but for some reason, he couldn't stand you thinking he was a demon at all.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Ever since convincing you to come to the hotel with him, you've not left his side once.

Not that he was complaining about it.

Surrounded with new people and often jolting out of your own skin whenever they began impromptu musical numbers, Alastor could tell you were entirely out of your element.

You were slowly but surely beginning to open up to your new home and the compatriots that came with it. However, you were always the most relaxed with the Radio Demon's soothing presence. He found himself cherishing the moments that you spent alone.

Conversation was not needed to tell each other how you felt. He appreciated that the most.

It's why he is slightly confused when you open your mouth as if you want to say something before snapping it shut with a loud huff. Again and again, you keep it up, sighing and groaning quietly to yourself.

Finally, Alastor has had enough. "Is something the matter, dear?" He asks, peering up from his newspaper to eye you on the other end of the couch.

"N-No!" You squeak, fumbling around with your hands like a cartoon character. "I just..."

He waits for you to continue, only to be met with deafening silence. Sighing to himself, he sets down his paper and scoots over to your side.

"Go on," he gently urges.

"I don't want to be a bother," you say quietly after a pause of hesitation.

He only stares at you, flabbergasted by the way you start to pull away from him. Stopping you by giving your shoulder a squeeze, he swallows harshly.

Your heart is racing so loud that he can hear it roaring in his own sensitive ears.

"You are never a bother," he quickly assures. "Come now, look at me."

Your brows furrow, unsure of what he wants you to do. You slowly turn your head to him with a confused scrunch of the nose. In all the time that you had known each other, he had never asked you to do something so pointless.

"Look at me," he pushes, hands sliding down your arms to take yours. He tugs you closer and brings your hands up to his face, allowing you to cup his cheeks.

Careful not to nick your skin with his teeth, his smile softens. Your hands roam his face tenderly, subtly squeezing at the fat of his cheeks. With your fingers tracing every part of him, from the bridge of his nose to his brows to the infinite curve of his smile, you relax.

"I'm a monster."

He had always tried to convince you that he wasn't terrible. That he was worthy of having your hands cupping his cheeks. But you could feel it—his smile. His antlers.

He's never felt vulnerable before. For some reason, it feels good to open up to you.

"You're just as pretty as I always imagined," you tell him with a shake of your head. Alastor flushes at your words.

No dishonesty. No fear. Your heart has stopped pounding in your ribcage.

That's right. He was kind to you, even though he was a beast. The demon had always thought that what he wanted most was to be feared, but he was wrong. You knew his heart before his form.

He shifts so he can kiss your fingertips.

"Well? What would you like to say?"

You suddenly freeze up, lips pressed into a thin line. Flustered, you sputter. "Nevermind, please just forget about that!"

"Oh? Keeping secrets from me isn't very nice, darling~" he muses. You groan, pulling your hands back to your own face to hide it.

Alastor only laughs, static crackling in his voice as he does. He leans forward, gently prying your wrists to reveal your face again so he can press his lips to your forehead.

He knows. The way you melt into his arms is enough. No conversation needed.

~

taglist: @the-lake-is-calling @dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice @averylonelysea @bri22222 @cxrsedwxrlds @amarokofficial @anae-naea-zacheria @for-hearthand-home @fantasy-is-best @angixyc @th3-st4r-gur1 @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it @dilemmaiscool @concentratedconcrete @squiword7 @clarakainda @princekeerys @cedarrthefluffylee (send an ask to be added!)

[callme-holly]

PLIS PLIS PLIS DALLY X DAUGHTER OF A COP AND MY SOUL IS YOURS 😭🙏

𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 [𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

𝐚/𝐧: this has been requested a whole bunch and im so glad bc ive had this idea running round my head for so long. also ty to the person who answered my last a/n about the images!

part 2: that damn hoodlum

The station buzzed with its usual chaos as you walked in, weaving your way past the bustling cops who were attempting to wrangle a group of boys who thought picking a fight was going to somehow work in their favour and get them out of whatever trouble they’d gotten themselves into. It was a familiar sight—your father was the chief of police after all, and handling greasers and punks alike took up almost every spare inch of his time. 

You didn't need to ask the flustered woman on the front desk if you could go through; she knew you well enough by now to just wave you on without question. Besides, she looked like she had her hands full, and you weren’t sure you had it in you to add any more stress to her plate.

Instead, you focused on making your way to the main office at the back of the building, the paper bag containing your dad's lunch secured safely in one hand, the other holding tightly onto the strap of your purse. The hall was lined with posters, most of them portraying bold slogans and cartoony images about theft, violence, drug use, and the like, all of which  were so over the top that you couldn't help but scoff, shaking your head fondly as you rounded the corner and headed straight for the door marked ‘Chief’s Office.’  

Shouting from inside the room interrupted your thought process immediately, and you froze in place, staring at the closed door with wide eyes as your heart rate spiked slightly. A thick new york accent cut through the quiet, and you let out a long breath, knowing all to well who it was inside there with your dad. 

“What’ve you done now…” you mumble quietly, rolling back your shoulders in an attempt to steel yourself. Gripping the door handle, you twisted it and stepped inside quietly, lingering awkwardly in the entrance until someone took notice of your presence. 

In the middle of the room, standing in front of his desk with his arms crossed, was your father, wearing an expression that could only be described as exasperated. He was glaring down at the boy sitting on the opposite side, whom you could recognise without even looking at his face, his blonde hair tousled, and his arms crossed against his chest. He looked every bit bored, and it didn't seem like he was paying an ounce of attention to the words leaving your dad's mouth, his eyes darting lazily around the room before landing on you.

He raised a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips when you finally met his gaze, and you felt your face heat up as you cleared your throat quickly.

“Winston, eyes on me.” Your dad snaps, and Dallas turns back around with a huff, shrugging lightly as your dad steps towards you. 

 You swallow hard, meeting his gaze as he places one hand on your shoulder.

“Hi,” he greets quietly, and you give him a soft smile, handing over the bag and brushing your hair back from your face. 

“Hey,” you mutter, trying to ignore the way Dallas is watching you once more, his smirk widening slightly. 

“Nice of you to join us, doll.” He calls out, and your dad whirls around to shoot him a glare, silencing him immediately but not wiping the stupidly smug smile off his face. 

“You be quiet,” he snaps, and you want nothing more than for the ground to open up beneath you and swallow you whole. Nobody is supposed to know about you two, certainly not your family—they'd kill you if they found out you were dating someone like him—a hoodlum. And yet here he was, smirking up at you, almost as if he's daring you to say something, challenging you to act like you don't know who he is. 

You tightened your grip on your purse strap and looked away, trying to steady your breathing and control the way your face grows hot once more. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Dallas watching you intently, his expression unreadable beneath that ever-present smirk. 

Your dad’s gaze flickered between the two of you, eyebrows raised slightly. When he speaks again, it's directed back at Dallas, his tone firm and commanding. “Get out of here, kid. And don't let me catch you stirring up trouble again.”

Dallas nods shortly, shooting you another brief glance before slipping around the desk and towards the door, his hand brushing yours as he passes. You barely suppress the jolt of surprise and the butterflies erupting in your stomach, instead forcing a polite smile and a nod of your own as you follow him to the doorway, your dad watching closely.

“Thanks for lunch,” he calls after you, and you can only shoot him a quick, polite smile before closing the door behind you.

You let out a shaky breath, rubbing absently at the back of your neck before rushing down the hall to catch up with Dallas, who is standing outside, waiting for you by the stairs.

“Close call, huh?” He looks far too smug for your liking, and you can only swat him lightly on the shoulder, grabbing his arm and dragging him towards your car. 

“Yeah, close alright,” you mutter dryly, stopping just short of the driver’s side door. “What were you thinking? Do you know how much trouble you could’ve gotten us into?” 

His grin widens in response, and he leans casually back against the vehicle. “Cool it, doll. Your old man, don’t suspect a thing.” 

“Oh, sure.” You scoff, throwing open the door and getting in, tossing your purse onto the backseat, and starting the engine. Dallas scrambles in after you, and you don’t even wait for him to buckle his seat belt before pulling out of the parking lot. 

“Hey, listen,” he says suddenly, his tone a little softer than usual. “You think if he knew, he'd just let it slide? No offence, sweetheart, but your dad isn't exactly the understanding type. If he knew about this,” he gestures awkwardly between you both. “I'd be dead. He'd make my life hell, and you know it.”

You sigh heavily, knowing he's right. As much as you hate to admit it, he does have a point, although it doesn’t stop your annoyance from bubbling just below the surface.

“Whatever…” You huff, keeping your eyes focused solely on the road, and you hear your boyfriend chuckle quietly, his hand coming to rest on your thigh. The heat of the touch makes you shudder, and you shoot him a warning glance,  ignoring the way your heart jumps when he smiles at you.

“Let me make it up to you,” he mumbles, his voice low. “Just leave your window unlocked tonight, and I'll show ya how sorry I am.”

That gets you to turn your head sharply toward him, your eyebrow arching high, and you find you suppress the laugh that errupts from your chest. “Don't push your luck, Winston.”

[sturnmeovr]

Sketchbook - Chris Sturniolo

Requested by @pineapplealpaca Pairings - bsf!Chris x bsf!Reader Warnings - Just some fluff 🥰 and strong language! W/c - 2043 Summary - You and Chris meet freshman year of high school. With the talent of drawing, he quickly becomes your muse. After winning an award senior year, he finally finds out what you've been hiding from him this whole time. A/n - Thanks for requesting! 💚 This is my first Chris piece, hope you guys like it!! Should be edited so let me know if you see any typos! All interactions are appreciated ❤️ Dividers and photos are not mine; all credit due to original owners. My requests are always open! Check out my masterlist for my recent pieces! Tags - @lvrsturniolo (sorry I forgot 😭 thank you for already liking!! If anyone else wants to be on my tag list, just let me know ❤️) Current Matt series - City of Love. Part two.

Freshman Year

You sit on the bleachers, letting your pencil scribble across your sketchpad. Spending most of your time here, waiting on your older brother to get done with football practice. You were always an artistic soul, so drawing and painting was something you held close to your heart, along with the boy you had been crushing on since seventh grade - Chris Sturniolo. 

Life was so much easier with him in it. He came around often, being one of your brother's best friends, but you also formed a bond with him since the two of you were the same age. Over time the friendly banter turned into flirty banter, and you found yourself swooning over him at every given chance. Sketching portraits of him in your sketchbook, which might as well be your secret diary. 

You watched as he danced around the football field, doing what he loved most. After practice is finished, he makes his way over to you. Chugging the contents of his water bottle before trying to sneak a peek at your sketchbook, “whatcha’ drawing there, Y/l/n?”

A blush immediately creeps to your face, and your clutch your sketchbook to your chest, “uh- nothing! Just random stuff, why?”

His eyebrows knit together in confusion, “just wondering, that’s all.”

Chris decided to leave it alone, but he knew he was lying when he said it didn’t spark his curiosity.

Sophomore Year

“C’mon let me see it,” your best friend, Chris, calls from the other side of your bedroom door. When you realized he had been snooping through your room, finding your hidden sketchbook in the process, you flipped shit on him. Snatching your sketchbook, your lifeline, and kicking him out. You run over to your closet, hiding it under a pile of junk you desperately needed to clean up. 

After successfully hiding your secret diary of a sketchbook, you rush over to the door that Chris was still knocking on, slinging it open. He stares at you, pushing you aside, and barging in your room. “It’s never that serious. Let me see that damn book,” he’s a bit agitated you’d keep it from him. There was no secret in your friendship with Chis, so hiding something this big was gut wrenching to him. He felt betrayed. He knew you didn’t want him to see it and that’s what made him want to even more. He had it a mission from that point on.

He needed to see what was in that damn book.

Junior Year

You let out an exaggerated sighed, clenching your sketchbook to your chest. Chris had you pinned on the couch in a battle over your precious sketchbook. Every time he saw it, he dove for it, making it nearly impossible to focus on anything other than Chris - the sketchbook bandit. 

“Chris, please,” practically begging as he stared you down. A smug smirk spread across his lips which were inches from yours. You didn't know what possessed him to go after your sketchbook every time he saw it, but he did. He would catch glimpses over your shoulder, making him more curious than ever. He knew you were drawing a portrait of somebody, but he didn’t know exactly who it was. Especially since you’d slam your book shut and hide it any time your senses told you he was near, his cologne being a dead give away.

“What’s the big deal, Y/n/n?” his tone was laced with playfulness. Knowing Chris too well, you knew he was just waiting for the right moment to rip the sketchbook from your grip. Being around him so much meant you were accustomed to his bullshit. Chris was a big goofball and the two of you got along great, aside from his never ending need to look in your book. He was determined to figure it out, and every time he failed, it ended in an argument. He could get anything he wanted from you, but you would never budge when it came to the sketchbook. 

At first, Chris thought you were afraid to show him your drawings, but when he begged to see one, making you rip a random drawing out and shove it towards him, he quickly realized that wasn’t the case. He just knew there was something, someone, in that book you didn’t want him to see.

Senior Year

The day was finally here - the art show. Your art teacher entered one of your paintings, and if you were honest, you weren’t completely okay with it. Only reason being, the portrait she entered was of your best friend, Chris. He had become your muse over the years. You were around him the most, so his face became easy to draw for you. The way his jawline curved when he turned his head to the side. The shape of his eyes and nose being more symmetrical than anyone you had ever drawn before. You couldn’t help it - when you looked at him, your pencil flew across the paper like magic. 

Chris was one of the most important people in your life. Even though you and Chris were just friends, you couldn’t help but get butterflies every time he looked at you, and that had been a feeling he gave you since the first day you met. You never knew if Chris felt the same way, and you weren’t the type to be straightforward, so you never brought it up. Chris was the complete opposite, being a little too blunt at times. It worried you if he didn’t feel the same way, he wouldn’t know how to let you down easily. This became one of your biggest fears over the years of knowing him, and one of the main reasons you kept it a secret. You were just grateful he was in your life on a day to day basis, crush or not. 

Luckily, Chris had a football game and couldn’t come to the event you were being awarded for. They had already announced the winners online last week, three of them - two other entries from different schools, and yourself. The only thing you had to do was get through your award winning speech and collect your certificate. Chris being disappointed he couldn’t call off the football game, you being upset you couldn’t attend his game. It was a coincidence in the worst way, but the two of you made plan to make up for it later in the week. In a way you were glad you didn’t have to confess to Chris the secret you had been hiding since freshman year. Knowing Chris, never thinking things through thoroughly before letting his words slip, you figured he’d think your portraits of him were weird. In a way, they were, you had been creepily letting your hand scribble across paper, drawing your best friend. 

Even worse, hiding it from him. For years. Maybe him not being here tonight wasn’t such a bad thing.

You bite your lip, and your gut churns as the host calls your name, “and for the second winner of tonight, Y/n Y/l/n, from Somerville High School!” 

You walk on stage, approaching the podium, and give the audience a big smile. This was one of the biggest achievements of your life, the feeling was euphoric for you. Letting your eyes scan the crowd, landing on your parents and brother. You notice Chris sitting next to your brother, your eyes widen, meeting his gaze, and you spin around to look at your winning portrait - a portrait of him. 

Chris stares at you with an unreadable expression plastered across his face. You couldn’t help wondering how he felt about discovering the secret you had been keeping from him the last four years. Was he mad? Did he even realize it was him? 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you take a step forwards and clear your throat, “I’d like to thank everyone who came out tonight, everyone who donated, and everyone who voted for my art piece. It means the world to me, standing in front of all of you today. I want to thank my family for supporting my dreams, and being here tonight,” you ramble on. Your stage fright disappears for a moment when your eyes land on Chris. A smile stretches across his face and he raises his eyebrows, like he’s telling you to continue. “And of course, I’d like to thank my best friend for being my muse,” your tone was laced with nervousness and passion all at the same time. Chris had inspired you without even knowing it. 

After you wrap up your speech, you enter the common room, chatting amongst the other winners. Various strangers of the art community approached you, congratulating you on your big win, and praising your masterpiece. You knew at the end of the night, you’d have to talk to Chris, and the anticipation boiled in your gut because of it. You didn’t know what you were going to say or how you were going to approach the situation, but you knew it had to be done. You just hoped it didn’t ruin your friendship in the process. 

“Pretty big secret, huh?” a voice from behind you snapps you out of your trance. Immediately recognizing that it’s Chris, you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the impact of his words. “I can see why you didn’t want me to know,” he continues, this time his voice is closer than before. You don’t say anything because, honestly, what the fuck do you say? 

