#the town that time forgot chapter 1

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick // Chapter 2

Themes: homoerotic friendship turmoil... (again iykyk)

A/N: Had a free day so spent it cooking up this next chapter! Felt inspired by all the love you guys gave for chapter 1. Not sure what this says about me, but I love writing character spirals so this chapter is basically just more of that! Enjoy!

WC: 4.9K

Warnings: cussing, angst

**** Chapter 2 ****

It’s been a week since the student center.

Seven days. Five practices. Three recovery lifts. Two film sessions.

Over the summer, it was easier to pretend. They were only on campus for a few weeks of summer session—light workouts, half-empty dorms, no one really paying attention. They could get away with small talk and long stretches of silence. Could convince themselves that the space between them was just timing. Just logistics. Just a break.

But now?

Now they’re back in it. Full team schedule. Practice every day. Group meals. Shared everything. Paige is everywhere again—on the sidelines, in the locker room, just close enough to make Azzi feel the distance even more.

This morning, it’s film.

Everyone’s packed into the team meeting room—sweats, messy buns, Gatorade bottles scattered across the floor. The room smells like sweat, menthol, and the kind of focus that doesn’t fade just because practice ended. Coach is already five minutes into a breakdown of last week’s scrimmage footage, laser pointer in hand, voice rising and falling like he’s narrating a crime scene.

Azzi’s in the third row with the other sophomores, directly behind the juniors, which means Paige is in front of her. Two seats to the right, to be exact. 

Her hoodie’s oversized, sleeves pulled over her hands, notebook balanced on her thigh. Her knee is propped on her backpack like it’s casual, but Azzi knows it’s not. She’s seen the way Paige grits her teeth when she shifts too fast. The way she barely lets the trainers touch it.

And even though she hasn’t said a word to her since that morning—hasn’t texted, hasn’t liked anything, hasn’t even made eye contact—Azzi can’t stop watching her.

Because something’s different.

Not just physically.

There’s a weight to her lately, like she’s constantly holding something in. Like if she let go for even a second, the whole thing would collapse.

And maybe Azzi’s imagining it, but… Paige doesn’t usually carry herself like this. She used to sit forward in these meetings, pen tapping against her knee, whispering dumb side commentary that made Azzi snort-laugh through her water bottle.

Now, she’s quiet. Still. Watching the screen like she’s somewhere else entirely.

And Azzi?

Azzi is fully distracted.

Coach pauses the film on a defensive breakdown from last season—one of their worst games. “This,” he says, circling the screen, “is what happens when you forget how to communicate.”

Azzi hears it. Loud and clear.

She bites the inside of her cheek and looks back at the screen, but her eyes flicker down to Paige again.

She’s not even looking. Just staring at the page in her lap like she forgot how to be here.

And Azzi hates how much it bothers her.

Because Paige isn’t being Paige. She isn’t some party girl. That’s never been her vibe. Sure, they’ve all had nights—team wins, off-season birthdays, someone’s cousin visiting from out of town—but still. Paige has always been the one to know when to call it. To rally the freshmen. To lead by example. To drink water in between rounds because she knows her body matters more than a buzz.

But last Friday? Paige looked wrecked. And not just tired-wrecked. Unraveled.

Azzi shifts in her seat again. Guilt crawling under her skin like something contagious.

Because she knows what she saw in Paige’s eyes that morning wasn’t just hangover haze. It was something heavier.

And she knows—deep down, even if she hasn’t said it out loud—that she’s a big part of why.

It’s not like she hasn’t tried.

To fix it. Mend it. Reset the dial and get back to just being best friends.

But the problem is—that’s not what they are anymore. Haven’t been for a long time.

Azzi sits in her seat, eyes on the film screen but mind drifting, the light flickering over Paige’s straight hair just one row down. A highlight reel from last season is playing. Everyone else is focused.

Azzi’s not.

Her thoughts circle a moment from almost a year ago. Just a few days after that night outside Ted’s.

*Three Days After Ted’s*

She knocked before she could change her mind.

Three quick taps, then silence. Her heart already hammering against her ribs.

It had been three days since Ted’s. Three days since Paige had looked at her like she’d torn something open and then watched her walk away.

Azzi had thought about texting—typed out at least four different versions of “can we talk?”—but nothing felt right. Nothing ever did when it came to Paige.

So here she was.

Standing outside Paige’s dorm room like a coward trying to be brave.

The door creaked open slowly.

Paige stood there in a hoodie Azzi had seen a hundred times—wrinkled, sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair pin-straight and tucked behind her ears like she hadn’t had the energy to care. Her eyes were unreadable. Guarded. Like she didn’t know whether to slam the door or let it all in.

Still, she stepped back.

Didn’t say anything. Just… made space.

Azzi walked in slowly, careful not to brush too close. The room felt dim and heavy—like it was still holding the echo of that night. There was music playing low from her laptop, some slow-burning acoustic song that was doing way too much. Paige didn’t bother turning it off.

They sat on the edge of the bed in silence, the way people do when they’ve already said the most important thing and still somehow left everything unsaid.

Azzi’s fingers twisted in the hem of her sleeve.

“I know it doesn’t fix anything,” she said. “But I do care. You know that, right?”

Paige didn’t look at her. Just nodded, once. No emotion.

Azzi took a breath. “I’m still figuring things out.”

Paige’s voice was flat. “Like what?”

She looked down. “Like… who I am. What I want. What this is.”

Paige’s gaze shifted to the window. Quiet. Not angry. Not cold. Just… tired. Like she was already exhausted from trying not to expect anything.

And Azzi hated herself for that.

Because she knew Paige deserved more than half-truths and safe answers. She deserved certainty. And Azzi—Azzi couldn’t give her that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Because she hadn’t come out. Not to her family. Not to her team.

Not even to herself.

And maybe her feelings for Paige were real. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were something so specific and sharp and only Paige that she didn’t know how to translate them into anything else.

But whatever they were, she wasn’t ready.

They agreed to try again. As friends. Clean. Platonic. Safe.

Azzi told herself it was better than nothing.

And for a little while, it worked.

Until it didn’t.

*The Weeks Following Ted’s*

They tried. They really did.

After that night—after the conversation in Paige’s dorm, the hard truths and half-formed apologies—they both promised to make it work. To go back to something simpler. Just friends. Teammates. People who used to be something else but weren’t anymore.

And at first, it actually wasn’t awful.

They fell into a rhythm. Small talk. Inside jokes. Shared playlists again, but nothing too loaded. They lifted together. Texted about practice.

They were in check.

Until they weren’t.

Because old habits die hard. And Paige—Paige has never had much restraint when it comes to the people she loves.

It started with the little things. A hand on Azzi’s back when she passed behind her in the locker room. A pinky brushing hers on the bench during a timeout. Standing just a little too close in the weight room. All harmless. All manageable.

But Azzi felt every one of them.

And she didn’t stop them.

She let the small touches happen. Craved them more than she should have. Told herself it didn’t mean anything if it stayed small. Told herself it was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

Because the looks started slipping in again—those long, unblinking glances across the gym. And the way Paige said her name started sounding too soft again. Like it did back when they were still tangled up in each other, late at night, when no one else knew.

They were close to blurring lines again. So close it made Azzi’s chest ache.

But she couldn’t forget what Paige said that night outside Ted’s.

You don’t get to be all over me in private and then play straight for the crowd. I’m not your secret. I’m not some backup plan you get to use when it’s easy.

Even if it was drunk. Even if it was messy. It had cracked something wide open.

And Azzi knew—knew in her gut—that she wasn’t helping. That every glance, every casual touch, every almost was a slow kind of cruelty.

So she drew a harder line.

Not all at once, but in those quiet, deliberate ways that people notice even when they pretend not to.

She stopped sitting next to Paige during team meals. Started saying “I’m gonna head out” before the end of post-practice hangouts. Kept her phone face-down. Gave shorter replies to the late-night texts that always came without a question but carried too much meaning.

She pulled back from the casual touches. The after-lift stretching sessions that used to end in tangled limbs and unspoken closeness. The jokes that skimmed too close to something intimate. The looks. God, the looks.

She didn’t say it out loud. Never made some grand announcement.

But Paige noticed.

Of course she did.

And Azzi could feel it in the shift—how Paige got quieter around her. How her smile didn’t reach all the way anymore. How she stopped reaching out entirely after a while, like she’d done the math and realized what they were wasn’t adding up.

And maybe that was the point.

Azzi thought she was doing the right thing—protecting them both from another slow disaster. Giving her space to breathe while Azzi sorted through her own shit. Making sure Paige didn’t get pulled back into something Azzi wasn’t ready to name.

But the boundaries brought distance.

And the distance brought silence.

And now, they barely speak.

*Present Day*

Paige

She shows up to film early. Of course she does.

Because no matter what her personal life looks like—and it looks like a goddamn train wreck right now—she’s still Paige Bueckers. She’s still a team leader. Still the one who sets the tone, even if her own feels cracked and paper-thin these days.

She shows up. Every time. Early to film. Loud on the sidelines. Quick with encouragement even when she can barely stomach being on the bench.

Because that’s who she’s supposed to be.

The one who doesn’t complain. The one who leads by example. The one who makes it look easy, even when it’s anything but.

And maybe part of her is afraid that if she stops—if she lets the cracks show—they’ll start to forget. Forget how much she gave. Forget how badly she still wants it. Forget that she was supposed to be the one leading them to a title this year before her ACL exploded and took the whole plan with it.

So yeah, her life’s a mess right now. But her role? Her image? That has to stay sharp.

Even if the sharpness is starting to cut back.

She slips into her usual seat—second row, third from the left—hood up, notebook balanced on her lap, pen already uncapped. Her brace is tight today. The trainers told her to ease up on the stairs but she didn’t listen. Again.

She nods along as Geno talks. Scribbles a few things. Watches the screen like she’s absorbing it. But truthfully, she’s only catching about sixty percent of it.

The rest of her brain? Completely useless.

Because Azzi is directly behind her.

And Paige can feel it—like gravity. Like heat. Like something she isn’t supposed to notice anymore but still does, always.

It’s not dramatic. Azzi’s not staring holes in the back of her head. It’s subtler than that. Flickers of attention. Glances that hover and then dart away like they never happened. Paige doesn’t need to turn around to know—they’ve done this dance too many times.

She can feel it in her spine. In her shoulders. In the way her skin prickles under the weight of not being touched.

Azzi’s attention isn’t loud, but it’s deliberate. Careful. Measured in that way it always is now—like she’s trying not to give anything away, like looking too long might make the space between them collapse.

Paige swallows hard and focuses on the screen. Pretends she doesn’t feel the echo of all the ways they used to reach for each other without saying a word.

Pretends she doesn’t miss it. Even though it’s still right there. Just one row behind her.

She’s good at this—keeping her expression neutral, her body language easy, like nothing’s ever off. She’s been doing it since middle school, since before anyone knew what to look for.

But today?

Today, it takes more effort than she wants to admit.