An awkward smile pulls at your lips as you avoid eye contact with him, “I can’t believe you’ve been drawing me like one of your little french girls this whole time,” he playfully scoffs. His joke breaks the awkward tension being held between you two, making you let out a giggle. 

“Shut up,” you groan while running a hand through your hair. 

“Why?” Chris had always been one to tease you. Especially when it comes to your sketchbook so now that he knows what you had been drawing this whole time, he’s loving the hell out of it. 

“It’s not funny, Chris,” you groan, looking away as your face heats up a dark shade of red. He always had that effect on you, but it was even worse now.

“No, I mean why me?” he asks, his eyes searching your face like he’s trying to find the real answer. He already knows you won’t be completely honest with him, not when it comes to your drawings. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble under your breath, eyes fixated on your shoes. 

Chris reaches out to take your hand in his. The sudden contact makes you look at him, “you can tell me, Y/n.” 

Shaking your head, “I just think you have good bone structure,” you come up with the first lie you can think of, pulling your hand away, and walking to your portrait of him. You point to it, “your face is very symmetrical. It’s easy to draw!”

Technically, it wasn’t a lie. His face was easy to draw, but that was probably because you had drawn him so many times. It was familiar to you. It inspired you.

You felt bad about telling him a halfass truth, but your intuition told you his reaction wouldn’t be good, so you hid it the best you could. You watch as Chris’s eyes brows knit together, his lips forming a straight line. He stares at you for a second, keeping the hard expression etched on his face.

As soon as you think you’re out of the water, he does the unthinkable - reaching a hand out to your wrist, pulling you to him, and smashing his lips into yours. The unexpected kiss makes you freeze for a split second while his lips move against yours. Chris brings a hand up to your face, almost like he’s telling you to accept it. You do exactly what he wants, moving your lips against his, letting him take the lead because you were, obviously, a nervous wreck. 

The shock is still taking a toll on your mind, and body, as Chris pulls away. He looks at you with that same unreadable look, “you’re a bad fucking liar, Y/n.” 

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

My heart is a bloodhound!

PART 1 ★ PART 2

Quick summary: It happens again, when the year festers into August again and leaves the two of you raw and vulnerable like open wounds.

Word count: 15K… 🤓

Warnings: canon-typical mentions of death, violence and injury (there is mention of like eating people but idk); grief; misogyny; Rust's personality; semi-public SMUTT T-T (MINORS DNI); same level of pretentiousness, maybe a little more, as the first part.

A/N: Holy fuck this sucked the soul out of me (wish Rust Cohle would suck the soul out of I MEAN WHAT), i am super proud of this though!! Went through many iterations and this was the least shit! 🎀🎀🎀 This is technically part two to The idler wheel but can be read by itself too. May or may not write other things for this guy but for the time being, I need a cleanse 😭 BUT please please enjoy and please please interact, i love reading comments and so many lovely people commented on the first part, im gonna do my best to respond to any/all this time 🤘MWAH MWAH

***

It’s difficult to differentiate between the thrill of being left alone here with him and the slow-sinking dread of the implications of that.

With the return of the musk of the summer, those three ruthless, windless, unrelenting months that would seem to drag on for several lifetimes when I was a kid, the memory of where I was last year—and the year before that, and the one before that—hangs brightly in my mind. Stale, not quite dead – so bright. Crawling with mildew.

Stepping into the bar had felt like entering another dimension. Maybe it was the suits that gave it away – every single God-haunted patron—the truckers, the farmers, even the old dog lying at a man’s feet—had turned, sensing foreigners as acutely as the immune system registers a bodily threat. I knew Johansson felt it: that dark pull over the back of the neck. But under Marty’s overconfident, swaggering lead, that winning smile, we soon assimilated. Skin swallowing a bullet.

God forbid you ever leave the town you grew up in. Shame on you if you don’t, though. How sanctimonious of me to change my mind and return after earning a spot amongst the lucky few escapees.

Something in this place still irks me.

At least, in Brooklyn, there was always noise: cries of a baby in the apartment over, the discord of traffic bursting through the streets below, the rush of a crowd, the overlap and slur of private conversations. At least the badness would stare you right in the face; at least people were evil to be evil. At least there were corners where things could hide, where it made sense for shadows to exist: all to explain the paranoia that stalked me.

But here?—it seems so open. Like, if a rare, hot wind would blow through a Louisiana town, it could do so in one straight path, through walls, through people, without ever getting disrupted. Everything is so light in the blazing sun, you can practically hear it: the hum of rays passing over every surface. Nothing should be able to hide. And, at night, with no sun, no rays, there is no noise. Maybe a dog. And ghosts. But perhaps it’s just the area in which I live. 

When Marty started drinking, flirting with the twenty-one-year-old barkeep, Johansson’s face had stiffened. He himself had never even touched a bottle of beer – devil stuff. We shared a look once the blond detective started gabbin’ like an idiot.

“Know what Maggie thinks?” he had laughed, slumping over the sticky table of the booth, big, sweaty palm choking out his drink. “She thinks you might be pissed at me.”

Johansson blinked hard to keep his nose from wrinkling, but, even then, he couldn’t keep from physically cringing away. “Who?” he asked, confused by those hazy, unfocused eyes.

Marty cracked a toothy grin – there was that slight gap between those front two, which had been charming at first and only managed to thoroughly disgust me now in moments like these – and pointed his finger right at me, accusing. “You.”

My stomach churned dangerously at the sight of him.

“Marty,” his partner had drawled, a low warning.

Waved away like a fly.

“Naw, it’s like—you’re on your high fuckin’ horse or somethin’.”

The words were spoken through a laugh, but I knew there was meat behind that so-called good mood. He was one of those people that tended to overcompensate. A mistake, an ill feeling. He liked to point out how I was alone, and often, too, poorly disguised as a passing joke, complete with one of those shit-eating grins that seemed to come so easy to him.

Shouldn’t he have been happy? Not only had he gotten our case, by then, but we’d handed it over with smiles on our damn faces. Nice enough to walk them through the original crime scene, introduce them to the key witnesses. Complicated. We didn’t have to do shit for ‘em, but we did. Hell, even that beer he was clutching to his chest was paid for out of the goodness of my own fuckin’ heart. Who was he to moan about the situation? He was the one who insisted on staying in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, brushing off any and all pointed questions on whether his family would be missing him at dinner.

“You know, I’d rather you were pissed,” he continued, where, really, I should have just smothered him into silence.

Rust was staring into the side of his flushed face, iron-grey eyes like a drill, like he was thinking the same thing.

“Look, you’re smilin’ at me now, but I sure as hell don’t trust it, buck. You wanna bite my head off, don’t ye?”

Like I ever could have done that.

Though the familiar weight of rage curdled in my chest, I would never admit it to the likes of Martin Hart. When he got like this—jealous, insecure, whiny—I wondered whether it was just a temporary lapse, or if this him, this true him, just lay under the surface all the time.

It wasn’t that fucking hard to plaster on a smile and take what you fucking got – I did it all the time. He could dream of a different life, but this was the one we were dealt. Fact that his grown ass hadn’t accepted that by now twisted violently in my gut. Between the two of us, I was the one that knew this – so why did he get myfucking case?

In my head, I’d let Salter have it, too. How could I ever admit I had an ego? How could I ever admit I had a mind to wrench the teeth out of the sheriff’s fucking gums? 

But I have plenty of practice acting like things don’t bother me, which is why it was so easy to plaster on my amiable smile and laugh, “C’mon, man, you know it’s only ‘cause o’ the workload.” Not that you could comprehend that, lazy fuck. To Marty, my kind’s natural state was amiable—anything otherwise would be a defect—so I’d expected to convince him. “You’ll do right by it, ‘m sure.” 

If he were sober, I know he would’ve bought it – he could convince himself that the way of the world was right and I was only being sweet to be sweet, because he deserved it. 

But Marty was drunk. Piss-drunk, loud drunk. His mind was clumsier than usual, unable to muster the energy to jump points, ignore the evidence, like he did daily. I hoped I had the power—if I had to let the case go, I wanted to at least retain an into its goings-on—but there was only one way to really have power over men like Marty when they were drunk, and I had had no interest in being one of his girls. 

My partner twitched beside me, picking at some spongy, yellow fluff protruding from a thin split in the chocolate-brown fake leather of the booth. He was just as furious as I was beneath his fort of calm.

Marty took a swig of his beer. “She wants you over soon. Maggie. Barbecue or some shit.”

“Maybe you should go home,” Johansson interjected, sharper than intended. If I were him, with his body, with his life, I’d have hit the fucker—long time ago, too. I couldn’t, but Johansson wouldn’t. He didn’t lack the temperament for brutality—I’m not sure anybody does—but, rather, couldn’t justify it to a necessary degree in his head. “I’m going home,” he’d reasoned kindly – he made it sound so easy. “Just let me take you. It’s on my way.”

Itching to leave, to return to the comfort of his wife and his little daughter. Marty had always found Johansson’s fondness of them disingenuous, had disliked my partner as long as they’d worked in the same office. He complained to me once that none of his stories seemed complete. When I asked him what he meant by that, he couldn’t answer—but I knew.

Breath short in my chest, I had half-expected Marty to lunge over the table, scratch Johansson’s eyes out. Only, Rust leaned over, dipping his head down to mutter something quietly into his partner’s ear, which was all flushed red. 

And then he went willingly into Johansson’s car, stumbling through the still, open night into the backseat.

My partner had squeezed my shoulder goodbye – I’m not sure why I didn’t leave with him. Now, I was doomed to leave with Rust. 

There, he sits across from me, smearing the ashy tar of his half-smoked, flaking cigarette over the mottled glass ashtray dragged over to his side of the table, little circles, waves, absent-minded art. Has me transfixed, some hypnotist.

If I look down like this, if I sacrifice the opportunity to look at him, I earn his careful attention: this sits in the back of my idle mind. I’ve been taking advantage of it more and more since summer broke through the sweetness of spring, which has since curdled like milk, sour. His stare drags over my face like fingers – I can almost feel his touch pressing into the softness of my cheek, dragging over the ridge of the orbital bone. 

“You’re okay?” he asks after a couple slowed heartbeats, pulling me out of the honey-pit of my thoughts.

I dart my eyes up, breaking the spell – his observation retreats, clouds, and drifts away to fix on the broken clock on the wall, the one that reads one forty-five at eleven o’ clock.

Primarily, his question irritates me. Nobody asks “are you alright?” imploringly, not unless it concerns themselves and their own wants. Salter had asked me that, right after telling me he was pulling me from my case, and, then, I had thought about crying, just to unsettle him. But what good would that have done? He’d only asked “are you alright?” to test the waters, to see if there was a future possibility of letting him pull the rug out from under me with zero consequences. Again. I couldn’t win. 

But Rust doesn’t want much from me. He doesn’t even want the case, really, which just twists the knife even further. 

“You—you know I’m good in there, right? In the box.” I carve a jagged thumbnail into this message in the table, twisting the characters wider, or taller, risking splinters.

Why should I have to give it up? And to a fucking idiot? Marty wasn’t the one who stayed all those late nights alone at the office, wasn’t the one scoured over heaps of files under low light, wasn’t the one who took the fucking beating when the suspect fought against arrest. Marty was not the one who conducted an interview like that.

My mouth thins into a hard line, but I know the words will come out whether I let them voluntarily or not. Around Rust, it’s that way. I should’ve left when I could. 

“It’s just that—it was so weird,” I continue, my head pulsing with the unwanted memory of that cabin. Marty didn’t have to experience it, Rust didn’t have to experience it—but I did. “Not jus’ wrong, or sad. Makes me feel strange, thinking about it.” 

Often, the suspects underestimate me. Johansson’s broad shoulders and tough-set jaw come off as offensive—nothing like my voice, low and gentle, and my eyes, sympathetic and warm. I’m the mother who will never judge, who is spilling over with unconditional love.

Beneath this, though, I am good at the maths of the job, the connections. Though all detectives technically develop the same constituent skills—close attention to body language tells and other biological betrayals—I ain’t sure most understand the sensitivity and strength required to confront shit like this head-on. To not avert your eyes at the mutilated woman on the bed. To inspect her eunuched boyfriend’s severed appendage, to have steady hands when photographing the scene—with flash, of course, to highlight every detail with sufficient clarity—for evidence, which must be returned to and examined again and again, each time with greater fervour still. 

I could name a few who’d joke about a thing like that, to ease the burn of that image in their heads, to sleep better at night, to leave behind the uninvited, vicarious sensation of a knife teasing over the meat of their dick. 

But the boyfriend’s corpse, we eventually located separately in a cabin in the woods, laid into the basement freezer, so peaceful, such a brutal image. Pretty parts of him preserved for mauling.

And Salter has the fucking audacity to take it away. He wasn’t the one to see something like that, to feel sick to his very stomach, to gag and have to turn away, to cringe and writhe like his skin suddenly wasn’t his, like he ought to pick himself out. I’ve been reeling with that image for weeks, living with motion sickness, and have been denied the relief of vomiting. 

“So, you need me to get that confession.”

Rust comes back into focus, perfectly still.

I nod, the back of my neck prickling with mean goosebumps. “Campbell, his DNA was all over the bodies. He was proud of it, even.” My ribs still glow with the phantom-sensation of his brutal kick there when we located him. Stomach clenching, I struggle to remain level. “But there ain’t no way in hell she wasn’t involved. He denies it, but the house is registered under her name. Maiden name, Phelps.”

“I read,” he confirms. 

I tremble in frustration – I almost wish he hadn’t. 

“It’s just—this lady’s tough.”

Eyes darting over to the dim-lit bar, scouring the scuffed hardwood floor, I can feel my face growing hot with indignation. Christ, it sounds pathetic, like a whiny kid insisting on continuing a task all wrong in order to protect their damaged pride. 

“You know Johansson: once she starts with the tears, he can’t see past ‘em. Southern manners ‘n’ all: a crying woman is a delicate thing not for a man to understand but to comfort. But, with me, it ain’t the same. She doesn’t respect me.”

“What d’you mean ‘respect ’? Don’t need respect in this game.”

I scoff, which would’ve been a dire mistake with anyone else. “Y’wouldn’t know what I’m on about,” I tease through an easy smile, though I’m not feeling so funny at the moment.

He inclines his head down to me, an invitation to elaborate.

My boot feverishly taps against the floor, thrumming light like a jackrabbit on the run. 

I sigh, mouth twisting. “She keeps asking me if I’ve slept,” I confess. “Says I look like her daughter.”

For all my mothering, here comes a perp who’s desperate to play me at my own game.

I can see how intelligent she is: some hollow glint in her eyes with nothing behind; past that gleaming screen of kindness, something black, like a cherry pit.

Sitting across from her, it felt like looking into a mirror. Not just physically—though her skin is a similar shade to mine, her nails bitten and splitting like mine, and she looks close to what I imagine my own mother could’ve grown into. It was in the way that, when I smiled, she smiled. When I took a sip of my coffee, she would drink some tea. At times, it would even seem like she would speak in my voice: the pitch, the intonations, the phrasing all far too similar. I was reluctant to tell her my name. It reminded me of this folk tale, of these tall, dark creatures who only required your name to speak like you, to look like you, to replace you in your own life. Its victim would die—in some way or another. Wander the woods, eaten alive.

A harrowing feeling had crept over me, winter pressing against the two-way mirror – I was sure Johansson, on the other side, would pick up on it. Only, when I confessed my worries to him, he’d given me this doubtful look, and I really wasalone then.

“She’s playin’ you,” Rust states simply, tracing his fingers over his mouth like some pseudo-cigarette. 

“Yeah.” I grind my teeth together. Under the table, where he cannot see, my fingers curl into a tight fist, trembling with my secret violence. “And now Salter wants Marty to have it? Bull.” 

I should’ve socked him right in his dumb, slack fuckin’ jaw. One day, I will. 

“He don’t want Marty to have it,” Rust retorts smartly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are warm in the dark – I should’ve taken my chances, raced to meet ‘em, but I’m too late. “He wants me to have it.” 

Yeah, well, I wish what was mine would stay mine.

Even if I’m inclined to be pissed off at Rust by proxy, I just can’t be. The difference between him and Marty is that he actually pays attention, real attention, not the selfish kind. Just by watching, I can tell he knows exactly what he could say, how he could act, in order to appeal to somebody—which is why I find it so odd that he chooses not to. I sacrifice my damn dignity to keep myself palatable. He does not. As a result, he is not well-liked at the office – people tend to feel caught out by him; they don’t like to feel observed, known.

When did being seen become a threat? I thought it was intimate. Though, I suppose, a piece of shit never wants to believe they’re a piece of shit.

Everyone’s the hero of their own story. 

Rust slides Marty’s half-empty beer across the table to me, which I receive with a crooked smile and a quick hand.

“Sure I won’t catch whatever he had?” 

He shrugs. “Y’ain’t as deadbeat as the rest of ’em. Oughta drag you down to their level.” 

I snort. “What, you don’t think you’re deadbeat?”

He huffs. “I’m worse.” 

Bitter, the beer washes over my tongue, leaves that funny aftertaste I never really liked, not the first time, not the last. I don’t suppose I’ll ever turn one down though, not if it was offered to me: I’d accept it if only to win points with whoever it was, points I could spend at a later date. 

“Maybe,” I start, “if you were a little more deadbeat, you’d be popular. Go out with the boys.”

When he meets my eyes momentarily, smirking, I have to grip my hand over my knee, fingertips digging into bone, and consciously remind myself via mantra not to let my face freeze. He hums, voice smooth and low like liquor, “What, like youdo?”

I should be pissed off, really. Maybe I will be. Instead, though, I choke on the smart retort I had meticulously configured in my head, some quip that would’ve maybe interested him based on what caught him before. 

I don’t know whether it would have been worse pretending like it never happened. That’s my strong point: pretending. It’s his, too, when he wants it to be. Maybe we could’ve outlasted it – all we needed was stamina.

But, instead, it’s this. Looking across at each other and knowing exactly what’s going on in the other’s head. I can see exactly how he thinks of me, what he wants to do. When he tilts his head ever so slightly, my neck glows with a promise, like the movement was mine in the first place. When I would bite at the pendant of my necklace, he used to narrow his eyes, like he ought to yank the chain off my neck. But now, he looks on softly, so unlike him, his own fingers at his own lips. I know what it feels like – I’ve kissed him there, too. 

“Don’t give me that. At least Geraci would stop shit-talkin’ ye,” I manage, tearing myself away. “Swear he’s stuck at sixteen or somethin’. But—you don’t mind it, do you?”

He shakes his head. “‘f he was smarter, maybe I would. Jus’ likes the sound of his own voice.” 

The clock has replaced me as his focal point – I can’t help but feel jealous. 

“S’why I like you,” I mumble from behind my beer. “First time I met you, I thought you’d make me feel stupid.

That seems to get him. 

He blinks, a barely noticeable twitch. “Do I? I don’t mean to.”

Can I spin this? I’m sure, if I were a little more awake, I’d be able to spin this. 

Some evil part of me hopes to make him feel guilty, to trick him into feeling tenderness for me, though I know the pursuit of that would be in vain. The type of men I know how to work—creatures of habit that take the exact path you want them to, to believe that they’re the real seducers—Rust seems entirely separate from that. He can sniff out rehearsal and practice, that robotism, like a dog – he sees it enough in criminals, doesn’t he? That’s why he’s called in for favours across state police departments.

When I met him the first time, I shook his hand, smiled, friendly-like, only to be met with rigidity and stoicism. No trouble, of course: some people just are that way. Wild horses on the highway. But his quietness?—now, that had set alarm bells off in my head. Boys at the precinct were loud – you couldn’t pay ‘em to shut up about their weekends, their football, their college years, their fuckin’ yards. When I was first exposed to it, I thought I’d gain a lot of friends. But then I realised they weren’t so much talking with me as they were talking at me. It’s why they’re so easy to read: they just tell you everything you want to know right off the bat. Even their secrets are bursting at the seams of their fat mouths, begging to be released. 

But Rust?—doesn’t talk until he finds it necessary. It’s impressive. Before that, though, the trait was enviable. I had—have—no comparable method. Even though, at first, it can seem blunt, even cold, his eloquence is refreshing. Never running in circles – only determinedly forward. So intimidating, almost like a freight train – I have to consciously keep myself from jerking back and out of the way. 

How low he must really think of me then, to see me like this. And I know he does: he sees. Everything I might have done to prevent it perhaps even had the opposite effect. I hate, I burn, I curse: it’s ugly. I cry over cases I would’ve left behind in two months tops, anyways, onto the next. I obsess over just another woman in the box. I think about him almost constantly. 

“You don’t,” I mumble, wondering if I ought to be wishing myself far away. “Make me feel dumb, that is. Not me. Others, I can’t speak for.”

We’ll have to leave soon – no doubt, this local bar is used to slow days and early nights, a blissful routine rudely disrupted by two outsiders who haven’t even really shown them good business. I glance over at the barkeep, slumped over the scuffed wooden counter and flatly watching the football up on the boxy TV set, and I recall my first job. Then, too, I’d let men twice my age buy me drinks, flirted with them. Was worth the tip money. 

Rust hums, though I really wish he wouldn’t speak at all. “Don’t pay mind to what Marty said.”

My neck prickles. 

He’s not trying to console me, is he? No, that’s not like him. Besides, it’s not like any amount of coddling could reverse the merciless truths I’m constantly reminded of in this line of work – if I’ve learned anything about sympathy, it’s that it doesn’t fix shit. If anything, it’s just another complication. It can seem beautiful, but, really, it isn’t. I can miss it, miss its warmth, miss the kind, sweet nothings my husband would whisper into my hair on the hardest nights, but it never changed the fact that I would have to get up in the morning and do it again. Rust knows this, has maybe lived this, so he’s not trying to console me. 

Maybe he’s trying to defend Marty.

Sharp and sure, that anger comes lurching up in my throat, slashing and snarling. 

The sensible part of me—what I hope is the larger part of me—knows this is not possible. Rust understands Marty’s faults better than anyone, even himself, even his wife. 

“Thing is,” I mumble bitterly, “he really means it, don’t he? He just don’t show it.” I trace the warm, smooth rim of the bottle with a light finger, though my mind is currently toying with the idea of jamming it violently down the opening. “Maybe it means more that he does keep it hidden – at least some part of him knows it’s wrong.”

Placid in the periphery of my vision, Rust shrugs. “‘s what separates us from our killers. Feelin’ it ain’t the problem. Resistance is where strength is tested.” 

“Ego,” I chuckle darkly. 

He hums. “Fragile ego.”

Underneath my smile lies an uneasiness stirred by his criticism.

Rust is not gentle with his opinions – I don’t suppose that’ll ever change. Resistance is a losing game – not even he is immune to the impermanence of these things. I’m sure he said that to me once, on a night like this. 

I’ve never been very good at refraining from things. Even from an early age, I just couldn’t say no. Teenage years: alcohol, drugs, sex. If it was tossed my way, I’d take it, anything I could get, hungry to experience something. 

Ha!—maybe I actually am more like Marty Hart than I’d like to admit. He’s trying to be an adult, albeit really, really poorly. As long as he believes he’s a good, family man, then his reality is protected. But I know I’m rotten, really. One of the boys at the precinct will call me pretty—in that sick way somewhere between the unchecked lust of a man and his paternal right to claim—but, below, I know I’ve got sickness swimming through my veins. Not blood. Something accumulated over the years, maybe from pretending all the time. 

I feel like I want to cut things, break them. Told myself to hang on until I retire, but I don’t see that happening any time soon. I’ll break. What will Rust think of me then? 

Maybe I was his low point: that fault in resistance. 

Some awful, gnawing feeling collects at the pit of my stomach, like black tar. Must be all those cigarettes. 

“Wha’s in that head?” he probes suddenly, stealing razor-sharp, fleeting glances.

I shrug, swallowing down a bout of nausea. “I dunno.” And I really don’t. Behind the surface tension, I don’t know what I feel, only that I do, and it’s so, so much. “It kinda—makes me happy to see him like that: jealous. ‘Cause he knows I’m good, and he’s wondering why he’s finishing what I started. He knows he don’t deserve it. Not like I do.” 

My confession lingers in the air like smoke – I have mind to reach a hand up and wave it all away, or suck it down, deep, erasing reality. Fuck. I’ve always been a little off when reading into Rust’s quiet – with that tightrope he seems to have mastered, I know I should avoid any step at all—it could just as easily miss its mark—but I can never seem to help myself. 

I stare at him—and I think it makes him uncomfortable, though there’s nothing there, not any normal human reaction, in his face for me to draw from. That’s fine. In my gut, I’m pretty sure I’ve got it down.

“You want to be seen as competent,” he finally says, a simple-enough statement. 

I scrunch my nose up distastefully. “No, I want to be competent.”

“Well, what good is bein’ somethin’ if there’s no-one there to witness it?” 

Unable to press down an exasperated sigh, I close my eyes, roll them with all the subtlety I can manage.

Foul words push under my tongue, like vomit. 

I don’t know if I’m in the mood for this tonight: smart conversation. What feels like debate. Maybe if he hadn’t been given my case, I’d take him up on the challenge, but I’ve already lost. 

I eye him, try to figure out his game. 

“I dunno, Rust,” I tell him flatly. “I think that’s called having an identity issue.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Most people do.”

My chest burns. “This isn’t a go at me, is it?”

Slow, he draws the ashtray towards him from across the table, as if the grind of the glass against the wood is a noise that ought to be savoured. 

I could be deaf, but reading his lips would be easy: “And how’d this be about you exactly?” 

I’m able to fight off the initial instinct to wince, the way in which he delivers the words, calm and deliberate, stinging like a slap to the face. What’s worse is the growing impression that he’s as bored of me as I am. 

With a furrowed brow, I watch him, heartbeat thrumming in my ears. 

“I ain’t out to get you, s’you can quit lookin’ at me like I kicked you or somethin’.”

Frowning shallowly and trying to pretend like I’m not, I glance away and commit to rearranging my face—but at the glimpse of that twitch at the corner of his mouth in my periphery, I know I’m only digging a deeper grave for myself. The noticeable heat of my embarrassment must please him.

Playing with the food. 

And I’ve got nothing to say to him—not a single word or phrase up to par, nothing to measure up to Rust’s clinical detachment, let alone destabilise him. He might’ve been reciting the coroner’s report. There’s nothing I can say to scathe him—and fuck, I want to leave a mark, prove to him that I can. I scan him for weakness, but either I’m still too stunned to see it or there is none. I have no plan of attack and no line of defence. 

Rust seems to soften in the knowledge of this. 

“I mean,” he begins, knowing now that I’m really listening, “identity ain’t fixed – it’s not permanent. I don’t scrutinise my appearance. I don’t mind my body, and my body don’t mind me. My personality hardly feels under my control – ‘s just somethin’ that is and will be—‘n’, I guess, will change, but only against my will, never because of it. Feels pointless to feel insecure about that.”

Is this supposed to be some fucked-up attempt at advice?

My priorities changed, but this place never has, never does, never will. So, it’s all dumb and the people are dumb and this bar is dumb and the boys at the precinct are dumb and, fuck, I wish Rust were dumb, too. I feel pathetic, and he does not alleviate that feeling at all. If he were dumb, I could laugh at him and make myself feel better. I could laugh at myself for sleeping with a dumb man. Instead, I think of him religiously and crave his approval. Afflicted with the knowledge that he needs to be corrupted to want me, that I’m awful enough to want it enough to corrupt him again. Tainted waters. It would be so much more comfortable if I could look down on him.

My skin writhes and ripples, and I know the only thing that would soothe it is if he touched me. Jesus and the sick man—or some polluted version of that.

My world swings under a bout of nausea as it begins to spiral – the beer does not help. 

Maybe he’s waiting it out, like I’m trying to. Forgetting is the wisest decision anyone could make, the most fortunate outcome. Though, my efforts are paradoxical: I think so, so much about not thinking about it all. 

“Sure seems like y’think about yourself a good deal, too, s’don’t you criticise me,” I mumble, clumsy. It’s a mistake to even open my mouth again – he’ll use it all against me eventually. 

Rust hums again, low, some muscle twitching in his jaw, like his body has no clue what to do when not blindly occupied with a cigarette. “Never said I don’t think about myself,” he rectifies, staring at the sweaty palms I’m wringing together tightly against the lip of the table. 

I allow my mouth to pool with saliva, trying to combat the increasing dryness of my mouth. 

“Guess the thinkin’ part is where insecurity comes from in the first place,” I add after swallowing.

When my eyes dart up to look at him, his are on my throat.

Immediately, I look away.

Maybe this is the bad kind of intimacy.

The intensity of his attention is looming, sifting through my thoughts like sand.

Sometimes, I think he has me figured out but just couldn’t care less about what he’s found. He’s feeling the power of my burning desire for him – maybe it amuses him. Maybe he’s waiting to mechanise it, letting me sit idle while a use for me finds him (if ever). Maybe I know things. Maybe I can break things open. Maybe he can take my cases from me. Maybe I can tire him out, put him to sleep. 

It’s almost worse that he hasn’t put me to work yet. 

Maybe it really was just something in the water. Maybe all I need is to visit somebody close to me. 

“Ever heard o’ that theory? ‘bout internal monologue?” Rust asks softly, leaning in and tipping his head down like only I’m worthy of hearing this here. 

My leg jerks and I can’t place why. I nod, face hot. 

“I think ‘s bullshit—‘bout some not having one. Think everybody’s got that voice in their heads.” He pauses, squints. “Mm, maybe that’s a little generous.” 

I laugh – I hope it makes him feel good. In truth, I know he couldn’t care less. 

“What d’you think it’d be like? No voice.”

The world seems so close right now, wrapping its fuzzy arms tight around us, buzzing in my ears, shadows fur-soft over my face. What does he want me to say? I wish he’d tell me, offer me respite. 

I shrug, and it’s honest, my resignation. “No voice don’t mean no thought.”

“Alrigh’. Then, what about no thought?”

I shrug again. “I like thinking.”

He huffs, angling himself back away from me. Have I disappointed him? Somewhere deep in the pit of my tummy, there’s that fleck of worry, something that tastes an awful lot like vomit. 

I expect him to finally stop talking. 

But “I get tired of it,” is what he says instead. “In between cases, or these—moments where I feel like I could burn a hole through myself ‘f I spent ’nough thought on it. ‘s heavy, like they weigh me down.” He pushes the ashtray away, his fingers the only part of him moving. 

Swept up in the rising tide of your own life, hurting around you in some never-ending circle or spiral of which you happen to be the centre. Swimming with black-eyed angels. I know how he feels – I used to feel that way. Maybe I still do, sometimes. Clinging on to the tenderness my husband used to have for me like it could save me from the guilt I would feel when I moved on. No-one would pull me out: that much was true enough. That memory of stability, of the good times, only depressed me, moving from Brooklyn back to Louisiana. Feeling small in my own life, like a piece on a chessboard, with no semblance of control, only duty, chasing this idea of who I used to be. Hunting down the bad men, wondering what upper hand is driving them across the squares, contemplating the carpenter that fashioned the pieces. Too big of a big picture can be detrimental. The fact that I know this to be true doesn’t make me an exception. 

“I think you’re tired of the things you think about,” I muse, a headache beginning to expand between my temples – perhaps the heat has finally gotten to my head. “Space better occupied by other shit.” 

I’m careful not to pay attention to Rust’s reaction, if there even is one, since the weight of his interest is pressing over my face where I really wish his lips would.

“Like what?” he challenges. 

His eyes glint with curiosity, a blade’s sharp edge. 

I bite my tongue. 

“You think you know me?” It’s more a statement than a question.

I shrug. “You think you know me, don’t ye?”

Though, he kinda does. I think he’s proud that he can read me, but maybe that’s me overcomplicating things. Maybe I’m just another person to him. I wonder if he thinks I’m predictable. Boring, negligible, painfully average. Good for one thing, and that one thing was a mistake, anyway. 

Look at him, now: his eyes have dropped to elsewhere, but there’s a soft smirk that curls up on his face, the hint of a pink tongue that traces lightly over his teeth. 

Geraci always talks shit about that look whenever Rust closes yet another case, securing a tough confession. “So fuckin’ up ‘imself, ain’t he? Jesus.” Sure, he pisses me off—for different reasons. I’ve long since come to the conclusion that he’s worthy of admiration. 

He smiles to himself – I don’t trust it. “You’re calling me arrogant.”

“Are you?” I press, gnawing at the inside of my cheek. I’m surprised at the tepidity of my voice, considering how I’m covered in boils and burns in my head. 

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, only hums in response, seemingly amused. 

“Doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” I murmur. “People are scared of bein’ known, so nobody really tries no more.”