Her notes are messier than usual. Her focus drifts more often. Her stomach clenches every time Geno pauses the tape on an old play from last season—her feeding Azzi in the corner, Azzi draining the three. The two of them moving like muscle memory.

Like something that used to be.

She exhales quietly and writes something down that she probably won’t remember later.

****

After film, someone says, “Nika’s tonight?” and that’s that.

No group vote, no discussion. Just a general agreement that they all need a break and a bad movie. Team bonding, but make it low-key.

Paige almost bails.

She’s not in the mood for snacks and sarcasm and pretending everything’s normal. But she’s also not in the mood to be the only one who doesn’t show up—especially not when she’s already spending enough time on the outside looking in.

So she goes.

She’s late. Not dramatically. Just enough that by the time she walks into Nika’s apartment, the lights are dim, the popcorn’s halfway gone, and everyone’s already staked out their territory.

She scans the room, pretending not to look like she’s scanning. Ice and Aubrey are draped across the beanbags. KK and Caroline are posted up with blankets on the floor. Nika’s curled into her oversized chair like a queen on her throne.

Only one spot left.

And of course it’s next to Azzi.

Because why wouldn’t it be?

The end cushion on the main couch. There’s space—barely. Azzi’s legs are tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, face turned toward the screen like she’s already locked in. But Paige knows her well enough to know she’s not.

She stops in the doorway, hovering just long enough to feel stupid about it. Her eyes flick across the room again, double-checking like maybe she missed a better option.

She didn’t.

She could sit on the floor, but that’d be weird. Or the counter stool near the kitchen, but that’s a straight-up exile move. Obvious. And most of the team is blissfully unaware of the behind-the-scenes melodrama that’s become her and Azzi’s lives.

So she bites the bullet.

Plasters on a neutral face.

And drops down next to her.

Azzi shifts just slightly to make room—knee brushing Paige’s for half a second before pulling away again. It’s barely anything. But Paige feels it everywhere.

She opens a bottle of water and stares at the screen like the movie’s going to save her.

It won’t.

But at least if she focuses hard enough, maybe she won’t notice how close Azzi’s arm is. Or the way her hair smells like something fruity. Or how Paige used to spend entire nights in that exact space on the couch—knees touching, shoulders warm, everything between them soft and quiet and real.

Now?

Now she’s just trying not to breathe too loud.

****

She’s pretty sure the room wasn’t this warm when she walked in.

Paige shifts slightly, peeling the edge of her hoodie away from her neck like it might help. It doesn’t. The apartment’s packed, sure—but it’s not that hot. At least no one else seems to be melting into the furniture.

Except maybe her.

Or maybe it’s just that she can feel Azzi next to her.

Not in some earth-shattering way. Just enough to make her skin buzz. Just in a too-aware-of-every-breath-she-takes kind of way. Her knee is curled toward Paige’s leg again, tucked under her like she’s trying to disappear into the couch. And Paige’s thigh is right there—barely touching, but definitely touching.

And God help her, it’s all she can think about.

Azzi shifts again and their knees bump. A soft, accidental press. Paige freezes.

Azzi doesn’t move.

Paige doesn’t either.

The movie is playing—some dumb rom-com Nika picked for the aesthetic more than the plot. Something with oversaturated lighting and too many slow-motion glances. Laughter bubbles up around the room at some punchline Paige barely registers.

She doesn’t hear it.

Not really.

Her pulse is louder than the dialogue now, steady and unrelenting in her ears. It drums under her skin like a warning: Too close. Too close.

The couch cushion shifts beside her as Azzi moves—slow, quiet, pulling at the sleeve of her sweatshirt like she’s fidgeting to keep her hands busy. Paige doesn’t look over, but she doesn’t have to. She can feel it.

That subtle give in the cushion. The warmth creeping into the narrow space between them.

Now their arms are close. Like, too close.

Not quite touching, but close enough that the fabric of Paige’s hoodie tugs slightly when she inhales. Close enough that she can feel the static tension gathering in the gap between them like something charged, alive, waiting.

She presses her knuckles into her thigh to ground herself. Keeps her eyes on the screen like the movie might anchor her.

But it doesn’t.

Because all she can think about is the fact that if she moved half an inch to the left, she’d be touching Azzi again.

And that half an inch feels impossible.

Paige inhales through her nose and stares at the screen like her life depends on it.

It’s fine. This is fine.

Just casual knee contact with your ex-best friend slash person-you’re-definitely-not-still-in-love-with. No big deal.

Then—

“Yo,” Aubrey whispers, way too loud for a whisper, jabbing Paige in the side with two knuckles like she’s trying to get her attention and restart her heart.

Paige startles—physically jolts. Her knee knocks into Azzi’s harder than intended, solid enough to make her wince. Her elbow swings wide in the process and lands—of course—right against Azzi’s ribs.

“Oh my God—sorry,” she mumbles, already pulling her arm back like it’s on fire.

Azzi lets out the softest breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Just… something that says I felt that too.

Paige doesn’t look over. Can’t. If she does, she’s pretty sure she’ll combust.

“Sorry,” she mutters under her breath.

Azzi gives a tiny head shake like it’s nothing, but she doesn’t look at her.

Paige blinks, disoriented, half-thinking she’s about to see a TikTok or a meme or something equally stupid that’ll at least give her a reason to unclench.

She looks down.

And her stomach twists.

Azzi

The interruption is a relief. A welcome one, honestly.

She’s felt like she’s been holding her breath for the last thirty minutes—shoulders tight, legs folded too neatly, heart thudding in some dumb, unsteady rhythm she swears wasn’t there when the movie started.

It’s just a couch.

Just a movie.

Just Paige sitting four inches to her right, jaw clenched and eyes trained on the screen like it personally offended her.

Azzi hasn’t moved in forever. Not really. She shifted once to reach for popcorn and regretted it immediately when her knee brushed Paige’s. Light. Unintentional. But it might as well have been electric. She’s been statue-still ever since.

She doesn’t dare lean back or adjust or even uncross her ankles. Not when her skin is still buzzing. Not when her arm is close enough to Paige’s that she can feel the heat through two layers of fabric and the silence between them is doing more damage than words ever could.

It’s not like anyone else would notice. To everyone else, it probably looks normal. Like nothing’s wrong. Just two teammates watching a movie.

But to Azzi?

It’s suffocating.

She can feel Paige’s tension like it’s her own—like it’s crawling off her skin and settling in Azzi’s chest. She can feel every breath Paige takes and every one she holds. Every shift. Every twitch. Every micro-movement of trying not to care.

And she wonders—stupidly, selfishly—if Paige feels it too.

So yeah, when Aubrey leans over and jabs Paige with her elbow, Azzi nearly exhales out loud.

Thank God.

She tries not to look. Tries to give them privacy, even though nothing about it seems that deep. Just a phone screen, a low chuckle, Paige’s voice tight and unreadable.

But then Paige goes still.

Not physically—emotionally. The kind of retreat you only notice if you’ve memorized her face.

So she glances over.

Not to be nosy. Just… to know.

And that’s when she sees it.

A phone screen held between two hands. Lit up with an Instagram profile. A girl.

Dark brown hair. Sharp jawline. Smiling in cleats and turf-stained socks.

Azzi squints. She recognizes her—vaguely. From the soccer team, maybe? She’s pretty. Objectively.

Something in Azzi’s stomach shifts.

And then—like a puzzle snapping into place—she remembers the conversation from earlier that week.

Caroline and Aubrey sitting at the table in the student center, laughing over iced coffees and talking just loud enough for Azzi to catch the tail end of it.

“I swear, she’d be into her,” Aubrey had said, voice low but not exactly subtle.

“She’s cool. Chill. Doesn’t take things too seriously.”

Caroline had hummed, not disagreeing. “Paige could probably use someone like that right now.”

And then—

“Something easy, y’know? While she’s stuck on the sidelines.”

Azzi hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Hadn’t let herself.

But now? Seeing the girl’s face on the screen? Watching Paige go still?

It lands.

Aubrey’s trying to play matchmaker.

And the match?

Isn’t her.

Of course it’s not her.

Azzi shifts in her seat slightly, just enough to break the contact between their legs. Paige doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t react. That might be worse.

A tightness starts blooming in Azzi’s chest, quiet but immediate. Like a too-small sweatshirt pressing against her lungs. Like she just learned something she wasn’t supposed to hear.

Her eyes flick back to the phone. The girl’s still there—smiling like she has no idea she’s the source of the ache forming behind Azzi’s ribs. She’s pretty. Chill-looking. Effortless. The kind of girl who probably doesn’t overthink a thing. Who’d slide into a relationship like it’s just another afternoon.Who could hold her without all the questions.

Azzi looks away.

Her stomach twists.

Because the truth is, this girl probably is a better fit. Probably won’t freeze when Paige gets close. Probably won’t make her feel like she has to tiptoe around invisible landmines. Probably won’t leave her hanging in the middle of a sentence because she doesn’t know how to say I think about you all the time, but I still don’t know what that means for me.

And that’s what stings the most.

Not that Paige might move on. But that maybe she should.

Azzi presses her hands into her lap. Hard. Just to feel something else.

It shouldn’t hurt this much. She’s the one who stepped back. Drew the line. Told herself it was better this way.

But now, watching Paige stiffen beside her, reading whatever’s on that screen, Azzi wants to reach across the couch and snatch the phone from her hands. Or rewind time. Or say something. Anything.

But she doesn’t.

Because what could she possibly say?

Wait, don’t like her. I still think about you every night. I wasn’t ready then, but I miss you in a way that still scares me. Please.

No.

Instead, she stays still.

Breath shallow.

Heart splintering slowly in her chest.

Because the girl on the screen is probably good for Paige.

And then— Oh God. Derrick.

Her actual boyfriend.

She’d forgotten about him. Completely. Like, not just out of sight, out of mind—but fully erased from her mental hard drive for the past thirty seconds. That probably says something awful.

They’ve been hanging out. It’s not nothing. He’s good to her. Steady in a way that’s rare around here—especially in guys who spend half their lives in cleats and compression sleeves. Derrick’s on the football team, so he gets it. The early lifts, the pressure, the silence that sometimes follows a bad game. He doesn’t ask her to explain the way her brain works when she’s locked in season mode—he just understands.

He laughs at her driest jokes. Always walks her to her dorm, even when it’s out of the way.

It’s not fake.

Sometimes, when she’s with him—when it’s quiet, and he’s smiling at her like she’s not hard to love—she almost lets herself believe this is what right feels like.

But then moments like this creep in.

Moments where her whole body tunes to Paige’s without meaning to. Where a knee bump or a glance makes her forget who she came here with.

And suddenly, even good things start to feel wrong.

Maybe this is what happens when you wait too long to be brave.

Paige

She scrolls for a beat too long. Long enough to memorize the girl’s face even though she doesn’t mean to.

Pretty. Friendly smile. The kind of person you could sit next to in class and not feel the need to impress.

She feels Azzi shift beside her. Just barely.

But Paige feels it. Like a ripple through the couch cushion. Like a silent inhale that doesn’t fully let go.

She doesn’t look over. She doesn’t need to. 

Azzi saw. She knows that much.

And maybe—God, maybe—there’s a version of her that should be thrilled by that. That should take the tension radiating off Azzi’s body as proof. That should cling to it like a sign that not everything’s lost. That maybe there’s still a version of this story where they get to figure it out.

But all Paige can think about is how tired she is.

How long it’s been since someone touched her and meant it. Since she felt chosen. On purpose. Without conditions.

Aubrey leans in again, barely above a whisper. “I told you she’s cute.”

Paige forces a tiny, noncommittal smile. “Yeah. She’s… fine.”

Aubrey nudges her with an elbow. “She’s more than fine. And she’s chill. Pre-PT major. I think you’d vibe.”

Paige keeps her eyes on the screen, where the rom-com couple is slow-dancing in the rain. “We’ve literally never spoken.”

“So? That’s what DMs are for,” Aubrey says, like it’s obvious. “And don’t give me that look. It wouldn’t kill you to flirt for once.”

Paige huffs out something like a laugh. “I don’t even know how to flirt anymore. My game died with my ACL.”

Aubrey snorts. “Okay, drama. You’re still Paige Bueckers. You could wink at a vending machine and it would Venmo you lunch.”

That gets a real smile. Small, but real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m not wrong.”

Paige shrugs, letting the phone settle in her lap. “Maybe.”

She hasn’t been with anyone since Azzi. Not seriously. Not in the ways that matter. A few flirty texts. A couple of could’ve-beens. Nothing that stuck. Nothing she wanted to.

Because how are you supposed to fall for someone else when the only person you ever really wanted still looks at you like that—and then does nothing?

Maybe it’s time.

Not to move on, exactly. She’s not sure that’s even possible. But maybe it’s time to try wanting something new. Something easy. Someone who doesn’t come with a year of silence and soft maybes. Someone who doesn’t make her feel like she’s constantly waiting for a door to open that might never unlock.

She nods at the phone, even though the screen’s dimmed now. “She’s cute,” she says quietly.

Aubrey nudges her again, triumphant. “Told you.”

Paige passes the phone back with a smile she hopes looks normal.

She leans back into the couch, exhale soft, heartbeat a little too loud in her ears.

Azzi hasn’t moved. And Paige doesn’t either.

Then— A soft buzz. Azzi pulls out her phone. The screen lights up.

Paige doesn’t mean to look. But she does.

Derrick 💪🏽 One text. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

Paige’s throat tightens. She turns back to the screen, blinking hard. The movie’s still playing, some oversaturated love story about two people who keep finding their way back to each other no matter what.

She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth and wills herself not to care.

But the ache sits there anyway. Familiar. Heavy. Right in the center of her chest.

Maybe this is what moving on looks like. Maybe it's not dramatic. Not loud. Maybe it’s just noticing someone’s Instagram profile and not looking away this time.

She pulls her hoodie tighter. Sinks a little further into the couch.

And for the first time in a long time, Paige wonders what it might feel like to be wanted by someone new—someone who doesn't already know how to break her.

[wispitty]

law x reader | “sugar & surgeons” {ch.1}

summary: you're an aspiring chef that never planned to end up on a submarine full of pirates. but after collapsing in the rain, you wake aboard the Polar Tang, surrounded by a crew that’s far more chaotic (and sweet) than you expected, alongside a certain captain with storm-grey eyes you can’t seem to decipher… or stop thinking about. tag list: law/you, corazon is alive and well and a member of the heart pirates au, slow burn romance, found family, food as love language, romcom vibes, happiness bc they fucking deserve it chapter list:

chapter one

Chapter 1: Cinnamon & Rain

The storm had crept in like a bad habit—quiet at first, but relentless in its persistence. Raindrops hissed against the cobblestones, soaking the narrow streets of the port town in a cold, unwelcoming sheen. The distant thrum of thunder rolled across the rooftops like a sigh of warning.

Corazon’s coat flapped heavily behind him, waterlogged and clinging to his frame. He muttered something half-hearted under his breath, not quite a curse, but far from cheerful.

This had been meant to be a simple errand. In, out, back to the ship with a restock of medical supplies and something warm to eat for the crew. Instead, he was soaked to the bone, the bakery had been closed, and the only thing he’d managed to pick up was an umbrella he forgot to open until after the rain started.

Brilliant.

He rounded the corner, boots splashing quietly through shallow puddles, and tugged the collar of his coat higher. The streets were mostly deserted now, save for flickering lanterns hanging beneath awnings and the occasional stray dog darting between crates. The town, in all its gloomy hush, almost felt asleep.

Until he collided with something—someone.

He staggered back a step, arms reflexively catching hold of what at first he thought was just a bundle of fabric. But it wasn’t. It was warm. Breathing. Trembling.

A young woman.

Corazon blinked, startled, looking down at the figure now cradled awkwardly in his arms. Her clothes were soaked, her hair plastered to her face, and she looked like she’d been out in the rain far longer than he had.

“Hey—” His voice cracked out of his throat, rusty from disuse. He cleared it and tried again, softer. “Hey. Are you alright?”

She stirred faintly at the sound, lips parting, her expression flickering with something between confusion and relief. Then her knees buckled fully.

Corazon caught her before she hit the ground.

A moment passed. The rain fell.

He knelt there in the street, her weight in his arms, heart thudding not from fear—but from a strange, quiet urgency he hadn’t felt in a long time. She wasn’t unconscious, not fully, but close. And burning up.

Fever.

Corazon shifted her in his arms, brow furrowing under the wet strands of his hair. He glanced down the street. The Polar Tang wasn’t far—just past the next dock. Law was still aboard, probably irritated that he hadn’t returned yet, but—

He looked at the woman again. She smelled faintly of sugar and spices, even soaked to the skin. Her hands were scratched. Fingernails stained with something—cinnamon?

A baker?

No. A cook, maybe.

What the hell were you doing out here?

He sighed and stood, adjusting her weight gently in his arms. Rain rolled down the side of his face, stinging against the cuts he'd gotten earlier from a smashed bottle. He ignored it.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered quietly, voice barely more than a breath. “Hang on.”

And with that, Corazon carried her through the rain.

Toward the ship. Toward safety.

Toward something none of them knew yet.

After about ten minutes, her breathing started getting worse.

Sharp, shallow gasps against his coat, each one shuddering like her body couldn’t decide whether it was hot or freezing. Her fingers curled lightly into the fabric at his collar, grasping at something—anything—to anchor herself.

Corazon’s boots pounded against the slick stone as he picked up his pace, arms tightening protectively around her trembling frame. She was still conscious, barely, but whatever had weakened her was setting in fast. And the storm wasn’t letting up.

Another crack of thunder split the sky, closer this time. Wind surged through the streets like a living thing, howling between buildings and slamming a nearby shutter open and shut.

He didn’t flinch. He couldn’t afford to.

“There, just a little more,” he whispered to her, though he wasn’t sure if she could hear. “Stay with me.”

The Polar Tang came into view—its clean yellow hull a comforting contrast against the dark storm. Crew members stood just outside the hatch, scrambling to secure tarps and equipment before the wind tore them loose. Two men in matching uniforms looked up when they heard the hurried footsteps. Their eyes widened.

“Rossi?!”

“Who’s that?!”

Corazon didn’t stop to answer. Rain streamed off his hair and down his face, his coat dragging like lead behind him as he barreled toward the ramp. His arms shifted her weight again instinctively, his voice raised—not panicked, but tight.

“She needs help. Get Law.”

The commotion brought more of the crew to the entryway, boots thudding, voices overlapping in confusion. A few of them backed up at the sight—Corazon, drenched, carrying someone unknown and clearly feverish.

The sight of him alone was enough to sound alarm bells.

“She’s burning up,” he said more firmly this time, breath hitching. “She collapsed—on the street—"

The crowd parted.

And Law stepped forward.

He was dry, composed, standing just inside the threshold with the lighting overhead casting shadows under his eyes. His coat was unbuttoned, a cup of untouched coffee in his hand. But the second he saw Corazon, soaked and wild-eyed, and the girl in his arms…

The mug was forgotten.

“Bring her in,” Law said sharply, voice already shifting into command.

The medical bay lights flickered on.

And Corazon—heart pounding, soaked to his bones, and still not letting go—finally crossed the threshold, never once loosening his grip.

The metal doors hissed open, the soft sterile glow of the Polar Tang’s infirmary spilling across the floor as Law strode in ahead of them. He’d already rolled his sleeves to the elbow, black gloves snapped on with clinical precision. The moment Corazon stepped through the threshold, the warmth hit like a wave—artificial but welcome.

“Put her on the table,” Law instructed calmly, pointing to the main med bay cot. He was already moving to the cabinets, grabbing supplies with practiced ease. “Bepo, start the vitals. Shachi, Penguin—blankets, towels, anything dry.”

“Aye!” “On it!”

Corazon didn’t say a word as he laid her down gently, water dripping from his coat onto the tile. He knelt at the edge of the bed for a moment longer, brushing her soaked hair from her face with fingers that were starting to tremble—from cold, probably. Probably.

Her brow was furrowed. Her lips parted. Her breathing, still shallow, rasped faintly with each inhale.

She looked… like hell. Yet, there was a softness to her face, even beneath the paleness and damp hair. Skin flushed with fever, lashes clumped from the rain. A bruise was forming at her knee from the fall, and a faint cinnamon scent still clung to her.

“Rossi,” Shachi’s voice broke through the hush, “you’re soaked. You’re gonna catch somethin’. Go change before you collapse too.”

Corazon blinked, barely registering the towel that had been shoved into his hands.

Bepo stepped between them, paws already checking her pulse and temperature. “She’s burning up. Fever’s been building for hours, maybe longer. Did she say anything?”

“No,” Corazon croaked, then cleared his throat. “Just collapsed. She was standing. Then—gone.”

“Then she’s lucky you found her,” Law muttered without looking up, focused entirely on inspecting her limbs, checking her responsiveness. His brows knit as he observed her condition. “There’s no sign of injury aside from the fall. This looks viral. Possibly exhaustion too—malnourished, dehydrated…”

He paused, glancing at her hands.

Small cuts, calluses. Fingertips stained faintly red-brown.

“…Cinnamon?”

Shachi peered closer. “Wait, is she a baker?”

“She smells like cookies,” Bepo offered, ears twitching.

Law didn’t reply, but his gaze lingered for just a second longer than it needed to. That's when your eyes fluttered open briefly, hazy and unfocused, and he caught the faintest glimpse of color—somewhere between honey and warm morning light—before they slipped closed again.

“Responds to light stimuli. That’s good.” He reached for an IV line. “Let’s stabilize her vitals, get her fluids—Penguin, prep antibiotics.”

“I’m serious, Rossi,” Shachi warned from behind. “You’re sneezing already. You’re not helpin’ anyone if you keel over.”

As if on cue, Corazon sneezed. Loudly.

“…That’s not a denial,” Penguin added, tossing him a dry shirt and a sour look. “Get your ass changed.”

Corazon, who had been hovering just out of Law’s way, reluctantly caught the clothes. His eyes never left her as he slowly backed toward the door.