“I don’t observe people for intimacy purposes.”

Then why does he fucking look at me like that? 

A year ago, I’d have put it down to my own desires warping my perception of reality. Really, he wasn’t interested; he was only paying me my due amount of scrutiny in order to keep his mental file of me up to date. Really, he didn’t want to touch me; really, he was just someone who fiddled with his own hands, maybe to remind himself that he could be his own from time to time. Lust is such a dangerous thing – any deeper than surface level, and it has the very strong potential to kill you. If you want something against your better judgement, do you really even want it? The haze of having Rust come so close to me is dampened by such doubts.

But at this point, he either wants me, or I’m crazy. Shit, maybe I’d rather be just that. I’ve seen his eyes like this—dark and bottomless—when hands were unzipping my skirt, or dragging over my skin. To deny intimacy? Now that’s arrogance. Anddelusion. Shit, and I thought he was so above all that stuff. Does he think I can’t figure him out?

Surely his opinion of me can’t be that poor. 

My hand cramps up as I punch down the instinct to pinch the bridge of my nose. 

“Sure you do,” I press. And I’m right. I hope I’m right. 

His stare thickens into something different, what I think might be a black, molten form of gratification. Then, it hardens, cools in a split second into these tough, jaw-breaker pellets. I’d say it was confrontational, but then his eyes flutter just as he happens to swallow thickly. Is that his pulse in his throat? 

I rub at my puffy eyes with a stiff set of fingers.

Rust drops his eyes, brushes his hand over the side of his blazer where his cigarettes are sitting warm and ready beneath. 

“What, you—lonely again or some shit?” he asks. 

I almost recoil at the sudden bitterness of his tone. 

I snort good-heartedly, but, really, the comment stings just right—he knows where to press—all the breath knocked out of my chest. “O-kay, Rust. That an accusation?”

“No. ’S an observation. Thought you jus’ loved those,” he combats flatly.

Chest burning, I have to save myself, jump ship, and look away. My mouth tastes like grainy bile. 

“You were lonely last summer. That’s why you came to me.”

The dim light above us flickers, his face phasing in and out of shadow before me like a candle in the wind. 

I roll my jaw. 

Does he look back on it with disdain? 

“No,” I snap instinctively, instantly burned by the satisfaction that crosses his eyes. 

My breath hitches plaintively. Every fibre of my body trembles and burns to defend myself. There’s not a single word that could repair his opinion of me.

“Or—yeah.” Shut up. 

I rub at my temple, desperate for relief – do they have pills for this shit? – which does not come. If he feels any pity for me, it certainly doesn’t show. 

The harsh line of my mouth trembles. “I just thought you understood me. Or made an attempt to, at least, but maybe that part was self-projection. ‘Cause nobody ‘round here’s like you. I know you think that’s stupid and I was being naïve or—” I swallow though my throat is dry as ever, “—or dumb, or somethin’, but that’s what I felt. At the time.”

His gaze is fixed on my neck.

“At the time,” he echoes. It’s a question, I realise after a couple moments.

“Yeah. Fuck y'want me to say, asshole? 'm not—I’m not gonna embarrass myself with you, Rust. That what you want me to do? Show you just how dumb I can get—?”

“Sure like to speak for me, hm?” he bites back quietly, making it so damn easy to run right over him, to feverishly stamp out that insufferable fucking softness to his voice. Shit, I wish he’d just raise it and yell at me already.

“—Yeah, whatever. You like this shit, don’t you? Y’think you deserve a fight?—well, I’ll give you one. That what you want? ‘Cause what?—what, you get to ignore me, pretend I don’t exist, act like you’re above fuckin’ me—” his eyes flit away, bringing my roiling frustration to a crest, “—No, don’t you fuckin’ look away,” I scold, a bite, jutting a crooked finger into his space. 

He obeys, but that look in his pale eyes is so hollow, it almost makes me feel bad for saying anything at all. Almost. 

I try to press down my anger, but it’s spilling over, now, far beyond things so trivial as control. I clasp my hands together in a prayer that they will finally listen to me and not move again. 

“Fact that you feel anything at all makes you feel like shit, huh?”

His expression has glazed over, cool and smooth.

Half-expecting him to walk out and rightfully abandon me here, I stare hard at him, like I might chip into that exterior. If I managed it, I’d slip it in my pockets as proof. Silently, I beg him to prove me right. 

“Sorry,” I snap. No, I’m not. I hope it cuts at him. “You do what you want, I don’t fuckin’ care. But, please, do not patronise me like that again, Rust.” 

God offers no help with the silent plea I send Him. He does not care, so I shouldn’t care, and that’s the end of things. I’ve survived worse natural disasters than him. He’s just a man, and this is just what happens with them. Still, the disappointment floods like poison under my skin. I’m a stupid girl, really. 

“I understand if you regret things, but you don’t have to say it out loud. It’s mean. But, fuck, I dunno, maybe you mean to be.” 

I take a moment to untangle the knot in my throat. He watches it all, quiet again, his eyeline sitting heavy over where the skin shifts and stretches over my neck. 

I adjust the collar of my shirt, fiddle with the gold necklace that sits hot over the contour of bone. Rust stares as I wedge the small pendant tightly in the vice of my thumb and forefinger. 

“Feels like you don’t even fuckin’ like me half the time. All the time.”

Christ, I should’ve left with Johansson. 

My heart is racing like a wild mustang – it’s a surprise, really, that that old hunting dog lying over by the bar hasn’t noticed, singled me out as something to chase, to kill. My belly’s exposed, soft and ripe and asking for it. I forget, sometimes, that there are things out there that kill things that kill, too. 

He doesn’t plan on giving me a break; I wouldn’t deserve it, anyway. “Wha's it matter to you if I like you or not?”

My cheeks burn furiously. 

I stare at that bone-bird tattoo that fledges from the nest of his sleeve. With the way my head’s spinning, it almost looks like its skeleton wings are actually moving, unfurling and ready for pilgrimage. 

“It don’t.” It’s a disgrace to myself to answer that god-awful question, but what’s more pathetic is the way I shrink into myself when Rust’s attention crowds in over my face. “I jus’ thought you knew me almost as well as I did.” 

“And currently?” he asks.

The moment hangs. 

“Just answer. I already know – just wanna see if you’ll lie again.” 

I close my eyes a second—mistake—and breathe, breathe in and then breathe out, shaky but slow. It’s no use. 

“Same.”

He nods. “Not better?”

I shake my head. “No, never better.”

Furrowing his brow, Rust tilts his head down slightly, a soft curl falling gentle over his tense forehead. “But you wanted intimacy.”

So it is intimacy to him? 

Maybe this should count as a win for me, but it certainly don’t feel like it. This isn’t the slow slip and slide of last summer’s end – though the heat had swallowed whole everything from here to the other side of the Mississippi, there was something so clipped about the words that left me, left him. I’m sure I was more drunk then than now, but, even so, my mind had been so level, like I’d done it all in my sleep. Now, here, I have done it in my sleep. I’ve revisited him a hundred times in my daydreams, but all that practice has left me for dead. I would’ve killed for an opportunity like this a month ago – it’s like he’s taunting me. It should be easy. 

Rust is smart enough to make me wonder if he wants me to feel this way. 

Intimacy is planned and eventual, whether that’s due to his power or some cosmic fate. Everyone knows the decision they’re going to make, somewhere in their brains, deep inside. People only ask for advice to condone their decisions, to spread out the responsibility, which, at the end of the day, still remains solely with them. Shit, he’s rubbing off on me: I sound like a fuckin’ asshole. 

No, all this thinking won’t save him from the sensation of human feeling, emotions. No amount of planning prepares you for skin-to-skin touch. No time spent evaluating can undo it either, and I’ve tried so hard. His way doesn’t work. 

“Everyone wants intimacy,” I end up rambling, voice thin and dry and brittle. “Even folks that don’t want intimacy want intimacy. ’s not love or sex, really, I don’t think, though those are good, too. It’s not a way to find yourself. It’s jus’ trust. Or companionship—”

“And that’s what you want?”

Carefully, I rake my eyes over his face. Does he ever flush from the heat? 

Hopeless and too muddled to bother with concealing it, I try to assess whether he’s displeased with me. I try to memorise this moment, so I’ll be able to turn it over in my head later, just another one of my crime scene photographs. 

“Dunno yet,” I confess quietly. “I’ve had partners. And partners. When I was younger, I thought I’d have this life packed chock full of amazing relationships, and these—connections.”

The soft, disappointed eyes of my husband come to mind, which haunt all my relationships. I’m so hungry for another body, for connection. Why does it seem so easy for other people? 

“Truth is, it don’t happen all that much. To me, at least. You?”

Surly and bone-tired, Rust shakes his head. “Didn’t have much hope for it growin’ up,” he admits. 

“But you wanted it,” I press, clumsy and clinging to the sag of his voice. Of course, he’ll pick up on the trace of hopeful, aimless, false victory that undercuts my words; he’s the only one who ever could. 

For a moment, though, I second-guess myself. 

It’s pathetic, really: I’d give almost anything to walk as him for a day, though, even then, I’m not sure I’d understand him any better.

Sometimes, my imagination runs away from me: in my dreams, I do. I wake under the impression that we’re one and the same, that, just maybe, he, similarly, is dreaming as me. It’s a pulsing obsession, difficult to conceal. Whenever a moment becomes still, I think about it: at night, he is transported; in his dreams, he touches with my hands, sighs with my voice, tastes with my mouth. Then, at least, that would explain these funny sensations I get in the morning: so weathered and worn, a strange ache in my muscles, like I’ve been sleepwalking.

How else could he know me so well? 

Or maybe I’ve really fucking lost it. Somewhere along the way – maybe after seeing that half-eaten body swaddled in thin cotton in its freezer cradle – I think something else took the wheel. Why that thing is racing towards him, I have no idea. It’s laughable, really.

Rust blinks calmly down at his hands. “Reckon the deniers are dumb?” he murmurs. 

Squeezing the bridge of my nose, I do my best to press back against the foul memory of dismembered limbs. Whoever had eaten the man—who was now beyond recognition—did they feel satisfied? Comforted with how forever close he was to them now? When I was small, I used to think sex was crawling into another person's body, like a cave, and letting all of their insides warm you, love you, wrap you tight. 

I swallow thickly. 

“Your words, not mine,” I reply through a tight smile. “Reckon it’s easy to find a distraction.”

"Have you given up?" he asks. “Finding a distraction?”

I don’t entertain him with a proper answer to that – I merely shrug and scratch at my scalp, tucking loose strands of sweaty hair back into the loops of my braid. Rust must be frustrated with me. To want a companion, to want the good life. Rivalling Marty in my delusion. 

He slides his hands into his lap, continuing: “Distraction is the way to peace?”

I shrug again – I think it’s starting to piss him off. “For a time, I guess.” 

“So, ‘s that how you’re takin’ quittin’? Think about other stuff whenever you want a smoke? Occupy yourself?”

Once I realise my leg is going dead, fuzzy from sitting still so long in this dark booth, I flex my thigh, flex my hands under the table, wide-open and then tight-shut, processing the blank slate of his gaunt face. I press my fingers into the sticky vinyl, delight in the interrupted drag of them up, up, up as they curl to fists, my shoulders up to my ears. 

When he says things like that, it makes it so hard to dislike him. I almost wish he’d ignore me, like he did the first couple weeks before it became clear to the both of us that it couldn’t be undone: his back constantly to me, sending messages only through Marty, refusing to look in my direction, like I might tempt him again into being a version of him he hated. At least, before, his coldness hadn’t been directed at me specifically. Then, it was a retaliation, a wall meant to keep me out. Where were his books on philosophy then?—to tell him that attachment leads to desire leads to suffering? That kind of suffering would be better than this kind. 

This is worse. This is so much worse. I’d rather not have something at all than have it toy with me like this. 

It takes a considerable amount of co-ordination to fabricate the apathy in my posture, my eyes, my expression, to compensate for the unease that pulses like a new artery in my throat – though, at the silvery glint that flickers in his eyes, I know it’s all for nothing. He’s already seen the hurt that, really, I can’t pin on anyone but myself. He’s raking his eyes slowly over my face. It’s fucking mean. Do me the favour of a mercy-killing, God.

I never even told him I was trying to quit.

“What,” I begin, concentrating very hard on keeping myself from stammering and from slurring, from crying and from grasping at his hand, “like that association thing?” 

I’ve heard of it, obviously. I know every trick at this point: old wives’ tales to the latest research papers at the state university library. It’s psychological: whenever you want something, instead, think of awful, gross, repulsive things, and make yourself hate it. I’ve tried it before, but it doesn’t always work. How can you convince yourself that one thing is disgusting when it’s undeniable how good it really was?

Rust nods.

“I mean, I tried it,” I tell him lowly. 

Overstatement: I tried it for approximately three days and two nights before I caved, unlocking the drawer in my study with shaky, desperate hands, hungry.

“But I’m always thinkin’ about it.”

Shit. He seems to have regained a nerve: Rust stares calmly ahead at me—not through me or just past me; at me. This is what I wanted, isn’t it?

He leans his weight over his forearms upon the table, on offence. Is this how he works his suspects? Well, shit, I’ve studied his methods from the privacy of the other side of the false mirror enough times to be able to answer that, actually: this is how he works his suspects. Initially, at least, to gauge their personality, their wants, their fears, what they need him to be. 

Thing is, I can’t pin down his intention with me. Is it just the satisfaction of the kill? Or maybe revenge for what I did to him last August. I broke down his walls: an unforgivable sin. I condemned him to the effort of building them back up, of shoving me out—if I ever managed to intrude in the first place. Maybe I deserve this. 

With his sleeves folded back, the dark lines of Rust’s tattoo jut out, growing along his tawny, leather-tan skin like lichen. I try not to stare.

His eyes complete a pre-emptive scan of my face, and, really, I know I should not let him see any change there in my expression, though my mouth twitches to frown. I try to gather my forces. I try to prepare myself for it, for that inevitable intrusion.

“‘f you’re so desperate for it, why’re you fightin’ back?” he asks, unblinking and cruel. 

My mouth twists, and I let it fall into the frown it wants. “‘Cause I wanted to feel better.”

It sounds dumb because it is dumb, even though it’s true. 

Low, he hums. He straightens, softens, and finally leans away. It’s like the vacuum around me leaves with him, and, there, now, it’s easier to breathe. 

He must note the way my chest rises and falls so stiffly, like there’s a weight resting over my heart. 

“Withdrawal’s a breeze, ain’t it?”

“You’re not fuckin’ funny,” I scoff, digging my nails punishingly into my palm. He smokes and drinks like he welcomes cancer, or hopes for it, so I don’t think we’re on a level playing field.

He quirks his head. “Well, do you?”

“Do I what, Rusty?” 

Amused, he rolls his jaw. Good – I hope I’ve provoked him. 

“Do you feel better?” 

I run my tongue over my teeth. “Sometimes,” I reply truthfully. “Not right now.”

He searches my face. 

“I can give you a ride home,” he offers. 

Fuck, and what will that be like? Ten times worse than this. I’ll come away the husk of a woman, worn down by his disapproval. My own fault for wanting anything from him in the first place, really. 

Teeth gritted together, I shake my head, ready to pull a muscle in my damn neck. “Didn’t mean anythin’ by it. Sorry.” 

No, I’m not. I ought to slap him, and then run away, back home, or back to my house, or to a brand new city. Or he could finally cuss me out, save me the wondering. Then, I could lick my wounds and they would finally stop reopening. 

I scratch at my scalp. 

Rust eyes my hand like he’d like to rip the bad habit away from my body. For a moment, I think he will—the tendons in his hand flex and writhe under the skin—but, no, he only brushes a thumb against the valley between his nose and cheek, and he holds his tongue for once. 

“Wasn’t offended,” he corrects firmly. “I’ll take you home.”  

Flashing with annoyance, my eyes dart up viciously to penalise him. “And what?” I hiss. 

He sits back, doesn’t answer the question.  

Jaw clenched, I wait to see if he’ll look away, but he doesn’t. 

My irritation soon fizzles through, condenses to a low, simmering understanding, steadily tended to by the intensity of his steadfast gaze. 

Oh. 

My eyes soften. 

Oh – I have him, don’t I?

He shows no signs of the tentativeness he had displayed last time—if Rust could ever be tentative. His eyes do not shift and scuttle around me; they meet mine, challenging my comfort. He does not tuck himself into a corner; he remains leaned over the table, just like that. How could I have known? 