“I’ll be right outside,” he murmured.

Law gave a curt nod without looking up.

The door slid shut behind him.

The room quieted—save for the steady beep of a monitor, the rustle of blankets, and the slow, strained breathing of a girl who smelled like warmth and sugar, even as she lay on the brink of breaking.

Law glanced down once more, his hands stilling slightly as he adjusted the IV line. For all her softness, there was something stubborn in her brow, something that made him pause.

“…What the hell were you doing out there?”

He didn’t expect an answer. But he waited.

Eventually, the rain began to soften outside.

It still pattered gently on the steel of the hull, rhythmic and distant like the lingering echo of a heartbeat. The ship had stilled with it—no rushing crew, no barking orders. Just a hush that settled over the halls of the Polar Tang like a blanket.

Corazon sat on the bench just outside the infirmary, now clad in dry sweats and a towel draped around his shoulders. His hair, still damp, clung lazily to his temples. A mug of tea rested untouched in his hands, the steam rising up to kiss his nose, but he didn’t drink.

He was listening.

Through the door, he could hear the soft beeps of the machines, the quiet shuffle of movement as Law wrapped up treatment. No alarms. No panic.

She was stable.

That alone made his shoulders ease slightly, though the knot in his chest refused to fully loosen.

The door opened with a soft hiss. Law stepped through first, removing his gloves with a snap. Bepo followed, giving a small nod and thumbs-up. Behind them, Shachi and Penguin trailed in with quieter footsteps.

“She’s asleep,” Law said flatly, coming to a stop across from Corazon. “Vitals have normalized. Fever’s still high, but under control.”

Corazon exhaled, just barely.

Bepo sat beside him with a warm sigh. “She’s lucky you found her when you did.”

“I didn’t find her,” Corazon muttered, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. “She found me. I turned a corner and—bam. Face full of cinnamon girl.”

“…Cinnamon girl?” Penguin repeated under his breath, exchanging a look with Shachi.

Law raised a brow. “You didn’t see anyone else?”

Corazon shook his head. “Just her. Standing in the middle of the street. She looked confused. Pale. Barely upright. Then she fell into me.”

“She might’ve been looking for help,” Bepo said gently.

“Or trying to get somewhere,” Shachi added. “Didn’t look like she had anything on her, though. No bag. No coat.”

“Yeah,” Penguin muttered. “Just soaked and barely breathing. She definitely wasn’t out there sightseeing.”

Law crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “We’ll need to ask her questions once she wakes up. For now, let her rest.”

Corazon nodded, but his brows tugged together.

“…She smelled like bread, Law,” he said suddenly. “Even through the rain. Not just cinnamon. Dough. Yeast. Butter. She must’ve been cooking.”

Law gave him a sour look. Bread, ew.

“I’m saying,” Corazon added, defensively, “she might be a chef. Or worked in a bakery. Something happened to her. Maybe she got caught in the storm trying to escape something.”

Law didn’t argue. He just sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I’m not patching up a cinnamon-scented mystery girl just for you to adopt her, you know.”

“Well, duh. She’s not a stray cat.”

“You sure?” Penguin teased. “You already brought her home and wrapped her in a blanket.”

Corazon opened his mouth, then sneezed again.

“Get back in bed,” Law said flatly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re always ‘fine’ until you faint in the hallway.”

Corazon grumbled but sank further into the bench. Bepo gently patted his arm.

Inside the med bay, the girl lay curled under thick blankets, color slowly returning to her cheeks. She didn’t stir—but a small crease remained between her brows, like her dreams hadn’t quite let her go.

Corazon’s gaze lingered on the closed door.

“She looked scared,” he said quietly. “Even before she collapsed.”

Law followed his line of sight, arms crossed again.

“Then let’s make sure,” he murmured, “she has no reason to be anymore.”

A few hours passed after that.

And the Polar Tang hummed gently, cradled in quiet waters.

The storm outside had faded to a light drizzle, barely audible against the hull. Inside the infirmary, the harsh white lights had been dimmed, casting the room in a calmer, warmer tone.

She was still asleep.

But this time, it looked peaceful.

Her brow had smoothed out. Her breathing had evened, soft and steady. A faint flush returned to her cheeks, the fever no longer raging but resting, like embers banked in a hearth. Her damp clothes had long since been changed into one of the med bay’s clean shirts, slightly oversized, the collar dipping off one shoulder.

She looked… better. Human again. Real.

Law stepped in first, his clipboard in hand, though he didn’t bother pretending to take notes. Corazon followed, this time dry, and significantly less sneezy. He’d left the towel behind but still had a faint halo of frizz around his head from letting his hair air-dry in true stubborn fashion.

Neither of them said anything at first.

They just stood there, a comfortable silence settling between them. The kind that came after everything had gone wrong… but then slowly started to go right.

The kind they were used to.

Law glanced down at the sleeping woman, his gaze scanning her face for any lingering signs of distress. None.

He didn’t realize how much tenser he’d been until his shoulders eased.

“She’s recovering well,” he murmured, voice low to avoid waking her. “Temperature’s nearly normal. Her immune system’s fighting back.”

He paused.

“…She’s stronger than she looks.”

Corazon stood at the edge of the bed, one hand in his coat pocket, the other lightly tapping against his thigh. His gaze was steady.

And then—softly, thoughtfully—

“She’s pretty, huh?”

Law blinked. Looked at him. Then scowled.

“That’s not medically relevant.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

Corazon didn’t repeat himself.

He just tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving her sleeping form. His voice wasn’t teasing or flirtatious. It was just… honest.

Law followed his gaze. He looked again. Properly this time.

And now that he wasn’t in surgeon mode—now that the fever had broken and she was no longer clinging to life—he saw it too.

There was something warm about her. Even asleep. Even still pale and recovering. The roundness of her face, the soft lines, the faint crinkle of her lashes. The way her lips curved, just barely, like she was dreaming about something sweet.

“Hmph,” Law muttered. “Still not medically relevant.”

Corazon smiled faintly, a hand brushing over his damp bangs.

“And yet you haven’t disagreed.”

Law gave him a look.

“I’m just saying,” Corazon shrugged, sheepishly.

The girl stirred slightly, shifting beneath the blankets. One hand peeked out from under the covers—small, fingers twitching slightly, reaching toward the empty air beside her like she was searching for something in a dream.

Law stepped forward automatically, leaning in to check her pulse again, but her breathing stayed steady.

“She’ll wake soon,” he said.

Corazon nodded, glancing toward the corner of the room. “You want me to set out something for her to eat? She’ll be starving.”

Law hesitated.

“…Something light.”

“You got it.”

Corazon turned to go, a hint of his usual lopsided smile returning to his face.

“I think she’s gonna be alright,” he said quietly, more certain this time.

Law didn’t answer.

Just stood there a moment longer, watching the cinnamon-scented stranger sleep as the storm finally passed.

[partylikemajima]

Mending Hearts.

A reimaginging of Smoke and Annie's reunion with the idea that she doesn't take him back immediately, that Smoke has to work for it. This is from @margepimpson 's idea list that I was tagged in, thank you so much! Here's chapter 1, chapter 2 for sure (continuing from Annie's POV) will follow but maybe a chapter 3 as far as I can tell. No vampires! No KKK ambush. Just a good time and rekindling hearts 🥺 (love the film in entirety but I'm a sap for romance)

Smoke's heart rate raised when Annie's workplace came into view as he drove in his truck. Parking, stepping out and walking towards the shack, his legs shook a little with the surreal feeling of being back. He heard from people around town about Annie, few kids next to him in Bo's shop whispered about needing to visit 'Miss Annie' to pick up what their mother asked them to collect. Though the 'Miss' part annoyed him, his fault, he promised to buy better rings for the both of them when he gets back, it was relief to his ears hearing about her. On the way to the back, he saw through the front window a figure moving inside and his heart swelled.

Reaching their daughter's grave, he placed the flowers down by it and traced the small hand print on the stone. His fingers tingled remembering the small hand that had held his finger years ago. "Papa's here" He calmed her cries that remained in his mind. From his crouched position on the ground, he looked over his shoulder at the shack's back door and saw it was shut. Either she didn't notice him or she's ignoring him. Smoke raised to his feet and walked up to the door, knocking twice.

No response.

He peered through the screen door and a gap within the main door behind it, seeing her movements at the main table in the center winding up a root. The screen door covered up many details of her but his heart pounded against his chest from laying eyes on her. He needed to see her clearly.

She definitely heard the knock.

He knocked again though, watching her.

"I don't open the door to haints" Her rich, homely voice sent a shiver down his spine. He missed hearing her so much that her words took a second to register.

"You told me haints don't come out until nightfall" He never forgot the many things she taught him, including the make-believe hoodoo. He didn't really care about it but it was her livelihood, and he believed in her. His right hand ghosted over his jacket above where her mojo bag rested on his chest.

She didn't answer and Smoke watched her leave into the room connected to the main area of her shop. Where her stock was usually kept. He sucked his teeth and stepped back down the stairs towards his daughter again. Crouched down by her, he pondered in silence for a while before his thoughts began tangling in his head.

"Your mother won't let me in" He tapped the hand print stone "Send help". The babbling of his daughter echoing in his memories. "She'll listen to you" He continued talking to her.

He knew he took too long to come back. The plan in Chicago went sideways a few times and Stack and him had to reign it in to bring it back on track. He thought about Annie every day, every night, nearly drove all the way back to her one night. Stack kept him grounded in reality of their plan. Being here now, pockets full, he wasn't sure if it was worth it.

But the juke-joint will pay off somehow. They'll make it work. He can provide for his family then.

"Maybe I can-" The sound of her back door opening made him pause his conversation with his daughter and whip his head around, turning on his feet as he stood up straight.

There she stood, holding the door handle on the inside, his view of her clear as the sky. Blue patchwork dress hugging her body sculpted by God. The dreams he had of every part of her kept him going and also made him more insane than he already was before he met her. His feet brought him closer without thinking much of it until he reached the bottom of the steps and she spoke.

"Don't come any closer" She looked down to him with her piercing eyes.

He halted. It hurt but he wasn't going to disobey her.

"You come alone?" Her hand was still on the door, holding on to it as if ready to shut him out for good if he messes up.

"Yeah, Stack is on the other side of town" He held his hands together in front of him, looking up to her. There was silence that hung between their conversation, just staring.

"What you come back for?"

"We bought that ol' saw mill, gonna patch it up, make it into a juke-joint" He kept his composure under her discerning stare, and his fast beating heart. The adrenaline at shoot outs didn't compare to the rush of seeing his wife, let alone talking to her.

A smile played on her face and Smoke tried his best to hold it together.

"A juke-joint" She tilted her head down a little, a habit she has that always flattered her features. "This one of Stack's ideas?"

"Yeah, he figured tonight gonna be grand opening"

Annie chewed the corner of her mouth and rested her free hand on the door frame. "Thought you was done with the Delta, given how you never replied to my letters" Her smile disappearing, replaced by a serious one. "Through with me"

Smoke's mouth parted as his heart leaped to his throat. What the hell did she mea-. "You wrote to me baby?" His voice weaker than he meant to sound.

"Course I did, I was careful, with your plan and all, but I did."

"I didn't get any....We moved around a lot." He looked back and forth between her eyes. "I wanted to write to you but I couldn't risk the trouble we were in, heading back to you"

Her brows furrowed as she kept his eye contact. "You're lying"

That made him mad that she would say that. He placed a foot onto the first step to try and reason with her, get close so he can reassure her but she stood back. So he waited again. "Have I ever lied to you?!" His voice didn't raise but it started off strained. "It was one of my vows, that I never would lie to you"

He could tell she was getting worked up, her chest rising and falling faster and her mouth pursing her lips. It was the sound of kids walking in her front door that brought them both out of their stand-off, she let the screen door hang open and walked towards them. He climed higher and stood just outside the door frame.

"Just this Miss Annie" A small girl held up a jar. "And a pinch of High John". The other girl next to her stared at Smoke.

"Now, don't sell this on the way home, I don't want your mama coming at me crazy later" Annie's voice softened for the two children, gathering some of the High John into a small paper pouch and traded it for money that he clicked wasn't the money that'd work anywhere else.  The wad of real cash sitting fat in his pocket, ready to spend on his wife.

He glanced around the shop while they were discussing a few questions the girls had and realised the place didn't change much from how he remembered. New shelves were added in and Smoke wondered who nailed them to the wall for her. He watched Annie take out the blade from her dress pocket to slice open a packet she pulled from the drawer. Same blade she always carried.

He realised the other girl was still staring at him.

"Miss Annie, who's that man?" She pointed a finger to him.

Annie looked over her shoulder at him, brows raised and he slightly raised a brow back to her, wondering what she'll answer with. "Just someone I know, he means no harm, you can call him Mr Smoke Moore"

The girl with the jar whispered to the other in her ear and the same girl who asked about him had gasped, pointing again to him. "Momma told me you shot Mr Terry and that other guy in the town today!" She blurted out and the other girl smacked her arm shushing her.

Smoke almost laughed if it wasn't for Annie glaring at him, kids always made him laugh. He shrugged his shoulders. "Bo's patching them up" He reasoned and she shook her head, hurrying the children out the shop. On the way out he heard them gossip.

"Momma said Miss Annie was married"

"Mr Moore must of been her husband"

"Momma said the SmokeStack twins rob people"

The corner of his mouth tugged barely into a smile listening to them. First the girl outside of the Chow Family's shop and now these two. All three made him picture what his daughter would of grown up into if she had the chance. The hint of his smile wiped away when Annie approached him again, now more level in their eye contact and closer that he could smell the freshness from her body. Her soaps always had a citrus smell to them.

She gripped the inside door handle again. "Why you here Smoke? What you want with me?"

"We want you to come down to the opening, cook for us" He didn't lie. It was the truth. He just didn't say what was in his heart. She already looked like she wanted to kill him. He'd let her.

"Elijah"

He suppressed a groan of desire at hearing her voice with his real name. His emotions were all mixed up. So much of him is tied to her and he wouldn't have it any other way but it wasn't the time to be horny. Well...if she wanted to....

"It still hurts coming back here, but I told you I'd make so much money we wouldn't have to worry, and I did." His thumb ran over the knuckles of his other hand, maintaining eye contact. "I love you, and I miss you"

Her eyes shake in the eye contact until it breaks and she looks to the floorboards, between where they stood.

One of Smoke's fears before he left her was what if he took too long to come back that she fell out of love with him. When they initially spoke, the fear festered in his mind. But the longer they continued to talk, he knew it, could see it, that she was battling her mind and her heart. She loved him still, but she was hurt. His fault. He took too long.

She raised her head, eyes set firm. "I'll be there" She confirmed.

Smoke lost control a little and leaned towards her but she took a large step back and shut the screen door. "For that crazy brother of yours" She concluded.

She folded her arms under her chest and her hips tilted to the side. They stared at each other again for a moment until Smoke remembered how to speak. "I'll drive you down"

She turned away from him and walked back to the center table. "I don't need your help, I'll ask Grace"

He checked his watch and cursed under his breath at time slipping away from him. If he didn't leave now, it'll postpone the Juke's opening and they were already short on time due to that cracker Hogwood being late. He took one last look at her and turned, walking back down. "I'll see you there Annie, thank you"

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

"So she didn't kill you!" Stack wrapped his arms around Smoke's, squeezing him in a bear hug and Smoke grunted from the force. He held him back by his shoulders and looked over him. "What happened? Is she coming down?" His wide grin glinted with the gold outlining one of his teeth. Smoke shrugged his hands off his shoulders and moved into the barn, glancing around at what needed fixing and where everything would be.

"Why didn't you offer to drive her down?" Stack hovered behind him with his hands on his shoulders again, kneading the muscles. "Did she say no? She isn't coming?"

"She didn't want me to, said she'll go with Grace" Smoke mumbled.

"I'm going by to pick them up soon, dropped Grace off at Annie's house" Bo appeared by their side, staring up at a hole in the ceiling that Smoke was checking out.

Stack cheered at seeing their old friend, Bo pulling him in for a hug "Good man!". He stood back and turned to Smoke again.

"I knew she couldn't resist, I dressed you well so she wouldn't!" He hit Smoke's back and Smoke couldn't help the glare that surfaced, aiming it to him.

"She's coming down to help you, not me" Smoke rubbed the side of his head.

"Really? Her words?" Stack and Bo glanced to each other and then both waited for Smoke to continue but he had enough of the interrogation.

"I'm not doing this, shut up" Smoke marched on forward, figuring out where to go and get away from the two but they trailed behind. He found Cornbread out the back of the barn loading up crates of beer they had smuggled down from Chicago. He greeted his old friend, the taller man happy to see him and asking how he was. They chatted more, helping him carry the crates in to the kitchen area when Stack spoke again.

"Cornbread, how's Annie been? My brother went to see her"

The taller man turned around slowly, eyes wide and watching Smoke. "You-you went to her workplace?" He asked quietly.

Confusion settled on Smoke's face. Why the hell would Cornbread be worried about him visiting his own wife?

"Sure did, what about it?" Smoke stared him down.

"I didn't mean nothing by it Smoke, just that uh..."

"Annie has a rifle" Bo chimed in and Smoke turned to him so fast he nearly lost balance. "Cornbread's thinking why you didn't get shot at".