I stare back, brow pinched in confusion. 

In the heat of last August, I’d peeled away from him knowing exactly how I’d convinced him he wanted me. Maybe I was evil for it – a good person wouldn’t use somebody’s faults against them, would they? And maybe that’s what it was: selfish. If he hates me, he’d be right to. 

Which is why I’m so puzzled that he doesn’t. Or rather, indifference was the baseline. Hell. And this? I don’t know. 

Swelling dangerously with the well-loved memory of his delirious mouthings over my skin, I grow rigid.

My temples throb and ache, the threat of tears still very real.

“Mind?” he asks – I watch, wide-eyed, as he pulls a pack of Camels from his pocket. 

Trembling slightly, I shake my head, though saliva is already pooling over the pit of my tongue, warm and soft, just like my desire. Luckily, he’s too preoccupied with his lighter to see it: how my body ripples at the scrape of his voice. 

The promise of nicotine dances like a phantom in the mouth, just from watching him place a cigarette between his lips. When he flicks open his Zippo, the sharp, shuddering candle of it taunts me, and I finally understand what they say about moths and flames.

I watch him take a long drag.

That all-consuming hunger lurches up in me again, and I swallow the warm spit that’s steadily been filling my mouth. 

Oh, Christ. This can’t be real. Desire shouldn’t be this bloody. Desire shouldn’t be the thing with teeth and claws, the ugly thing that tips into violence. Or obsession. With how often my thoughts return to us in the summer, I’ve wondered obsession as a possibility. The difference between myself and those who commit crimes of passion is control. Rust is dangerous for me. What is he thinking? What’s in his head? I ache to pry it open and explore, to swim close to him, for my skin to melt into his, to consume and be consumed. Not a moment’s peace, and that’s what I’m chasing, isn’t it? Peace and quiet?

I don’t have to say anything – he can read it all, mulling over the fine changes in my expression, the softening of my body, some pre-emptive instinct. Will he touch me tonight? 

With a cautious hand, ready to jolt back if met with teeth, I reach out to him and remove the cigarette from his pinched fingers—which he allows—then bringing it to my mouth, taking a drag myself, nice and slow, good and deep, a sigh, like home.

He watches me.  

“Don’t say anything.”  

And he doesn’t. He just watches, watches, watches as I take another drag. He shivers, and I feel it reverberate through my bones.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” I ask him softly, pressing down a quivering breath, smoking his cigarette. I’ve never mustered the courage to ask before.  

For once, though, I really don’t have to: I know exactly where his head is. Where else? He’s back in that room, infected by the drowse and drunken fever of August, with me, living it again. Where I’d coaxed him into the temptation, wicked as the snake in the garden. He should’ve pushed me to leave with Johansson and Marty – of course, I would’ve stayed. I’m a rotten thing, and my heart is a bloodhound. He’s the better of the two of us. I’ll take whatever of him I can get – anything. 

He meets my eyes directly, so hopeless, so raw. Is he asking? He shouldn’t be. 

But what will he have me do? I’m at his disposal, really.

“And?” I ask, throat dry. 

When he moves to speak, the words that leave him are low and slow: “You did something to me,” he manages. 

I scoff. 

“S’that a good or bad thing?” I ask.

Rust huffs like what I said was funny. More likely, though, it’s the way my eyes are so wide, the way my hand is pressed between my thighs, that amuses him. “Can’t decide.”

My mouth trembles as my eyes scrape over his neck, which I know, I remember, to be hot and alive, thick with it over the pulse. I was so high off of it: his warmth, his weight, his press. 

I indulge in one last drag, using the last scraps of my energy to conjure the pungent stench of rotting flesh in the cruel sunshine, the pick of eager flies and their cacophonous buzzing, the churn of vomit in the stomach. I look at Rust and try to do the same: the months of silence, his back decidedly turned to me, him accepting my case, and his arrogance and his apathy and his severity. He is a harrowing connection that I should rather not have made.

The technique doesn’t work. I don’t know why I thought, even for a minute, that this time would be different from the last. 

With him staring calmly at me, like I deserve it—the trap, the squirming sensation over my spine, the hopeless, unavoidable heat that claims my face—it’s just another arrow pointing to the same conclusion. Maybe we should just let August have its way with us again. Twin plagues.

Trembling ever so slightly, blood so warm, so thick, I flick ashes out into the tray between us. 

“I should put this out,” I mumble, though my hand yearns to return it to my mouth. 

“’s my cigarette,” Rust mutters.

“Sorry.” I offer my hand to him. “Want it back?”

I know what I must look like to him, pupils dark, the size of the moon, like a plate. Here, in the darkest part of the dark bar, I open myself to him, warm, molten, inviting. And God, this must be a dream—because I know what he wants, and I know that he’ll accept me. How we got here doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe he’s thought about it for some time, and only now, in a moment of stillness with him, have I even noticed. Too caught up in the fine details of a painting to think of the artist’s intention, which is always more important.

Silent, stare inexorable, he accepts the cigarette, only touching my fingers quick, like I’d burn him. Maybe I will. Serves him right: he was always going to haunt me either way. I ought to get mine while I still can.

The hunger laps at me.

I want to coax him open-wide. I want to peel away his demeanour and wrap myself close to him. Body heat is the best way to keep warm, isn’t it? I’m sure I read about that somewhere. It’s still fresh in my mind, like a cut. I can’t manage a day without playing it over at least once. I want it again: I want to breathe him in and let him sit in my chest and seep into every cell and let him be part of me that way, at least until the next breath.

He can see it in my eyes: the freneticism of my thoughts, racing like a storm, desires like bullets like rain.

“You ever think about what you want?” I try asking him, voice strained tight over my heart in my throat. 

“People only ever think about what they want,” he parries, batting away any trace of diffidence. He secures his cigarette between his lips, shifting. “Let’s leave.”

At his first movement, I slide out of the booth. 

Sometime during our conversation, the place emptied out. It must have been around when I finished Marty’s leftover beer that the weight of the locals’ beady stares—which had already faded to the back of my mind, in the same way that a dark alleyway can still make you uneasy though you know nothing would ever happen to you there—finally left me. There are no witnesses left to see me following after Rust like a dog, my body thrumming like the lone bug zapper out on the porch, which cracks! just as we exit. 

The broken clock reads three o’clock when we leave, but I know that, really, it’s only midnight.

Fortunately, the heat has cracked for once, like old, beat-up, splitting leather. Stepping out onto that night path, the breeze is warm and fragrant, dancing over my cheeks, playing gently with the loose threads of my hair. It’s a clear, blue, never-ending night – the dirt road which accompanies us is a long, winding, indigo river that spills unseen over the far, far horizon. The neighbouring fields—one a rolling stretch of grass; the other of wheat—are alive in the wind, flung one way on exhale, drawn the other upon inhale. 

Thank God for the noise of it: their rustling whispers, in a language we can’t understand; the soft whistle of a passing gust of air; the firm, crisp crunch of dry mud and dust under my boots. Thank God for the sway of things: the cradle of humidity; the press of my arm to Rust’s, which he permits only for a second, with his face angled away. Then, he slows, coming to walk just behind me, still parallel.

Flickering strands of long-grass brush my knuckles – I grab onto one, pull the seeds off it in an easy swipe, and scatter them as we go, one by one. 

Briefly, I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, his eyes are fixed on me, on my every movement, like he’s making sure I’m actually real. The corner of my mouth twitches up into a smile. 

Rust’s cigarette flares between his lips. 

I scratch gently at my wrist, reminded of the flowing of my blood just beneath the skin, hot and thick.

You get nowhere in life just hoping things will fall into your lap like this—and, anyway, what good is getting something that you didn’t work for? Where’s the gratification? It’s artificial, feeble as plastic. Christ, it was even a struggle to get my head around Johansson and his propensity to dole out favours. I understood a write-up – won’t pretend I’m above ass-kissing – but tidying up the office kitchen and keeping quiet about it? I thought it was stupid: letting people reap the rewards of your own effort, and for what?

So, the buzz of earning Rust’s touch that first time?—shit, nothing compared. No drug, no high; nothing. I really thought I did something. Satisfied some secret ambition I didn’t know I held. To have him like that. To be able to replay that night, swallow it like a pill. To look at him and know what was underneath his clothes and his skin, and perhaps further inside, too. Shit, I took so much from him, but the mental gymnastics of the effort justified it, right? And, now, he’s going to give it all up again. Wants it, even.

Haven’t I played this out a thousand times in my head? I’ve seen the future—a number of futures—where I’m able to argue for his affection. Fight for your love – that’s what my daddy used to tell me whenever he was feeling sentimental after yelling.

I’ve had endless conversations with him in my head, edited accordingly as time passed, as he changed, as I changed, as the air between us changed. Possible flirtation seemed silly, futile, after a week. Sex appeal would go unnoticed by him – wasn’t like he looked, anyway. Not the type to chase tail. I found myself longing for him to please linger uncomfortably in doorways to rooms I was in, to leave things near me and come and collect them just after I was gone so that, maybe, he’d still feel the warmth of my presence and understand it was only ever warm that way for him. The idea of genuine confession always sprung up during the quiet nights alone together in the bullpen, but I was always able to talk myself out of it when he wouldn’t so much as glance at me after two, three hours.

It must be a million threads of conversation up in my head, which is why I guess it’s so hard to untangle the great knot and retrieve just one, because, now, there are no words that come to mind when it matters. Or maybe it doesn’t matter: I don’t think he needs convincing at all.

“What you so quiet for?” he asks faintly. 

When I look back, he’s stark against the brooding sky like some shadow-man. His outline hums like he’s pulling away into his own silhouette. 

I can’t seem to smile. “Nothin’.” 

He won’t push—at least, not on this—and I’m glad for it. 

Rust’s beat-up semi is all lonely sat in a dip up in the road, waiting for us. Same semi he’d driven me home in from work this one week I was getting my car fixed up, in which a series of slow, mutual interrogations would take place along the light-streaked highway. In the office, you were lucky to drag a full sentence out of Rust, but, alone, it wasn’t so hard to get him to talk at all.

Maybe I had just wanted to be better than him, to learn how he worked, how he was such a good interrogator, and bleed him dry. That was why I couldn’t look away: every choice in his demeanour could help me surpass him.

Even then, I learned to be careful with my looks. I had the feeling he’d morph into something else if I stared long enough, the way the shadow in the corner of your bedroom changes shape when you’re bone-tired. Sometimes, he would. And on the Thursday night of that week, when he had pulled over and thrown up, shaking, into the dark thrush, I hadn’t uttered a word as he climbed back into the driver’s seat. But, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, I’d stared at him with the filmy eyes of a hungry nocturnal animal.

Then, at least, the curiosity wasn’t a burden. Not like it became when I drove myself home come that morning after.

I could tell it was different the moment I shifted awake, feigning a sleep for just a couple more minutes.

Dressed again and putting on a pot of coffee, his back was to me. I had shuffled up, pulled on my clothes, and I knew the stupor of the night had faded. So, really, when I stepped past him and he closed the door behind me without a word, I shouldn’t have been upset. 

When I reach the pick-up first, I twist to look at him. 

Rust has slowed to finish his cigarette at a safe distance, eyeing me warily.

He crushes the stub into the dirt, then glancing out into the long night. 

“Straight home?” he asks. 

I shake my head, and the rigid line of him gives just a little. It’s so dangerous to be seduced by your own influence, but the realisation that I’ve had any at all is fuel enough to the plea in my wide eyes.

Rust advances haltingly. If I move, I’m sure he’ll flinch and bolt. So, I test the theory: better to weed out what’s already decayed.

I angle myself towards him, open like a door. He tosses his jacket into the bed of his pickup, stepping through.

The heat seeps back between us, slow and thick like a flood of molasses, and it becomes very clear, suddenly, that we never should’ve tried to barricade ourselves. Pretty sure Rust’s known this a while, anyways: he’s the one who leans in for me, kisses me slow.

This time, his hands are quick to curl around my body, where the tension in that tight cord all down his spine has snapped. Or just eased up on him—but that’s unlikely. And unimportant. With his firm touch petting up my spine, climbing each rung, it’s all unimportant.

A pulse of arousal strikes me like an electric current as Rust pulls the blouse out of my skirt, his face close to me.

His tongue pushes into my mouth again, and I hum over the husk of nicotine. It’s a haze in the brain, one I’ve missed. My skin tingles and my thoughts warp in this leer, like a nic rush, only I haven’t had one of those in years and years.

I can’t exactly call what I’m feeling satisfaction. There’s no win to this. My teeth sunk into him so sweet last time, and the thrill of getting him, of tripping him up with his own desire, was almost as good as the actual feeling of him inside me. But it’s different now: so obvious, it’s funny. Though my first instinct is to doubt and pry apart, maybe want is the most trustworthy thing a person can feel. It’s animal and instinctive, and it’s inevitable, so it’s always true. Ugly, sometimes, but always there. There’s no room to question his want, because I can taste it on his tongue, I can feel it pressing over my stomach, I can hear it in the way he hums at the sear of my skin. 

It must be a favour to me: the blatancy of it all. For however direct he may be, I’ve always felt that Rust has these plans within plans. Nothing is as it is on the surface: you have to dig to get to the good stuff. It’s disorienting, having it all laid out for me. And I’ll take anything he gives me.

I don’t want to leave any room for doubt in his mind either. 

So, I clutch at him hungrily, so drunk on his warmth, and thump my back against the door he opens for me to close it again.

I don’t ask, and I’m glad that he doesn’t make me, only presses my body flush against the cool surface of his side-door, until the only part of me free to move are the fingers that curl over his arms, as if they could sink through the fabric and then the flesh underneath. There’s only dogs and ghosts out at this hour, anyway; eyes in the long-grass. No-one but them and him to see my hips jerk against the precise hand under my skirt. 

He hadn’t looked at me this much before. Even when my eyes go glassy and I have to blink hard to try and regain my smarts, to not finish too quickly, I know he’s staring at me like a scientist.

When the next needy noise is drawn from me, I bury my face into his neck to save myself the embarrassment of being seen like this, even though it’s pointless. His fingers are dragging aside the damp fabric of my underwear anyway, sliding through my silky desire. When his knee shoves between my legs to keep apart, he changes the pressure of his hand, circles tightly over where shame does not apply. Restraint is a man-made practice that never prevails over biology. I should know this. Still, though, my face is hot as I whine into his shoulder. 

Rust doesn’t ask me to look at him, not yet, and I’m so grateful for it. I bite into the meat of him at the push of one finger, then keen all the way to my toes at the hook of two, rocking against his palm thoughtlessly as he fucks the both of them in deep.

The clink of his belt buckle barely processes through the smoke of sticky eyes and open mouths and the press of his body. But the absence of his hand from my hip, of it working between us?—that’s what ushers normal sensation back into me. I recover from the limp slump against him, but not quickly enough to understand or resist him guiding my hand to wrap around his swollen cock, coated with spit. 

He grunts as he tightens my grip around him, coaxes my hand how he wants it. In the back of my mind, though, of course I remember. Only, his fingers are so far inside that my head is spinning, teetering on the precipice of another thought I know I’ll lose, one that dissolves at the slight scrape of nail, one that would never matter as much as the soft then firm press of him against my cervix. My eyes water, and there licking at me is only a faint, abstract impression of embarrassment when Rust grips over my jaw, calloused heel of his palm heavy on my neck, and hauls me away from the hiding spaces of his body’s crevices.

“What, you fuckin’ shy now? You wanted it, so look,” he mumbles, digging his fingers into the soft parts of my face a little more, like there’s some hidden button beneath the surface that can make my droopy eyes fly back open. There must be because, somehow, it works. He angles my face by the scruff of my neck.

I can only stand to look between us for a few jumpy heartbeats before my eyes settle on the comfort of his even face, which he seems to accept readily, breath hitching. He does not blink. The intensity of his observations hounds me, lights me up like points on a star, even when my vision smears and melts at the dizzying curl of his fingers. Lucky for my weak knees he’s got his hand over the nape of my neck, his thighs pinning my own. I shake against him, some pathetic thing, and tremble when he keeps massaging there deep inside.

“Don’t go dumb on me, girl,” Rust scolds quietly when my hand loosens around him, his own having to leave the heat of my neck and come down to correct the pressure, the pull. My head lolls without the support of his hand. “Ain’t gon’ say nothin’?” 

Words spill uselessly into a pool before me, slipping through my fingers. My pulse slams in my throat, lower, too, against his touch, each beat meeting him as he works me over again. 