At that explanation, Stack doubled over and hollered so loud, one hand clutching his stomach and the other smacking the counter top.

~~~~~~~

@theegyal tagging for chapter 1! 💗

[softlymellow]

The Order Forgot Me First - Chapter 4

☆⁠ PAIRING : Anakin Skywalker x Reader

☆⁠ word count: 3.5k

☆⁠ story themes: lovers to enemies to eventually lovers

☆⁠ warnings: spoilers to swtcw

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

"I would have died for you. I wanted to."

You threw the wrist comlink attached to your arm on the sand covered floor, the constant beeping began to irritate you as you had other matters to focus on.

Using your mechanics, you had removed the gps chip inside of the comlink back at Coruscant but kept the commlink itself – mainly to have some sort of contact with Anakin. Regardless, the sooner you got rid of it, the sooner you could move on. 

Looking down at the device, flickers of red kept emitting from it alerting you that you had received a new message. It took everything inside of you to not open and listen to it. It was from Anakin. Of course it would be from Anakin. He had stayed up nights and days talking to his comlink as if his life depended on it. He would talk about how much he missed you, how he would find you and that he loves you. It had only been a few days since he had last seen you but it had proven to be the worst days of Anakin’s life.

You never responded to any of his messages, instead you would lay inside of your now wrecked ship you stole from a poor person back in Coruscant and listen to his voice as he talked to you, but he didn’t know you were listening.

At least he hoped you were.

The device had no status ability to tell you if someone was listening or not, a common flaw that irritated the Jedis. And that’s what Anakin had to live with. He would continue to send you voice messages until you would respond to them. 

Your foot hovered over the device ready to smash it, but you just couldn’t. 

“Errgh!” You screamed to yourself in frustration, snatching the comlink from the ground and throwing it next to your destroyed ship from your failed landing.

You inhaled deeply, rubbing your face with both hands in anger. Why couldn’t you just get rid of the damn thing?

“Woah there, lady.” You whipped your head around to see a man sitting on a speeder bike, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

You narrowed your eyes at him and glared at him, “I don’t have time for people like you.” You barked as you walked towards your comlink, covering your mouth as the dark smoke from the wreckage clouded the device. 

“No need to be nasty, you just looked like you needed help.” He joked, his golden locks flying back as the wind hit him, his red goggles sitting at the top of his forehead. He wore a loose collared shirt with the top buttons unbuttoned, revealing his tan skin underneath and baggy tar pants. 

“Piss off,” you sneered, grabbing the comlink and attaching it to your left arm, refusing to make eye contact with the man. 

“Is that any way for a Jedi to be speaking?” He eyed your lightsaber that rested on the side of your hip.

Shit

You instinctively hovered your hand over your saber in defense, afraid that he might pull a move now that he knows you're a Jedi, well was. 

“If you’re going to keep talking, at least tell me how long the walk is for the next town.”  

“We’re in Jakku! You got to be kidding if you think you’re going to walk in this heat.” He exclaimed as he watched your despondent figure. 

“Well, I didn’t plan on crash landing here…” You mumbled to yourself as you began to walk past him, if he wasn’t going to help you then you would do it yourself. 

The speeder rumbled besides you, the man driving it excruciatingly slow to match your pace. 

“It will take you 2 hours to walk but 15 minutes on my speeder.” He sighed.

You paused and raised your eyebrow, “What’s the catch?” 

“No catch.” 

You didn’t have much of a choice, by the time you’d reach civilisation, it’d be sunset and you couldn’t afford that, not when Jakku has one of the coldest nights. Taking a deep breath, you walked over to the man and threw your leg over his bike, his back uncomfortably close to you. 

“Hold on tight,” he exclaimed, a grin plastered on his face. Without giving you a chance to even listen to him, the speeder bursted with speed, your body almost falling off. Your hands immediately rushed towards the sides of his figure but not close enough that your entire body was touching his. 

It didn’t feel good though. You knew that if Anakin had seen this man being too close to you he wouldn’t see the light of day, but Anakin wasn’t here right now. And you didn’t know when you would see him next. 

“My name's Dev!” He exclaimed over the howling of the wind. 

“Cool.” You yelled out, not wanting to really know anything about this man considering you wouldn’t see him again after this.

“Yours?” He exclaimed again.

You remained silent, unsure on how to respond. “....Ani… My name’s Ani!” You didn’t know why you told him that, if anything you knew you didn’t want to tell him your actual name. In an isolated place like Jakku, it wasn’t bad to be too careful about your identity as your name had become some sort of a prodigy. 

Dev nodded to himself, a smile growing on his face, “Nice to meet you, Ani.” You didn’t respond, unease growing in your stomach. 

You both didn’t speak for the rest of the trip, instead, you relished in the feeling of the air hitting your face, closing your eyes as your head lightly hit his back. The speeder eventually came to a halt at a junkyard.

Hopping off of the bike, your eyes darted everywhere, taking in the outpost. Just traders, scavengers and outlaws. 

“Well, there’s not much to it. Then again, you are in Jakku.” Dev said as got off his bike, his hands on his hips as he observed the surroundings. 

“Mhm,” you mumbled to yourself, already walking away from him. 

Dev broke into an awkward speed walk as he tried to catch up to you. He didn’t say anything beside you but followed you around like he was a mum trying to supervise his kid. 

Looking around, there were a couple of jackets and worn out clothing on display. You walked over to the rack of clothing, the wind blowing it out. Your hands gently touched a poncho, it had no sleeves or zipper but was long in the back and short in the front, it shielded your arms from your elbow to your shoulder and had a dirty mediaeval look to it. Taking the poncho, you held it in your hands as you observed the other clothing. 

“You stick out like a sore thumb,” Dev said beside you, a teasing tone in his voice. 

“That’s why I’m picking out clothes, genius.” You pointed out, rolling your eyes as you walked over to the Teedo who had a cocky expression, pleased that someone who dressed classy had come to buy off of him. 

“All of these please,” You plopped your clothing at his wooden desk.

“Republic Credits, no good.” he announced.

Your mouth fell agape, “What?” Ignoring the fact that he immediately thought of you as part of the Galactic Republic. 

Dev tried to stifle a laugh and you shot him a glare in return. “What do you mean, no good?”

“We exchange here.” 

“Yeah, well I’m exchanging my credits for these clothes.” You blinked. 

Dev suddenly pulled out a small bag containing goods inside of it and dropped it in front of him, “Here, take these instead.” The Teedo eyed Dev carefully but Dev wouldn’t back down from his stare, his eyes almost commanding. 

The Teedo cautiously took the small bag and opened it, a pleased smile lit up in his face and he nodded, taking the bag away from him. 

Dev took your clothing and handed it to you. Narrowing your eyes, you took it grimly from not enjoying the fact that he had paid for you. 

“Thank you,” you muttered as you looked down at your feet.

Dev waved his hand around, “It’s getting dark. We can go to my ship and stay there for the night.”

Not really feeling like arguing with him, you nodded and followed him as he led you to his ship. It was a small light cruiser but plentiful for you and him, at least for this one day. The cargo doors open as Dev walks you inside. It was a Republic light cruiser for all you could tell, having had to ride with it many times with Anakin and Obi-wan. 

“Go down the hall, last room on the right, you can shower and change there.” Dev said without looking at you, fixing the manuals on his ship.

You nodded and walked towards the room. It was a bunker and you were going to assume that was where you’d sleep. In all honesty, you had no idea if you could trust Dev, but right now, he would be the only person you could trust in this planet. 

Locking the door behind you with the touchpad attached to the wall, you slowly began to strip off your clothing, afraid that there was a hidden trick to this. You put your lightsaber and your comlink underneath the mattress of the bed, wanting it to be as safe as possible. You walked over to the very small bathroom that connected to your cabin and entered the shower. Turning on the shower, the hot water immediately hit your back as you held back a moan.

You began to slowly wash off the dirt and grime that stuck to your skin and thoroughly wash your hair. You closed your eyes and thought about Anakin, how much you missed him and what he was doing right now. Part of you was still hurt about what had happened between you and the council, but you were so far from it now that it seemed like a lifetime ago. But you couldn’t forget it at the same time. The distrust and blatant disrespect you felt by not only the council but by Anakin and those you loved as well, for them not to believe you but taking the council’s side instead? 

You swallowed down the lump in your throat as you turned off the shower. There was no towel so you had to make do with what you had to dry yourself. You took your new clothing and threw them on, your Jedi robes neatly folded on your desk. 

It didn’t look like you were a Jedi anymore, just a smuggler, but that was the look you were going for. Lifting your mattress, you pulled out the comlink and your saber, hooking it to the belt that was hidden underneath your jacket - making it invisible - and strapping on your comlink in your wrist. Walking out of your bunker, you made your way towards Dev who sat on the floor of the ship with his legs crossed. 

“What are you doing?” You asked, sitting on the co-pilot seat. Dev had two packets of what looked to be some sort of powder or flour and two bowls of water on the floor. 

“Making dinner,” He said without looking up at you. 

Dev ripped open each packet and poured it in the liquid. His eyes focused as he began to stir each bowl with a small wooden spoon, his jaw clenched. 

In almost a blink of an eye, the mixture began to lower before suddenly expanding, and a beige and green bread-like loaf was formed. 

Dev then handed you your bowl with a sheepish smile, “Dinner is served.”

You picked up the bread and fiddled with it with your fingers, your eyes suspiciously rising as the bread had a hard texture almost as if it was just baked. 

“Eat it while you can…Hard work getting rations around here, can’t always rely on your fancy credits.” Dev said as he began to take bites of his loaf, crumbs falling off with every bite he took. 

Ignoring his last comment, you twirled the bread in your hand before taking a bite. It was dry to say the least. Dev was right though, you weren’t back at Coruscant with fancy food and luxury showers, you were in Jakku, practically nowhere. 

“So, Ani,” Dev shoot you a look. You almost choked on your bread, forgetting that your name was supposingly Ani. 

“What brings you here? It’s not common for a Jedi to wander around on this planet.” Dev questioned you, watching your reaction carefully. 

“I’m not a Jedi.” You bit the inside of your cheek, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

Dev raised his eyebrow, “Sweets, you have Republic credits, Jedi robes and a lightsaber. I beg to differ.”

“I stole it,” you shrugged, avoiding eye contact with him. 

Dev began to hysterically laugh, clearly not believing in your lie. What was so unbelievable about that? I could totally steal from a Jedi if I wanted to, you scoffed to yourself. 

“Okay…What actually brings you here.” He laughed in between his words, setting his bowl down.

There was no point in lying if he knew that you were a Jedi, you just hoped he wouldn’t take advantage of you for that. 

“I got kicked out of the Order,” You confessed in a quieter tone, playing with the loaf of bread. Dev fell silent immediately, a somber expression on his face. 

“Why?” 

You shook your head, spinning in the co-pilot chair to face away from him, “That’s none of your business.” Yes, you could trust Dev after he took you in, brought you clothes and made you food but you weren’t ready to share personal backstories with him just yet. The cuts were still fresh and it hurts even thinking about it. 

Dev went silent as he watched your back, his hands in his pocket. “We should be a team.” 

“What?” You span to look at him, your eyes wide. 

“We’ll do bounties together.” 

“No.”

“You have nowhere to go,” Dev said as a matter of fact. 

“No, I-I do,” All you could think about was Anakin. He would never approve of you for even listening to this. You could even hear Obi-wan scolding you. 

“You have no home, no ship and no money. As a matter of fact, you need a great pilot and just in your luck-” Dev boasted, a glowing smile on his face. Dev was right. You needed a pilot. You weren’t exactly the greatest considering the reason you are talking to him was because of your plane crashing. You always relied on Anakin for flying, he was after all, the best. It was something Anakin had always teased you about.

….

….

“What kind of bounties?” You interrupted him, not wanting to dwell on past stories.

“We only capture people and worst case scenario, killing them-”

“And you always do this?” You asked, feeling suddenly uneasy, internally cursing yourself for even seeming remotely interested. 

“I never pick the good guys, Ani, just the bad ones.” He reassured you, noticing the way you shifted in your seat from side to side. 

“We can do one tomorrow and then you can decide if you really want to be my partner. We’ll split the reward and if not-” He raised his hands, “Then it was a pleasure knowing you.” 

You had to take this. Dev was the only person you could remotely trust on this planet and you couldn’t pass on an opportunity to have some sort of stability. After all what he said was right, you didn’t have a ship therefore, no escape from this planet. 

You nodded slowly, “Okay…Who are we getting tomorrow?” 