What I manage is a choked noise, all clogged up inside. I have little to do with it: just a body, a heartbeat and a compulsion to be near, nearer, nearest to him. Half a mind that’s lagging worse than the computers at work, that realises far too late that the body is curling into itself again, so tight, so wet, and fuck, fuck. 

He removes his fingers, that slow drag, and tells me to turn. When I don’t—completely without, dull and aching—Rust twists and shoves me against the window, which goes cloudy at the breathy moan pushed up from my slack stomach. 

Slow-like, a cold hand snakes under my shirt, smooths up my burning spine, all the way up, all the way down, hooking in the waistband of my skirt, knuckles burrowing into the soft dimples in my back. My whole body shivers as he slides his palm over the back of my neck—a comfort for which I’m desperate to become familiar—and squeezes gently. If I keep my eyes open, all I can see of him is that black silhouette in the window, a reflection. A homogenous mass, humming at the edges, devoid of the detail of things: can’t see the way he drags his thumb up along the line of my spine, traces where it meets the skull; nor the way he steps forward, teases the air out of my lungs, enjoys it, tugs my hips closer to him by the gusset of the underwear webbed between my thighs; nor the way the cool metal buckle presses red lines into flesh. 

The sight of Rust doesn’t matter so much as the understanding that it’s him behind me, that it’s his truck my cheek is being pressed into, that it’s his—fuck—that it’s him sliding through the heat of me, so close. The tip notches and makes it all the easier for my eyes to flutter shut. It helps with the vertigo that follows the rough push of him inside. 

My fingers grasp for the little ridges in the door. Best place for them ends up to be under my mouth, though, to keep my head on my shoulders, to muffle the noises I was sure only animals made. My knee jerks sharply against the truck at the first white-hot pulse of pleasure – I hiss, smearing the drool at the edge of my mouth with the back of my hand, so glad he isn’t in clear enough line of sight to chastise me with his tendency to notice and never forget. 

But he knows—he must fucking know by now—because the heavy hand clasped over my scruff curls around my face, and Rust forces two fingers into my parted mouth, presses over my soft tongue. 

He pulls himself out just to feel the total length of me taking him again, so painfully slow. Feel the initial resistance, the spongy give, the sweet slip, the drag, all of it. So full, I feel sick with it. Overindulgence. Knocks me weak, doesn’t mind it when I bite down on his fingers to take most of the weight out of my sob. What I take from him, he takes from me—we’re even that way—so Rust, already with his nose flirting with the crook of my sweaty neck, nips over my erratic pulse, pushes his tongue over where I’m sure he can see the skin throbbing with the violence of it. Vampire. He could draw blood and I wouldn’t mind: he knows I need bloodletting. 

So fucking dumb to think for a second it could be sated by just one time. I needed it again before it even ended – I knew it in the split second he touched me. The grief of closure was as adamant as a shadow. Stupid. He must think it, too, because, shit, the snap of his hips is mean. Punishment: you should’ve known. 

“We ought’a be in your bed. I should be fuckin’ you through your bed,” he complains gruffly, his mouth dragging over hinge of my jaw.

I moan around the fingers in my mouth, which hook together with his thumb to pinch the fleshy inside of my cheek, challenging my lost focus. No matter. There’s nothing we can do now. 

The seize of my body doesn’t take him by surprise at all, not that I expected it to, and the words that follow are easy, like he’s been thinkin’ of them as loud and clear as day as it would be to speak ‘em: “Shit, that feels good, sweet girl, huh? Tha’s it, just take it. That’s good.” And he lets the warmth gush out before stuffing it back in. “You’ll take one more.”

I stare at the endless field to the side of us, melted over the curve of his door, shivering despite the humidity that always finds you around here. I choke more on my own tongue than his fingers as Rust fucks me slow, like I deserve it.

“Need it s’bad, huh?” he drawls into the shell of my ear. “Why you gone all quiet on me, baby?—thought y’wanted it.” 

He drags his fingers out of my mouth, daring me to speak. He slides his hand between my stomach and the side-door, gliding down between the thighs, smearing my dripping arousal over the skin. 

My toes curl tight again as he pushes deeper than before, sits there like he knows my mind will do the rest of the work. The grate of his zipper as he shifts draws a mangled sound from the pit of me, not hidden by the brace of my trembling arm. 

He zeros in on my clit, all sticky, and circles tight. I shudder. 

“Give in,” he says to me in a voice so low and soft that it barely reaches me above the high frequency splitting through my skull. He rolls that bright pearl between his finger and thumb. “You feel it?” 

Mindless and eyes all milky, I still manage a nod, grateful for the mean pin of his knees against my shaking thighs. 

He hums. “So give in.” 

Fuck, this is absurd. The mind can just about string two and two together when Rust lends a forearm beside my head for me to rest on, to grip over: so he’s pictured this, wanted this, for how long? I knew the stagnancy was a front, swallowed something else, but—my mouth goes wet and slack over his forearm at the languid roll of his hips—but it wasn’t realistic to imagine it was this. Rust struck me as someone incapable of reconciling himself with his wants. Shame over acceptance because he thinks it’s atonement. Should’ve known better than to think Rust believed in redemption. 

The silhouette in the window is looking over the empty road, scanning for cars that won’t ever come—but his hand is warm under the tent of my shirt, easing over my waist, slow, as everything clamps up, trembling, again. Body and a heartbeat, he tugs my hips back to him, again and again, until he’s a hot, shuddering line all through me, face in my neck, crushing the fight out of my lungs. 

His nose presses over my cheek, and his breath is coarse there, too, panting, when he lifts his heavy head. My throat goes so loose and open, greedily drinking in the sweet-sticky scent of him. 

“C’mon, now,” he says to me once he’s pulled my underwear back up, dragging the cool, damp gusset against the mess of me for good measure. He pinches my hip, then over my thigh, like that might get me to quit shuddering. “Time to go.” 

When I don’t move, he smooths a hand gently over my hair. Tucks a loose chunk of it back into the mess of my braid before deciding it’s best if he lets it loose completely. 

Rust winds down the window as he holds open the door for me to clamber onto the bench.

“Y’can sleep ‘f you want,” he mumbles once he’s got me curled up on the seat, leaning through the frame. He tilts his head – the shadows have always hidden his eyes, but I like how the pinch in his brow has melted away at least.

If I had half a mind, I’d use it to shove his face out my goddamn way. Instead, I settle for the narrowing of my eyes and a decided huff. “Won’t.”

Lie. I fall asleep like anything, mellowed by the sweet rush of wind over marshland, the spirit of it weaving inside, and the weight of Rust’s hand tucked in the tight bend of my knee.

[tiredfox64]

Omg I just read the pipsqueak story, plzzz can I suggest g/t story's where the reader is shrunken down maybe with the other lin kuei bros or the farmer boys or even liu kang xxx. You can decide the prompt. But seriously. That was one of the best g/t stories I've ever read in my life😭❤️❤️🫂 📚. Thank you so much for writing it.

Hats Off to You

Yip notes: The best?!?! Nooooo, it couldn’t possibly be :3. As a furry I think I will always be weary of g/t and I won’t elaborate on that point.

Pairings: Raiden x Gn reader x Kung Lao

Warnings‼️: Oh dammit I lost you in my LPS bin

Don’t say Liu Kang never warned you three about Shang Tsung. He a tricky and manipulative snake that will do anything to prevent getting captured. It was hard enough getting into Earthrealm, he’s not gonna let you capture him that easily. Treating him like a fool, how dare you!

Liu Kang immediately sent you, Raiden, and Kung Lao out when he detected the sorcerer made his way to Earthrealm. He had no clue what he wanted or what he was here for but he was not gonna wait to see. You and Kung Lao were running in, guns a blazing from the get-go. Raiden was, of course, the responsible one and wanted to catch Shang Tsung off guard. It’s a little hard to do that when Kung Lao throws his hat the moment he saw Shang Tsung’s hair flowing in the wind. It didn’t stick the landing but it did stick to a tree trunk. The poor squirrel inside the trunk, hibernation came early for it.

You three surrounded the sorcerer. His head snapped around, looking for a way to escape. It would not be easy and he’d have to unfortunately use his resources. Whether he killed someone or merely distracted you all didn’t matter to him. He just needed to get out.

Thanks to your bravery and stupidity, you were the first to lunge at him. He turned around at that moment and saw you were a few feet away with your hands held out to tackle him. To your surprise, you saw him lift up his hand and in it was a glass bottle. The cork popped off with ease and he splashed you with the contents of the bottle. He was like a priest with holy water but instead of blessing you he was cursing you with something unknown.

The liquid was thick. It was a headache inducing neon blue. It felt like slime was poured over your head and dripped down the front of your body. It bubbled quickly like thick soup that was getting too hot. Steam emitted from the liquid and grew thicker around you.

What was gonna happen to you? Would you melt into a puddle of your own flesh and blood? Would some fiendish beast grow out of you?

You heard Raiden and Kung Lao yell your name in a panic. They believed you were a goner, you were a poor soul that was met with a terrible fate. Shang Tsung cackled at the display of fear that was present in all of you. You were desperately trying to wipe the liquid off but it only stuck to you more. The steam grew too thick and you felt something change about you. The change, however, wasn’t painful. It was almost quieting as the world around you grew bigger. No, actually it didn’t. The world was normal, you were getting smaller.

The steam cleared and they all saw you. You looked fine except for the fact that you were the size of a Norway rat. Raiden and Kung Lao stared with their mouths open. Shang Tsung narrowed his eyes due to annoyance and to also get a better look at you.

“What!?” He shouted angrily before looking at the bottle.

He looked at the label and saw that this was not a potion that was in anyway harmful. This potion was more built for distractions if anything. Why did he even make such a stupid potion?!

The sound of Shang Tsung’s anger broke the men’s trance and they leaped into action. Raiden quickly ran over to you, kneeling down to scoop you into his hands. Kung Lao launched his razor-brimmed hat at Shang Tsung and it landed. It grazed his arm, making him scream in pain and drop the glass bottle. The hat turned around and made its way back to Shang Tsung in another attempt to cut him. He just narrowly dodged and it flew back into Kung Lao’s hand. He went to throw it again but Shang Tsung used his sorcerer magic to teleport away from the attack. He could be anywhere at that point but that wasn’t their concern. Their concern was you.

“By the elder gods, are you okay? Are you in any pain?” Raiden softly tilted you around on his hand to check for any damages.

You stared down at your tiny hands while looking at Raiden’s fingers that curled up again you. This felt…strange to say the least. You looked at the rest of your body to see if there were any injuries. There were none to see and none to be felt.

“I think I’m fine. But I’m clearly not myself.”

“Hey,” Kung Lao yelled for Raiden’s attention, “He dropped the bottle.”

He leaned down and grabbed the bottle and cork to close it again. There was some liquid still left in the bottle, maybe someone could find a reverse for this potion. An antidote of sorts.

Raiden walked over to him while looking around the area. He let out a sigh of disappointment not because of you but because he couldn’t see Shang Tsung.

“He got away, there is nothing we can do if we don’t know where he is.”

“But Raiden, he couldn’t have gone far. Maybe we can run around and—“

“We can’t focus on that when he shrunk one of our companions. Think of the other potions he could have on hand.”

Kung Lao sighed before looking down at you in the palm of Raiden’s hands. There was a look of pity in his eyes. It shouldn’t have happened. If only he had better aim he could’ve taken Shang Tsung down before you were affected. But there was no point mopping about. Raiden was right. It might be best to go back to the Wu Shi and see if there is anything Liu Kang could do.

“Alright, we should go back and tell Lord Liu Kang what happened. But you might want to put them somewhere other than your hands. You know, with the amulet and stuff.”

Oh, that’s right, Raiden was holding onto his amulet. Probably won’t do you good if you are electrocuted by accident on top of being small. How’d you even miss the large glowing thing?

Raiden looked everywhere on his body for a place to put you but he had no pockets. He would’ve ask Kung Lao to carry you but what if he needed to use his hands to throw his hat? Both the men thought long and hard on how to get back without you possibly getting hurt. Kung Lao snapped his fingers like he had the greatest idea ever.

“Ratatouille!” He yelled.

“No, Kung Lao, no,” Raiden whined, “Why are you thinking about food right now?”

“The movie! Remember the movie that Johnny forced us to watch with the silly rat that cooked.”

The realization hit Raiden and he understood what Kung Lao was suggesting. He looked down at you, waiting to see your reaction. You just stared in some random direction because you were thinking about the fact that they saw you as a rat.

Ah but a rat that can cook, let’s keep that in mind.

“Fine. Put me on your head.” You gave him the go ahead.

Raiden slipped off his straw hat and placed you on top of his head. You hook your hands through the strands of shiny black hair that he neatly had in a bun. He had Kung Lao help him with putting it back on as to not accidentally knock you off. You were covered by his hat, light and air still seeping through the material. It was quite comfortable actually. You could get used to it.

“Are you okay up there?” Raiden asked softly. You gave a light tug that shocked a nerve of his.

“Understood. Let’s get back to the Shaolin for some guidance.”

══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══

The Shaolin could not provide any help. Outworld magic is not their business. This would be a job for Liu Kang except he wasn’t in.

You may have lost Shang Tsung but Liu Kang found him soon after. Shang Tsung teleported to the wrong place at the wrong time and was now being hunted down by Lord Liu Kang. He will show no mercy.

You’re forced to wait for Liu Kang to return to have a possible chance of returning to normal. Maybe he can reverse what happened to you or even force Shang Tsung to find a solution. Something, anything would be useful. Oh well, looks like you’ll be stuck as a pipsqueak with two giant bodyguards. Make the most of your time.

Raiden took off his straw hat to let you out finally. Kung Lao picked you up gently and by gently that means he pinched the back of your neck, making you feel paralyzed until he put you in the palm of his hand.

“What do we do now?” He asked Raiden.

“There is nothing we can do. We just have to wait and make sure they stay safe.” He replied while rubbing your cheek with his knuckle.

He wasn’t really thinking about it. It’s just his instincts to do that to any small creature that is near him. And yes, he knows you’re not a creature you are human just like him. But you’re so small how can he not rub those cheeks as you pout about the situation. You can’t say it didn’t feel good to you. His knuckle would occasionally rub more than your cheek like behind your ear and the side of your head. It hit the right spots that could make you feel like you were on ecstasy while also getting sleepy. He left you lying in Kung Lao’s hand all euphoric as he kept rubbing the side of your face. You clearly liked it so he kept going.

You should’ve seen Raiden’s face. He was pointing you out to Kung Lao like you weren’t in his hands. He was pointing you out like you were the most adorable being ever with the way you accepted his pets. Kung Lao stared back at him with a look that screamed “are you being serious?” Look who’s talking.

“You don’t need to patronize them by treating them like a pet.”

“I’m not doing that. What makes you say that?”

“Oh yes you are. You’re petting them like they are a new born kitten. They’re fine.”

“I know they’re fine and I’m not treating them like a pet. They clearly like it.” Raiden pulled his finger away from you to your dismay.

The two bickered about how you should be treated like they what you want. You were jumping on Kung Lao’s hand trying to get Raiden to come pet you again. You didn’t reach that peak where a shiver runs down your spine. What’s the point of being petted like that if you don’t get to the point your brain is mush?

“Don’t I have a say in how I should be treated?!” You yelled, but no one would hear. Story of your life.

You just sat in Kung Lao’s hand with your arms crossed and pure anger in your eyes. You tried to coerce him into petting you by rubbing your face on his thumb. The only thing that you got was his thumb rubbing the top of your head and making you dizzy from the circular motion. Ah forget it, let them argue it out.

Growwwwwwlllllll

A low rumbling was heard by all of you. A growl that begged for food. We all know who could possibly be hungry.

Kung Lao tried to pin it off on you by pointing at you but Raiden smacked his hand away. Ain’t no way your small body made such a loud statement. He let out a sigh before placing his hands on his hips.

“That’s something we can do. We can get some food. Shall we visit Madam Bo?” Raiden suggested.

“Is that even a question?”

Raiden smiled and tried to take you from Kung Lao’s hands but he pulled away. He stared at Raiden like he was out of his mind trying to take you away.

“You got to carry them back it’s my turn now.” He placed you on top of his hat where you had to cling to the dark brown straw straps of it. Guess you’re riding this ride now.

“Weren’t you just arguing with me about treating them like a pet and not a human? You didn’t even let them have a say on who they go with!”

“This is to make it fair since you brought them back and I get to bring them to Madam Bo’s. It evens it out.”