“Tala Illnen. She is on the loose for the attempted murder of Ziro the Hutt when he visited his homeland in Sleheyron.” Dev said as if he had repeated it to himself many times, he had already planned to go there with or without you, you assumed. 

“Well, I need weapons. I don’t want to use my lightsaber, it’ll make us a target.” You shrunk in your seat, feeling slightly dejected that you aren’t able to use your saber in the open. 

“Already thought of that, sweets.” He said, picking up both of your bowls and placing them on a table, his back turned towards you. “Sleep on it. We have a big day tomorrow.” You nodded in response, you did in fact have a big day tomorrow. One that wasn’t very clear. 

You got up from your seat, unsure if you should thank him or greet him a goodnight. You weren’t friends but he did help you and you might be his partner in crime. 

“Your clothes suit you,” He complimented you, his back still turned against you and his eyes staring intensely to the empty bowels.  

Okay. 

…

A pink hue began to slowly crawl up your cheeks as you were taken back by the sudden compliment and that he noticed. Dev was probably used to the Bounty Hunter attire so it’d be obvious that he would prefer those on you than the Coruscant clothing. Obviously. 

“Thanks.” You replied, not wanting to think much of his praise. You retreated to your cabin while Dev smiled to himself as he busied himself with the cruiser. 

Locking the door behind you using the pad, you took off your jacket and placed it on the desk and slowly began to remove your shoes.  You turned the lights off using the same pad near the doorway and walked over to your bed. You pulled the covers back and began to slither inside, it wasn’t as comfortable as your own Jedi chambers but you’d have to get used to it. It definitely wasn't as comfortable as Anakin's arms.

Snuggling into your bed, you closed your eyes. You need the rest. Afterall today was a long day. It was officially day one of your journey without the Jedi Order, Masters and Padawans. Without your best friends. Without him. 

You couldn’t go back, not after what had happened. The people you thought were closest to you ending up betraying you, unbelieving of your pure intents and you don’t think you could forgive that too easily. It was like everything stopped for a second and the only thing you could process are the millions of memories and thoughts and emotions. They all collectively hit you at once making it harder for you to run away. You couldn’t forget the busy streets of Coruscant, the ships after ships that flew overhead while blinding you with their beams of lights. The mixture of tears, sweat and rain on your body. The yelling and screaming to find you. The soldiers after soldiers after soldiers that chased you down the tunnels. Because no one believed you. 

But the greatest of comforts was the illusion that the dark is temporary. 

A sudden beeping began to sound in your wrist, sending your heart racing. Pulling out your left wrist, small flickers of red emitted from your comlink.

You quickly sat up and brushed your hair behind your ears. Your heart was practically beating out of your chest while your stomach began to do somersaults. 

“Okay…Okay…Okay…” You whispered to yourself, trying to soothe yourself. It was Anakin. 

Pressing the small illuminated red button on your comlink, Anakin’s voice was heard. 

“-Still nowhere to be found. Every hour that I’m not assigned for something...." he breathed. "I’m looking for you.” He sighed, it was almost like you could see him rubbing his face in discontent. His hair a mess, his jaw clenched and his muscles in knots.

“I miss you, Y/n." He said in a softer tone. His voice low, rough, like he hadn't slept for days.

"Wherever you go, I'm with you." He inhaled shakily. "Every moment that I'm not with you, I can't breathe."

"So please. Please, answer this. I don’t know if you’re dead. Alive. If you made it out safe. Just -force- tell me where you are and we’ll run away together. We’ll leave the order behind. I don't care. We'll get married like we had planned."

There was silence for a few seconds, deep and aching, before he continued. 

“I would have died for you. I wanted to." He exclaimed, his voice hoarse.

You began to fiddle with the comlink, smashing the microphone button to allow you to communicate.

"Anakin?" You called out.

"I’m sorry…I wasn’t there to help you like I should have." He continued.

"Anakin, can you hear me?" Once more.

"I should've burnt down the whole universe for you. I won't fail again.”

It wasn't working. The goddamn comlink wasn't working. It was all because you fucking threw it on the floor. Gritting your teeth you kept pressing all kind of buttons, hoping a little red orb would flare.

“Obi-wan’s worried. He told me to keep trying to contact you. He wants me to remain calm, trust in the force and-” He sighed, “The Council don’t believe that I should be searching for you."

You brought the comlink underneath the covers with you, sniffling into your shirt. 

"But I promise you , I will find you. Even if it's for the very last time. Even if you hate me." He breathed out.

"I love you.” Anakin said quietly. Then a beat of silence.

"This is pointless-” His voice snapped. It was then you heard a loud thud. Like metal clashing. Like in his anger he had hit something.

Static. A muffled voice. And then nothing. 

He'd shut it off.

Groaning, you squinted your eyes and fell deeper in your bed. The comlink being one of the only things tethered to who you used to be.

Rubbing away the tears that threatened to fall out of your eyes, you laid on your side, holding the device close to you as you fell asleep.

a/n: it was a longgg one guys sorry if i bored u with the dev stuff i just need to set the world for when shes gone and the timeskip and stuff dev will also be importanttt laterrrr but next chp we're getting more pov on anakin and obiwan !!!! i also just finished writing their reunion and working out what happens after its not happy is all i can say

Taglist: @endairachristensen26 @hayden-christensen-verse @ducks118 @seventeen-x @movingalongthekiwi @ssnapsaurus @caramelfondu

if u want to be added or removed lmk!

ALSOO in the meantime if anyone wants to req oneshots/imagines of anyone im so down to do it

[millerskitty]

Running If You Call My Name

❥ dbf!joel / f!reader x joel miller

❥ (18+) nsfw

❥ reader insert

❥ medium burn, no outbreak au. some timelines are changed to fit the story.

dividers by @/saradika !

summary: you are a twenty five year old woman who lives with your father in austin, tx. you’ve been good friends with the millers for years, but in the past few months you’ve begun to see joel in a new light and it’s disrupting your life.

warnings: brief mention of parent loss, grief, loneliness and sexual harassment (by an inconsequential coworker) (pls let me know if i forgot anything — this is my first fic)

word count: 1.7k

masterlist

Chapter 1

That summer had been a scorcher. It was routine to shimmy out of your business casual and throw on a tank top and shorts each day after work. You let your hair down from its clip and let it fall naturally.

It was Friday evening and your father was out grilling in the back. Corn on the cob, fajitas and sausage were on the grill, making the air smokey and delicious. You knew there would be a big bowl of potato salad in the fridge and deviled eggs on the shelf above it. You stepped out of the glass sliding door to join the chef.

“How was work, doll?” Your father asked, sliding up his sunglasses to greet you.

You approached him for a big bear hug. He was damp with sweat from the hard work of grilling in the heat. “Hey Pop. Work was work.” You said, going over to a pool chair and reclining it so you could get some sun. “Are the Millers coming over?

“‘Course, Joel’s taking Sarah to pick out some gear for her softball camp. She leaves tomorrow.”

“Oh cool, and how was your day off?” You lathered some sun screen on your arms, chest, and stomach. The smell of chlorine coming off the pool was met with the barbecue smell. It was a nostalgic combination, reminding you of the two and a half decade’s worth of memories made in your backyard.

“All good, changed the oil on the truck, decided to grill for Sarah’s last day at home.”

The Millers usually came over when Pop was grilling. You wished you’d made a cake for Sarah’s last night in town.

“I made her some of that pink salad she loves.” He seemed to read your mind.

You lied back, closing your eyes and clearing your thoughts for half an hour. Your peace was interrupted by the sound of cicadas buzzing louder to compete with the sound of a truck pulling into your driveway. Joel and Sarah must have come straight over from shopping instead of walking down the street to your home from theirs. There was a flutter in your stomach when you’d heard Pop answer the front door and greet them, Joel’s booming voice asking where you were.

It was only a few moments before you’d heard the glass sliding door open and Sarah popped over to you.

“Hey Bug.” You said, looking up at her with a smile.

“Oh we’re sunbathing, huh? Let me get changed, be right back.” She said, turning on her heel with her backpack over her shoulder.

You loved that girl to death, she’d been in your life for the past decade. Ever since she and Joel had moved down the street, they’d become a part of your life. Joel and Pop hit it off when Joel had noticed Pop trying to fix a gutter on his own.

Pop was cursing up a storm when he’d failed to secure the gutter and it all toppled down. Joel had been outside sitting on the tailgate of his pickup truck that evening when he’d seen Pop and jogged over to help. It had taken him a fraction of the time to get it right. Pop was impressed and slightly embarrassed, but he thanked Joel with a cold beer and the rest was history.

Life had become less lonely with the Millers around. Before they’d moved down the street it was mostly just you and Pop. Your mother passed away when you were just a toddler. She was sick and it almost killed Pop when he couldn’t do anything to save her. After a few years overshadowed by grief he’d turned his life around and became everything you needed from a mother and a father.

You were fifteen when you’d started to babysit six year old Sarah for Joel. Now ten years later, at twenty-five and sixteen you were very much bonded. You’d been there for Sarah when she’d come out as a lesbian. It took Joel by surprise, but he embraced his daughter and her choices.

You felt a pang of guilt as she took her spot beside you by the pool. Your friend would probably get the ick if you’d mentioned that you maybe, sort of, kind of had a crush on Joel. Your fathers sat beside the grill, just out of earshot, nursing two cold beers and chatting. You had to fight the urge to look back at Joel. The opportunity to get up and cross paths with him would come when the food was ready.

The truth was you’d inadvertently developed a crush on Joel Miller. It felt sort of twisted, he was twelve years your senior, almost forty years old. Not exactly old enough to be your father, but still a noticeable age gap nonetheless.

You’d asked him for guitar lessons last Winter and he obliged. He took you to a music store and you picked out an acoustic guitar. He was excited to pass down the skill to at least one other person. Sarah was never interested, what she really cared about was competing in sports. You’d gone over to their home on weekends and practiced, Joel moved your fingers patiently back to their position when you’d messed up. His large, callused hands landed and held the strings down with ease. He’d tried to make you commit to developing your own calluses to improve your skill.

By the end of Winter you’d learned how to play a handful of songs, mostly dad rock that Joel loved and knew by heart. He would smile so bright when you’d finally get it right. You did everything in your power to get him to flash his teeth and celebrate your little victories.

“That’s it, Darlin, those fingers ain't just for clickin’ and clackin’ on a keyboard now.” He’d chuckled.

You had been drunk on his praise and your shared laughter one evening when you leapt up from your seat and onto Joel's lap, throwing your arms around his neck. His arms wrapped around your waist and you pulled your head back, coming face to face with him. His breath was warm on your lips and you swore there was something in his eyes. It flashed and faded as quickly as it had appeared.

You both dropped the embrace and Joel cleared his throat, helping you pack up for the night. Tears of embarrassment stung your eyes as you silently gathered your things and went home without another word.

You knew in that moment that you were well and truly fucked. As it would happen, you couldn’t stop thinking about Joel from that moment on. You tried to temper your feelings. You mostly doubted that he’d felt what you felt in that moment. The spark, the fear and the desire to cross the line. But the gleam in his eye, the way he almost leaned forward then hesitated replayed in your mind.

You’d stopped responding to the guys you were matched with on dating apps. You’d lost interest in anyone other than Joel. You’d imagined all the ways that evening could have gone. He could have become upset that you’d crossed his boundaries, but he didn’t. He could have closed the gap between you and pressed his lips to yours, but he didn’t. And you hadn’t spoken of that incident since it happened, two seasons ago.

“Can you two go in and grab the potato salad and eggs from the fridge?” Pop had asked you and Joel, tearing you away from your thoughts.

“Yeah, no problem.” Joel said, opening the sliding door and motioning for you to head in first.

Your skin prickled when you sensed his eyes skating over your body from behind as you opened the fridge.

“Pop made pink salad for Sarah,” you said, grabbing the bowl of potato salad and turning to face Joel.

“She’s gonna go nuts.” He said grinning, “How’ve you been, kid?”

“Not a kid, Joel.” You huffed. “I’m a quarter of a century old.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He took the deviled eggs from the shelf in the fridge and followed you out to the back.

~

After the barbecue, Pop had made a run to the gas station for more beer and Joel made his way to the kitchen to help you clean up while Sarah took a dip in the pool.

“How’s Angel treating you?” Joel asked, drying off the wet dishes from the rack.

“She’s good, but I’ve been neglecting her a bit lately.” You said, speaking of your six string acoustic guitar. An image of that moment in Joel’s garage flashed through your mind and you blushed.