“What are you talking about, evening what out?!”

The monks came around to shush them for being so loud, all that arguing and what not. This is a monastery, have some respect.

══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══

Madam Bo was quite shocked that you lost some pounds…and height…you lost a lot. Raiden and Kung Lao had to explain that it was a freak accident and it was in no way their fault. They didn’t want her to smack them thinking it was all their fault.

She was quick to seat you all, you having to sit right on the table. With the amount of food Kung Lao ordered there was no point in having you or Raiden say your orders. He basically ordered for you. And damn near ate your order if Raiden didn’t stop him.

Every bit of food that Kung Lao gave you was too big. A slice of beef would’ve choked you if you tried to take it in. Raiden had to be the one to cut them into smaller pieces for you to eat. It was still a struggle no matter what. Too much meat!

Maybe balance it with some vegetables—KNOCK IT OFF KUNG LAO THAT CARROT IS TOO BIG. A bean sprout is a better option for you. You did look silly chewing on the whole thing. You were like a bunny that was given a long dandelion stem and didn’t stop munching till you got to the end. Raiden had to hold himself back from laughing. Kung Lao did let out a chuckle which resulted in him choking a little.

Ah but the grand entree that took you out was that one soup dumpling. Raiden poked a hole through for you to slurp the broth. It was a constant pattern of blowing on it, slurping, blowing, slurping, feeling the broth flow down your throat, blowing again. It was so good and you managed to drink all the broth but the dumpling itself…no. Yeah, any more food and you’d feel like your belly would combust.

You were left with a satisfied smile on your face as you laid on Kung Lao’s chest. He had that same satisfied look on his face before he burped. It almost scared you off with how loud it was. But what a silly sight for Raiden, watching you both pat your bellies. Maybe having you be small isn’t so bad, it makes things cuter.

You know what isn’t cute? The bill. Madam Bo slammed it down on the table and waited to see who would pay. Uh it clearly wouldn’t be you, you left your wallet behind silly! So it’s up to the men to figure it out.

“Well since I paid last time I think it’s your turn-“ Raiden paused when he saw Kung Lao already getting up from his seat while placing you on his hat, “Hey! Where are you going?”

“I paid the last time we were here.”

“No, you didn’t. Johnny paid for us.”

“That’s not what I remember…”

Oh so that’s how it’s gonna be. Kung Lao gonna twist this situation to get his way. Well Raiden won’t let that slide and unfortunately you are in the middle of this situation.

“I am not paying for all of this.”

“If that’s how it’s gonna be then we might as well handle this man to man.”

Before you could even object to anybody starting a fight in the tea house, Kung Lao already got a grip on his hat. He flung it right at Raiden while he grabbed his amulet. As that hat spun past Raiden, it occurred to them both that you were still on his hat. When did they remember? WHEN YOUR SCREAMS COULD BE HEARD AS YOU PASSED RAIDEN’S HEAD.

The hat luckily circled back before hitting anything. Raiden ducked and Kung Lao quickly caught it with both hands. You were left disheveled and shaking with your hands gripping any part of the hat. You had a death grip on it to make sure death didn’t grip you.

“I’m sorry! That wasn’t intentional at all!” Kung Lao apologized profusely, checking to see if you were hurt physically. You were definitely scarred mentally.

Madam Bo’s voice could be heard as she yelled at the two for causing such trouble. She smack them on the back of their head before making them pay the bill. They BOTH had to pay.

She had to get you this tiny cup of ginger tea to settle your stomach after that ride that you never consented to. The world was still spinning and she had to spoon feed the tea to you while Kung Lao rubbed your back with two fingers.

“I feel sorry for you, having to deal with these thick headed fools,” she was really pitying you, “Are you feeling any better?”

“Bleh”

══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══

When you guys went back to the Wu Shi you were ecstatic to find Lord Liu Kang back. Maybe now you could get answers on how to get back to normal. He even had Shang Tsung captured so maybe he can force him to do something.

Liu Kang stared at you with his glowing eyes. He’s glad you weren’t dead but this was unexpected nonetheless. He really did want to help you…but even his godly powers couldn’t figure this out. Look, it’s hard, don’t get mad at him. The next option was to force Shang Tsung to make an antidote which he never does. Having him even agree to that would be a huge hassle. You will unfortunately stay small for a long time. Get used to it, Raiden and Kung Lao already have.

The moment Liu Kang even said they would have to watch over you, Raiden’s eyes sparkled. That might’ve been actual electricity in his eyes but whatever. He’s more than happy to have you stay this way. It makes it easier for him to squish you against his face and nuzzle you. Whoops, it’s super effective, now you’re paralyzed until he lets you go.

Kung Lao will have to find a better place to put you. You will NEVER go back on his hat again.

Yap notes: I’m weirdly inclined to do g/t fanfic when I’m feeling bad in some way. When I started it my throat was hurting a lot cause of smoke in the air. My throat still be hurting so it must be a curse of some kind ;-; oh well. I hopefully will be getting a Hanzo fanfic done soon cause obviously smoke in the air, lots of fires in my state. Might as well make it comedic to cope. Adiós!

[joyfulcowboycandy]

My tears, oh my tears, I just read your Lilia fic😭😭😭😭I don't think I'll be able to get through my day well. I really need a happy ending for him with her🤧🤧🤧

HI ANON! Thank you for your request ❤! I had to think pretty hard for an idea and I settled on this I hope it's satisfactory! I'm not very good at writing fluff and happy endings so I tried my best:p

Lilia Vonrogue x Reader

❥ part two (part 1: here)

Content warning: none

fem reader

Lilia had spent countless years as a hardened warrior, fighting on the front lines and keeping his heart guarded from attachment or sentimentality. But when she died in his arms, all his strength and resilience seemed to dissolve. Now, he was left with only her memory—and the child she’d entrusted to him, Silver. Raising Silver should have been a way to honor her, but each day felt like a reminder of his failure to protect her. Despite this, he kept her memory close, never sharing the truth with anyone else.

When he’d returned to Briar Valley, he had simply told others he’d found the boy abandoned. He didn’t want their sympathy, their prying questions, or their pity. She was his secret, a part of his soul he guarded as fiercely as any territory he’d once protected in battle.

Though he loved Silver fiercely, Lilia struggled to raise him properly. Silver was human, fragile and dependent in a way that bewildered him. Malleus, though eager to help, was just as lost. He was unused to anything so delicate, and his fascination with Silver’s human traits sometimes did more harm than good.

“I do not understand, Lilia,” Malleus said once as they watched Silver wail at the unfamiliar taste of solid food. “Why does he reject this nourishment? Fae children devour their first meals.”

Lilia only chuckled, masking his own frustration. “Human babies don’t always eat everything, Malleus. They’re… unpredictable.”

But when he was alone, Lilia was less assured. How could he teach a child when his own life had been war and solitude? He often tried to remember the warmth of her smile as she held Silver, the way she’d cradled him with a patience and gentleness he could never seem to match. He’d even picked up books on human parenting, flipping through pages with an intensity usually reserved for military strategies. Yet, with every attempt to follow the words, he felt her absence even more sharply, the emptiness of her laughter lingering in the silence of their small home.

Silver was growing quickly, and with him, Lilia’s feelings shifted. At times, Silver’s big eyes, so much like hers, would look up at him with a trust that made Lilia’s heart ache. But he was also reminded of his failings. How could he raise this child with warmth when he had none left to give? He was a warrior, not a father. And yet… he couldn’t let her down. Each time he saw Silver sleep, curled up and peaceful, he’d lean against the doorway and watch, feeling something unfamiliar and gentle soften his battle-worn heart.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.          Years Later

As he grew older, Silver began to notice things that didn’t quite fit the stories his father told him. Lilia had always said he found Silver, abandoned and alone, and that he’d taken him in. But there were gaps in the story, inconsistencies that left Silver questioning his past.

Sometimes, late at night, Silver would wake to find his father sitting by the fire, staring into the flames with a distant, sorrowful expression Silver had rarely seen. And sometimes, Lilia would hold a small trinket—a ribbon, or a faded piece of cloth—that he quickly hid whenever Silver approached.

“Father,” Silver asked once, “were you alone when you found me?”

Lilia’s gaze shifted, and he masked his expression with a wry smile. “You were all I found that day, Silver. Just a bundle of trouble waiting to happen.”

But Silver couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it. Over time, he learned not to ask too many questions, knowing they would only be deflected. Yet, the mysteries lingered, especially in the moments when he saw a softness in Lilia that he couldn’t quite understand—a gentleness that seemed to speak of someone else.

One night, Silver dozed off after a long day of training, only to find himself drifting into a dream unlike any he’d ever had before. It felt unusually vivid, he realized he were stepping into someone else’s memories rather than his own. He was in a dimly lit forest clearing, and through a haze of recollection, he saw his father, but not as he knew him. This version of Lilia seemed slightly younger, sterner, his gaze sharper and full of fire. And beside him was a woman Silver had never seen before.

She was human, with soft, gentle eyes, and the way she looked at his father was unlike anything Silver had ever witnessed. In one scene, she was gently binding a wound on Lilia’s arm, her hands steady and careful. Lilia was grumbling, clearly unused to being cared for in such a way, but there was a tenderness in his eyes, a look Silver had never seen directed at anyone before.

The memory shifted, and now she was holding a small child—an infant Silver realized with a start was himself. She whispered to the baby in her arms, her words too soft for him to hear, but the expression of love on her face was unmistakable. And when Lilia glanced at her, it was with a mix of admiration, something deeper and unspoken lingering in his gaze.

Silver stirred, feeling an ache in his chest he couldn’t explain. Who was this woman, and why had his father never mentioned her? The dream faded, but the questions remained, and the next morning, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Father,” he began hesitantly, watching Lilia’s face, “I had a dream last night… or maybe a memory. There was a woman with you. She looked… kind.”

Lilia stiffened, his usual mirth fading as he met Silver’s gaze. For a moment, he was silent, his eyes betraying a depth of pain Silver had never seen before.

“She was…” Lilia’s voice was barely a whisper. “Someone I lost long ago.”

Silver remained quiet, sensing the weight of the memory and the love his father had hidden all these years. Though Lilia didn’t offer any more details, Silver understood that this woman—his mother—had been someone truly special. 

Silver felt a quiet desperation gnawing at him. Now that he had glimpsed a fragment of her—a woman he felt connected to yet hardly knew—a hollow ache settled in his chest. His father had always kept his sorrow hidden, masking any sign of grief with his usual humor and lightheartedness. But after seeing her, Silver couldn’t ignore the emptiness left by her absence, and he couldn’t accept that this was the end of their story.

The longing grew sharper with each day, his mind drifting back to the mystery of her—a mother he barely remembered, a bond he could only dream of. How could he let things end like this? To never have truly known her felt wrong. Still, he was just a human, and what power did he have over something as final as death?

But the thought wouldn’t let him rest. He was not as helpless as he felt. He was strong, he knew magic, and he was connected to some of the most powerful beings in Twisted Wonderland. Surely there was a way—some forbidden knowledge, some hidden path he hadn’t yet considered.

And then he remembered the rumors, whispers of a witch who resided far beyond Briar Valley, somewhere between worlds, where human souls and fae magic brushed against each other. A powerful sorceress who understood the mysteries of life and death and could speak to the spirits themselves.

The path to this witch wouldn’t be easy, but Silver knew he couldn’t turn back now. This was something he had to do—not just for himself, but for the one who had given everything for him, the one he knew his father had loved in a way he had never spoken of.

Silver set out quietly, keeping his journey a secret from his father, Sebek and Malleus. He ventured through dense forests and past enchanted lakes, traveling farther than he ever had before. His heart remained steadfast, though fear began to settle in as he neared his destination.

Finally, after days of travel, he reached the borderlands between the human world and the realm of the sea—a place where twilight lingered, where ancient stones rose from the mist, and the air was thick with enchantment. In the shadows of the rocks, he caught sight of her: the witch he had heard of. She was cloaked in dark robes, her figure partially obscured, but her gaze was piercing, as though she had been expecting him.

“You seek to bring back a lost soul,” she said before Silver even spoke. Her voice was calm but held a warning, laced with an unsettling wisdom. “A dangerous wish, young one. Life and death are not to be tampered with lightly.”

Silver’s resolve held firm. “I know it’s dangerous, but… she was taken from us too soon. I just want the chance to know her, even if it’s only once.”

The witch regarded him in silence, her expression unreadable. “To bring back a soul from beyond… it requires a great sacrifice,” she finally said. “Not in gold, not in power, but in spirit. To restore what was lost, you must be willing to give something of equal weight in return.”

“What do you mean?” Silver asked, feeling a shiver of uncertainty.

She gave him a steady look. “It will cost you a piece of yourself. Memories, perhaps, or a fragment of your own life force. To give life, something must be taken. And even then, it may not work as you hope. The dead do not always return as they were.”

Silver’s heart raced, but he nodded, his determination unwavering. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

The witch watched him, assessing his resolve before finally nodding. She led him to a clearing at the edge of the shore, where she instructed him to gather rare herbs and light a circle of candles in the shape of the full moon.

Silver could feel the energy drain from him as the witch chanted in the language of old, his very life force spilling into the circle they had created. He closed his eyes, focusing on his mother’s face, the brief glimpses he had seen in his dreams—the gentle smile, the warmth that lingered even in a memory. He barely noticed as the witch’s voice faded, the mist thickening in front of him until it nearly obscured the world.

When he opened his eyes, she was there.

She stood just beyond the edge of the mist, her form wrapped in simple robes of soft, muted colors, somewhere between the shades of twilight and dawn. Her hair, flowing, caught the light in a gentle, silvery sheen. Silver’s heart stilled, his breath caught in his throat as he took in her familiar features—the softness of her gaze, the contours of her face that mirrored his own.

For a moment, she looked around in confusion, her brow furrowing as her gaze settled on him, lingering with a glimmer of recognition that hadn’t fully settled. She studied his face, her eyes taking in every feature as if piecing together a puzzle from fragments of memory.

Silver’s lips parted, and the word slipped out like a breath. “Mother…”

Her eyes widened, the dawning realization flooding her expression, and then, as if nothing else in the world mattered, she moved toward him. At first, a tentative step, and then, as recognition and emotion surged within her, she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around him with a force that belied her slight frame. Silver’s arms moved instinctively to hold her, his heart pounding as he felt the solid warmth of her, the reality of her presence.

They held each other for a long moment, both too overwhelmed to speak, both still trembling with the fragile wonder of what had just happened. She pulled back slightly, gazing up at him, her eyes studying every line and shadow on his face. She let out a soft, incredulous laugh, a sound both joyful and tearful.

“Silver…” she whispered, her voice filled with wonder. “You… you’ve grown so much. You’re so big now.”

Silver managed a shaky smile, barely able to contain the overwhelming surge of emotions. “I… I never thought I’d see you…”

Her hand reached up, brushing his cheek, her fingers lingering as though she was still trying to assure herself he was real. “I don’t understand how… or why… but I felt something calling me back, a longing I couldn’t ignore.” Her voice faltered, softening. “I thought I’d lost you both forever.”

Silver shook his head, his own hand moving to cover hers. “No. I had to bring you back. I had to know you—just once.” His voice broke slightly, but he didn’t care; he needed her to know the depth of his longing, the years he had wondered about her.

They shared another silent moment, just taking in the wonder of being reunited before Silver finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “There’s someone who needs to see you… someone who’s missed you even more than I have.”

Her gaze brightened, and she nodded, a glimmer of emotion flickering in her eyes as she realized who he meant. “Take me to him.”

When they returned to Briar Valley, Silver led her to the castle, his heart racing with anticipation and awe. Lilia was there, his usually cheerful expression softening as he spotted Silver at the entrance. But when his gaze landed on the figure beside him, he froze.

For a heartbeat, Lilia seemed unable to comprehend what he was seeing. His eyes widened, his mouth slightly open as he took in the sight of her, standing beside Silver, alive, her eyes shining as she met his gaze.

“Lilia…” she whispered, her voice breaking as tears pooled in her eyes.

Lilia took a hesitant step forward, his composure slipping away, replaced by an expression Silver had never seen before—a vulnerability, a disbelief, and a raw, overwhelming joy. “How…?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Unable to hold back any longer, she moved toward him, her steps quickening until she wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him as if he might vanish. Lilia’s arms encircled her, holding her tightly, and a tear slipped down his cheek as he buried his face in her shoulder.

They stayed like that, the two of them locked in an embrace, their reunion marked by silent tears and whispered words of comfort and disbelief. Silver watched, a warmth filling his chest, his heart swelling with quiet happiness as he witnessed the reunion he had always longed for.

When they finally pulled back, Lilia placed a gentle hand on her face, brushing away a tear. “I thought I’d lost you forever,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes softened with a depth of love that Silver had never seen before.

She placed her hand over his. “You never lost me. I was always there… watching over you both.”

Lilia looked toward Silver, his gaze filled with gratitude and something else—a newfound pride, a warmth that he struggled to put into words.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.  BONUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Silver led his mother, Y/N, through the stone corridors of the castle. She held herself with quiet grace, her steps soft, but she was clearly a bit nervous. As they approached the courtyard, Malleus and Sebek stood waiting, expressions guarded yet curious.

“Mother,” Silver began, a touch of pride in his voice, “these are my friends: Malleus Draconia and Sebek Zigvolt.”

Y/N gave a small, respectful nod, her gaze briefly meeting theirs before she glanced aside shyly. “It’s… nice to meet you both. I’ve heard a little of you on the way here.”

Malleus tilted his head, regarding her with a steady, thoughtful gaze. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

“Wait,” Sebek interjected, brows drawing together in confusion, “Silver, you… have a mother? That’s not the story Master Lilia told us…” His voice was skeptical, yet respectful.

Silver shifted slightly. “I uh…. Well, it’s complicated…”

Just then, Lilia approached, hands behind his back, giving the scene an amused glance before his gaze softened on Y/N. She caught his eye, a bit of warmth there, even if neither spoke right away.

“Lilia,” Malleus finally ventured, “perhaps you could enlighten us?”

Lilia gave a faint smirk, his tone dry. “Oh, I do seem to have forgotten a few details, haven’t I?” His eyes flicked to Y/N with a hint of warmth. “She has a habit of showing up when you least expect it.”

Y/N chuckled softly, glancing at Lilia. “Some things haven’t changed.”

Sebek was still gaping, while Malleus studied the quiet exchange between Y/N and Lilia with a thoughtful look. Lilia only shrugged, his voice nonchalant but his gaze carrying a deeper feeling as he said, “Every family has a few secrets, after all.”

Bonus 2: Y/n: Oh… You cut your hair. Lilia: Yes, I did… Did you like it longer? I’ll grow it out. Y/n: W-what? It’s okay! I love it now too. It’s cute. Lilia: I love you too–oh, I mean I love it too, yes.

[circeyoru]

Hello you beautiful and amazeing writer!! I'm here to make a request that is more on the funny side (btw, I love ur stories. Unwanted soul being one of my favorites, lol)

That cursed cat Alastor is EVERYWERE!! And u know what? I give in... Could you write something funny where yan!Alastor is jelous of the cat? Like, he would be like:

"Me or the cat!?" And reader, with no hesetation, "The cat *takes cursed cat Alastor and leaves*". Then someome comes in "Damm, they didn't even think about it" (please tell me someome gets the reference😭)

That cat can have my fricking soul, I love it so much and it makes me laugh so bad udgdihdudhe. ANYWAYS!! Hope u have a good day/night!!! Heudhsudhjdgdhs

Go to MASTERLIST for the works. This ask is for {Unwanted Souls}.

Hi hi! Thanks for your love!! I agree that cursed cat Alastor is everywhere. More request and ask on him in my inbox!!

Okay, here is short part on Cursed Cat Alastor VS Yandere!Alastor. For easy distinction, I'm calling the cat Bambi.

Alastor's eyes twitched as he glared at the lookalike in your arms; that was his place when he came to you after working so hard for the little interest project you sent him to. The creature, Bambi as you named it, narrowed its eyes as it felt Alastor's death glare towards it, its smile widened as it felt the jealous aura radiating off of the demon.

"Darling, can't we have a meal without that inferno creature in your arms?" Alastor tried to ignore the thing and his ever-growing jealousy. Meal time was a time when you weren't absorbed into your artistic worlds, now your attention was on that damn cat! That looked like him! Smiles and all!

"Then where do I put it?" You continued to eat, ignoring how Bambi clawed some of the smaller pieces of meat to eat from your plate.

"Out the window." Alastor passed more meat onto your plate when he saw Bambi taking yours and you didn't react to it. "And on the streets of Hell where it belongs."

You chuckled, eating up the slice that Alastor passed to you first, "That's too mean, Alastor. I won't have the heart to do it because it looks and acts so much like you!"

Alastor's radio glitched and scratched, his eye twitching, "Me or the cat!?"

"The cat." You spoke and picked it up, ignoring Alastor's shock look and left the dining room.

Vaggie shifted to the side, as did Charlie, to let you passby. They looked over to Alastor, who was still sitting there, shocked and frozen. Angel poked his head in, taunting, "Woah, harsh. Your 'darling' didn't even hesitate."

Angel was immediately thrown somewhere by Alastor's tendril, making Vaggie rush to check up on him. Charlie came over and comforted him, "You know, we're having a fun movie night later, maybe you can—"

"Ha ha ha! Never will I watch those noise picture box!" Alastor declined quickly slapping off the hand she was going to put on his shoulder. "If you'll excuse me."

"Where you going?" You questioned as you re-entered the dining room.

Alastor double-checked to see if he was mistaken. His lips moved before his mind fully processed it, "Where's the cat?"

You took your plate and utensils, then went over to Alastor's side, nudging him to sit back down with your elbow before placing it down next to his. He pulled out the chair and pushed it in while you sat, then he too sat down. His eyes staring at the empty spot that would always have that creature and his ears listening to your honey words. "I left Bambi with Husk to take care while we have our meal. What? Now you want Bambi back?"

Alastor's mood brightened, "Of course not, My Love!" He took your hand and kissed it, "Let me cherish you without any distractions."

You giggled, using your free hand to pick up a piece of meat and feed it to Alastor, who ate it happily. "Right..."

"Oh, now it's even more delicious!" Alastor's eyes drooped as he smiled at you, "You should do this more often, Love."

BONUS:

Husk stares at the cat on his bar table; it growled at him with its fur all bristled like a porcupine. Husk inched away slowly to create distance from the creature that you gave him to take care in your absence. Angel came in, laughing out, "Oh! So you were the one! Ha! AHHHHH!!!!!"

Bambi pounced at Angel, biting at him with every opportunity given. Husk yelped and immediately came to help, "Uh, good cursed kitten?"

Angel screamed, "GET THIS THING OFF ME!"

Back in the dining room, you hummed as you cut another piece of meat and feed it to Alastor. He grinned darkly at the screams he heard, "My Dear, you're quite cruel."

You smirked back, "Well, Angel was being a loudmouth."

[frenchvanilla-mase]

winner, winner | f. torres

summary: the spain national team win the euros and ferran’s girls couldn’t be prouder.

notes: dad!ferran always 😭 a draft from my old accounts i’ve edited to be more fitting. quickly edited. let me know what you think!!! enjoy! <3

“—AND HERE, PRINCESSA, IS WHERE your papi is going to lift the trophy tomorrow.”

his teammates laughed, smiling at the pair as others continued to walk around and inspect the pitch, mentally preparing themselves for the big day ahead.

ferran stood laughing as well, chuckling heartily even with a pink plastic pacifier hanging between his teeth and soft baby blanket in his arms, his entire heart and soul blinking up at him, clueless to his reason for laughter.

tia torres was, and always would be, his greatest prized possession. i mean, he wouldn’t complain if he got a trophy in his arms tomorrow, but no feeling would top the one when he held his baby girl.

she was just about to turn one, starting to crawl and make funny sounds. ferran was adamant to get her to say papi first, he didn't care if she was halfway there to 'mama' with her drawn out 'mmm's', he knew she understood him and wouldn't let him down by saying papi first. everytime he spoke to her, your heart melted. always such a upbeat, soft tone, he spoke nice and clear to her in the hopes she would repeat it back. he was so sweet with her, so in love, and the way she looked at him and smiled when he talked - you knew she was in love with him too.

she came into your lives a little unexpectedly and despite all the worries and anxieties, you didn’t know what you did without her. ferran didn’t know what he did without her. he didn’t know what he did before her. he felt like an entirely different man since tia came into your lives and cringed at the man he was before. he liked the night feeds and the early mornings. he liked the tasting of bad baby food and job of freshening his girl up with a fresh diaper. he liked the challenge of getting her to sleep (which was easy for him than you) and taking her out by himself so you could enjoy some time to yourself.

he took pride in being a ‘young dad’, he didn’t care about going to nightclubs in dubai or festivals in ibiza anymore, he was happy to be at home with his two girls and make many, many memories with the pair of you.

he stood with her in his arms, walking her around the pitch with his barça teammates by his side. tomorrow was the final against england and you’d flown out with your daughter for what you knew would be a historic moment. after all, you wanted to show your support and be there for your boyfriend in time of celebration or comfort.

“just think, hermano, this time tomorrow, we’ll be here, getting ready for kickoff,” pedri’s arms excitedly shook ferran’s shoulders from behind, hyping him up at the thought. bless him, he’d suffered an injury in his leg, but that didn’t stop his excitement for his teammates playing in the final.

tia’s eyes widened in her sleepy state, looking up at her papi who still had her pacifier in his mouth. he moved her around to face him, smiling at pedri’s antics as she stared up at him, reaching for her dummy, but ferran pulled away teasingly, watching her half-amusingly fight for it. the boys smiled at his immaturity, always messing around - even with a one year old. “hermanoo, give her it,” even pedri thought he was cruel, pouting sympathetically at the little girl.

he chuckled as tia’s small smile turned into a frown as she started to whimper frustratedly, and he gave in, letting go of the dummy for her to take back. "'m only joking, mi princessa, te amo mucho," her cheek was quickly smothered by his kisses as she rightfully sucked her dummy into her mouth. he’d never mean to upset his baby girl on purpose.

he continued to carry her around the pitch, bouncing her slightly as he knew she was usually asleep at this time, but her schedule was a little off with the travelling making her miss out her nap and now with ferran begging you to take her to see the stadium, she was behind on getting her final bottle which usually sent her to sleep.

although it looked like she didn’t need a bottle, as her eyes slowly fluttered with each rock of her daddy’s arms, she was content and cozy in his embrace and didn’t care about the big bright lights shining down on her. if she was in her daddy’s arms, she could fall asleep anywhere.

when she woke up again. it was 6:30am. you’d spent the entire day with her in berlin, exploring with ferran’s family while he was with the international team, prepping for the big day. you were nervous since the minute you woke up, wishing and praying things went their way and that ferran and the team got the result they wanted. you just hoped he would be fine no matter the turnout, and that tia would be able to put a smile on his face no matter what. he’d been playing so well and deserved it more than anything.

the next time you were in the stadium, tia was with you, dressed in a mini 11 jersey with papa on the back, she looked around the place she’d been in just the day before.

you were on edge the entire game, unable to take your eyes off the field and when halftime ended with 0-0, your anxieties increased. ferran was on the bench, undoubtedly awaiting a substitute until the game kicked off and not 2 minutes later - spain had the lead.

the stadium roared and you got the first real sense of hope and belief, trying not to jump and yell too much given your baby was still sat on your knee. from your point of view, you tried to point to the players bench where her papi sat, but she was clueless, too many things going on and too much to look at to keep her occupied, she was transfixed on the many different flags and people surrounding her.

when england scored, you were a wreck again, and prepared yourself for pens when m. oyarzabal shot the second goal into the net and all your nerves deflated. there was no coming back now, you had nothing to be afraid of.

the final whistle blew and you couldn’t stop yourself from jumping up, your daughter jumping in your arms, you yelled out with almost tears of happiness as she looked around bewildered. the stadium was thriving, singing and jumping, celebrating their country as fireworks went off. you watched the team take the stage, proudly representing their kit and your heart swelled with pride as your ferran stepped up the stage, shaking the hands of some very important people before his medal was hung deservingly around his neck.

as other families of players made their way to the pitch, you followed in lead, buzzing with excitement as you led you and tia down the steps.

ferran was talking with pedri’s family when he thought he heard you call him. he glanced around and broke out into the biggest smile when he saw you making your way over with your baby girl in your arms. “it’s papiiii!” you bounced her, trying to get her excited, “clap for papi!”

“mi querida!” he nabbed her from your hands and jumped around, kissing her over and over and over again while your heart exploded with joy. you stepped back and took photos as he tossed her in the air, her sweet giggles melting the hearts of anyone around. “we did it! we did it, bebe!”

tia’s hands held her daddy’s face as he held her in the air, grinning down at him, he took her dummy away so he could see those two little bottom teeth smiling at him.

“congrats! mi guapo,” you finally interrupted their moment, feeling left out, you wrapped your arms around your other half and squeezed him tightly. “we are so so so proud of you!”

“hermosa,” he awed, looking at his main girl. his entire world before his mini-me came along. “te amo.” he kissed your lips, and then again and again and again. you wrapped you arm around his neck and hugged your little family, kissing your daughter’s head before she started to feel jealousy again.

“te amo,” you batted your lashes lovingly at him, looking at those beautiful brown eyes you’d fallen in love with before placing a long sweet kiss on his cheek.

“tia!!” pedri’s voice called as he hurried quickly over to the little one. he didn’t know much about babies but one thing was for sure was that she was definitely ferran’s kid. she was just him as a baby with longer lashes and a cuter nose. “hello, cutie,” he tickled her arm with his finger.

she reached for him willingly, smiling at the familiar face and he gladly accepted her embrace, always flattered she would leave her papi for him for a few minutes.

“congratulations!” you sang from ferran’s side, sharing your pride for the boy. you weren’t the only one classed as ferran’s other half – you shared that title with pedri.

“thank you, y/n,” he nodded, his leg brace pulling a little at your heartstrings. you were glad he got to experience the win with the team nonetheless and got the medal he deserved. “campeons!” he sang, raising tia’s arm in the air.

“oh wow! isn’t she gorgeous,” pedri’s mum appeared with the rest of his family, his brother greeting the little baby in his brothers arms.

“thank you,” you smiled, watching them awe over her daughter.

“she gets it from me,” ferran cockily smirked, running his hand over his hair like he was some model which made you laugh. you elbowed his side as pedri handed her back, reaching for the trophy being handed his way.

“take your baby, i need to hold my baby,” he proudly took the award into his hands and began posing with his prized possession, leaving you and ferran to chuckle while he got his photos with his family.

ferran sat on the ground with tia who was infatuated with the confetti (trying to eat fistfuls of it which he had to keep pulling from). he placed the medal around her and took some of his own photos, classing this day as probably one of the best days of his life. here with you and his baby girl, feeling like all his hard work paid off in the moment. “are you proud of papa?”

“of course she is proud of her papa,” you answered for her, “she is proud of her papa every single day. she is proud of you when you manage to open a door, let’s be honest!”

he laughed, flicking more confetti from her hands. “are you? are you proud of your papa?” he looked down at her, mirroring her sitting position with her legs apart and hands inbetween. she looked so tiny across from him. “can you say papa? say papaaa.”

“pa!”

“yes! say papa!”

“pa!!” she repeated, laughing at his pleased reaction.

“yes!”

cameras clicked in your direction as the three of you stood together, tia getting distracted by the medal around her daddy’s neck and inspecting it curiously as the trophy was passed in ferran’s direction.

he posed with the trophy, the proud look on your face only growing before you joined. “wow,” you thought, running your thumb over the engraved title of spain on the silver. you all smiled with it, tia playing with the red and yellow ribbon when ferran lifted her to try and set her in it.

“ferran!” you laughed, watching your baby share a look of confusion and maybe a little discomfort from the cold metal at why her dad had placed her in there. he chuckled and quickly lifted her out, kissing her once more.

“that is getting framed for the living room,” he promised, laughing at the image.

her tiny fits wrapped around his fingers as he stood her up from the ground, keeping her still next to the trophy she was almost the same size as. he kissed it once more before handing it off to his next teammate, happy with his time with it. “my girls,” he smiled, hugging his little one on his left and pulling you into his side on the right. “i wouldn’t be able to do it without you,” he kissed both your heads.

“hmm, you couldn’t have done it without your teammates, more so,” you joked.

he rolled his eyes and shook you playfully, feeling you hand hold his over your shoulder as you began to walk around the pitch, greeting other families and congratulating his teammates. really, it gave ferran an excuse to show off his baby girl to his teammates and show just how cute she was, and how much he looked just like him.

to show off both his girls in general, and how they made him feel like he was a winner every day.