“That’s a shame, what’s been keeping you too busy to play?” He knew where your dishes belonged, putting them away in the cabinets and drawers as he spoke.

“Work, mostly. This guy at the office has been bugging me to go out on a date with him, it’s borderline sexual harassment.” You huffed, wiping down the inside of the sink.

“Well that’s just not right. You should tell the boss.” Joel said, his voice stern.

“He’s the boss’s nephew.” You turned and saw Joel’s jaw clenched. Your stomach flipped. You hadn’t meant to strike a nerve.

“Shouldn’t matter, he's a punk. What’s his name?”

“Easy, cowboy.” You said, stepping closer to him. “Nothing’s gonna happen, he’s just overly confident.”

“Tell him your friend Joel wants to talk.” This time he was grinning, drying off a glass bowl. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing the tanned skin on his muscular arms.

You were staring until you heard the screen door pop open, then the front door creaked open as Pop appeared just in time for you and Joel to put some space between the two of you. You finished wiping down the counter and Joel rejoined your dad in the backyard.

You poked your head out the door and called out, “Pop don’t forget we’re going to go get my car fixed in the morning.”

“Shit, babe, I’m sorry I forgot. I have a work thing in Odessa, I'm gonna be out all weekend.” He said sympathetically. “You’re a big girl, you can go by yourself.”

“I’m not afraid of going alone, silly. I’m afraid that they’re gonna overcharge me cause’ I don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“I’ll take her, I won’t let that happen.” Joel said, pressing a bottle of Budweiser to his lips.

“See, no one would dare bullshit our Joel, here.” Pop grinned. He was giddy and buzzed.

“Alright, nine-thirty sound good to you?” You asked, trying not to sound excited.

“Sure. I’ll pick you up.”

Chapter 2

[slightly-knot-insane]

Monk's Temptation (part 3-1)

🙘⠀✟⠀🙚

[ Reader's POV ]

[ part 1 ] [ part 2 ] [ art 1 ] [ art 2 ]

a/n: slightly nsfw chapter like the others, but nothing explicit tw: frotteurism

You certainly noticed the monster monk as soon as he entered the chapter house during the choir practice. This small town didn't have a lot of non-humans to begin with, and he was the tallest sentient being you had ever seen, with tiny horns on top of his head protruding through his hood.

When you first saw him, last week, you thought he was really intriguing looking. Kinda cute even though you couldn't see his face in the deep shadows of the hood. Just two dimly glowing eyes. He always seems a bit nervous, though. And his singing... Ooof, his singing is appalling. How did he even get accepted?

Just as soon as the abbess announces a break, you turn to the towering monster behind you. His shining eyes blink, surprised.

"You know," you start, "you have a wonderfully deep voice. It's probably the lowest bass I ever heard. But I feel you don't use your stomach. It's as if you're trying to sing through your throat and that will damage your vocal cords. I know that sounds silly, but next time try to sing from here."

You hold your hand out and touch him just above his belt. Does he have an armor underneath it? It's so... hard. He flinches as if you slapped him.

"Oh sorry!" You truly are - you completely forgot he's a monk. "I'm very sorry! Ah, yes, just try to sing from your belly button. Think about your belly button and pull the voice from there. Do you understand what I mean?"

He stares at you and you feel oddly... small. Is he mad at you? Maybe you shouldn't even speak with the monks at all. But nobody warned you about anything. They just said not to wear uncovering clothes, that's all. Eventually, he slowly nods and replies, with a voice like a streaming thunder. "I... think I do."

You let out a sigh of relief. "Hope it helps!"

You really hope it helps. You can't stand listening to his croaking behind you a minute longer.

The abbess instructs you to sing Carmina Burana, but after just a few notes, she screams: "No, no! The bass is too strong! It falls from above like a storm cloud and suffocates all the other voices."

She marches toward the choral raiser and pulls the monster guy standing behind you. "You are too high! Stand on the step lower, there." She pulls him down, right behind you.

He is lanky but quite big too, so he brushes against your back... assets. You look up and see his hooded shadowed face looking back at you. Was there some saying about gazing into the void and it will gaze back at you?

"What is your name?" you ask him.

His glowy eyes blink again. Or do they? "Atanas," he replies quietly, as if he's unsure about it. There is a low tremble in the way he articulates the last syllable and it makes you shiver.

The practice begins again, and the immediate intensity of Carmina Burana washes over your senses. You full-heartedly sing, until... Until something presses against you. From the back. Did... did Atanas lean closer? It's not just his thick habit touching you. There is something else? Something hard.

Please forgive me, please forgive me, please forgive me, please... You think you hear quiet and breathless chanting behind you. It's overpowered by the song so you can't be for sure. But something is happening against your back. Atanas is... fidgeting? Or is he...?

You continue singing, keeping your back straight, pushing back against the towering presence behind you. He doesn't stop squirming behind you, but he is warm and firm. Such an interesting person, you think to yourself.

Once the choir reaches the beginning of Floret Silva, there is an obvious hitch in his breathing. Almost inaudible, yes, for everyone, but not for you. The fidgeting stops. You look behind your shoulder and up again, into the void... and it is gaping back at you with a crimson glare.

🙘⠀✟⠀🙚

[ next part ]

[ambrosiagoldfish]

i’m going a teensy bit feral reading your adam x third spouse story so i guess im just asking for part five and for it to hopefully have focus on dad beat dad and how lucifer would react to seeing the reader again after so long and like what would happen n stuff 🤭🤭 ofc if this is dumb ignore it i like what you’re doing with the story already !! the part im most excited for is the finale tbh but there’s a lot of time in between what you have rn and then so i’m just yapping abt stuff that could be cool in between. thsi is so jumbled omg sorry i just wanna see more of your writing it’s so good

idk how to end this uhh i love you bye 🫡

Benefit of the doubt PT.5

Adam x 3rd Spouse! Reader

Warnings: GN! Reader, confronting the past, next to no Adam (I know, sad, but it’s for the plot), Reader focused chapter, this is set during ‘Dad Beat Dad’, swearing, the next 2 chapters will have a LOT more Adam DW ❤️❤️

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Request Box: OPEN

Word count: 4322

A/n: Hey everyone! Thank you so much for the support on all the other chapters. It’s been 8-ish months since the last update and for that I want to apologize. I’ll save it for its own dedicated post to not full int his page too much. But if you’ve saw one of my post from the other day, I have posted this on A03 and I’m giving myself 8 total parts. 7 will be the finale and 8 will be an epilogue styled thing (not even sure if I’m wanting to do it so when we get there, you guys can tell me if you want it!! ) so yeah, enough rambling, you’ve all been waiting so long for the next part so here you go!! <3

Reblogs are VERY appreciated!

(My posts have been flopping so much, I would love you forever if you did 😭)

Old memories have a habit of slithering their way back into a person's mind, and even sometimes, people

The first few months at fhe hotel were a lot more enjoyable than you originally expected. Most days went relatively the same, Charlie would choose an activity to do and you would observe the progress they made.

At first, progress hadn't shown much promise but as everyone grew closer, things began to look up. Angel had gone clean with his drug abuse and was distancing himself from his line of work. Sir Pentious started to actually trust the people around him and has done no major constructional damage to any buildings as of late.

Everything was going so smoothly that, when you had woken up one morning to the sounds of screaming, running, and just general chaos. You thought everything was finaly going into the ground.

You quickly run down to the lobby, thoughts of what could be happening run through you. Did one of Pentious experiments fail and explode? Were we being attacked by one of the many gangs in town? Did Alastor decide the hotel was actually boring and started destroying it, starting with the occupants? Whatever it was, you hurry faster to the lobby.

But what was meeting you there was… unexpected to say the least. Party streamers, banners, cookies. It looked like some kind of welcome party heaven would do, albeit with less flare and taste in decor. A banner that read ‘Wellcum Daddy’ was being hung up by Razzle and Dazzle, everyone was either cleaning or baking something, and Vaggie seemed to be ordering them around.

You look at the clock, huh, it’s way too early for any kind of Charlie’s trust exercises. Not to mention, she would have told you about the curriculum and there was absolutely not a 10 AM home-EC class listed on your schedule.

You quickly run up to Charlie who seemed to be preoccupied with helping Vaggie put something up “Charlie, what’s going on?” You tap on her shoulder, She jumps a bit before just realizing it’s you,

”Oh- Y/N, I’m so sorry, I completely forgot to get you!” She apologizes when Vaggie pops in,

“Don’t be, I told Nifty to go wake you up, but looks like she had better things to do” she points over at Niffty swifty stabbing bugs and removing cobwebs out of habit

“It’s fine, just… what’s everyone doing, what’s with all the party supplies and sweets?” You say, arms to the festive lobby around you.

“Oh well…” she took a deep breath “you know that The deadline is fast approaching and while we’ve made progress it’s not much” she paused, trying to even brace herself for what’s coming out of her mouth, “I have asked… my dad to come over and hopefully get us a meeting with heaven” she stops, completely caved in on herself.

“Wait, so… your dad is coming here?” you thought about the times she had asked you to get them a meeting with heaven but you had already explained to her that it would be next to impossible for someone like you. You had to practically beg just to monitor the hotel

Charlie Picked herself back up and looked at you with a shakey demeanor, “Yeah In about… 55 minutes”

You blink a few times before giving a small chuckle “Well, would you look at the date! I think it’s time I used my 1-per-month trip back home! If you’ll excuse me-“

“Wait! No-“ she trips over herself “We need you here, if dad can see, not only the progress we’ve made, but also that we already have an angel supporter, there’s no way he could say no!”

“Charlie, I don’t think it’s a good idea-”

“PleasePleasePlease! I will pay you back, promise! But I- we could really use you there!” Her eyes looked at you, similar to a puppy. She hands clasped together In plea.

You looked away in thought. Seeing him again was the last thing you wanted to do at this moment, any moment for that matter. The last time…well to be honest, the whole exchange hadn’t meant anything to you in quite a while. He could say whatever he wanted about you… it was the words he had to say about Adam that kept your heart ablaze in anger at the Morningstar.

Trash? He should really look in the mirror before saying that about your Adam. But… this could be a good opportunity for the hotel -as much as it pained you to admit- You can only sigh, “fine.. for the hotel…” You let out a small chuckle raising your arm in defeat.

Charlie jumped up and down with glee, repeating a matra of ‘Thank You’s’ before continuing “I get it might be difficult since you’re an Angel.” She tries to give some comfort. But that caught your attention.

“Because I’m an Angel?” You honestly didn’t mean to say it out loud but it came out as a question.

She looks at you confused “yeah, you know, considering I don’t think angels have too kind of thoughts to my dad for being… the devil” she laughs nervously

Oh. Oh. So that’s what she means. So she doesn’t know about your past with him? Not too much a surprise, I doubt Lucifer would bring up any of his failures. But that also made you realize one other thing. Charlie doesn’t know about your marriage with Adam.

Look, you didn’t mean to keep it a secret. In fact you had already assumed they knew. I mean you were sitting literally right next to him and Vaggie already knew who you were. You just thought she would have told Charlie, but knowing this now… it may be best to keep it a secret.

You let out a quick “I understand.” and with that, you all went your separate ways, you did contribute to the decor the best you could, as well as helping Sir Pentious and Nifty with the baking until finally, it was time for Charlie’s dad to arrive.

You walked over to a more remote place in the hotel lobby, look… you may have to interact with him today but you will not be doing it that soon. Instead, you decided your best choice of action was to sit and watch quietly until Charlie decided it was time for you two to meet. And in the meantime, you can mentally brace yourself.

Charlie sighs deeply “Okay everybody, it’s showtime!”

With that she swings the door open revealing the one, the only (thank Father) king of hell himself, Lucifer. Immediately Lucifer pulls his, obviously nervous daughter into his arms. He greets her with excitement before moving on to Keekee, and eventually Razzle and Dazzle.

He eyes the room, clearly covering up any distain for the hotels “character” to protect Charlie’s feelings. At least until he got to the bar which even he couldn’t lie his way through.

Even from the distant view you were from, you could see Alastor and Lucifer weren't going to be the best of buds anytime soon. As soon as they were introduced to one another they immediately got into it. Huh, at least now you have something in common with Alastor at least! If that’s even a good thing.

Their quarrel lasted a few minutes, everyone either waiting for it to be over, completely ignoring it, or enjoying it as entertainment. It lasted what felt like an eternity and was only interrupted when a short and plump woman by the name of ‘Mimzy’ came into the scene.

The old time-y dressed woman was one of Alastor’s friends, you honestly didn’t think he had those but you digress. Eventually once the commotion dies down, you see Charlie give you a nervous smile and wave for you, ‘that’s my cue’ you thought. Anxiety still felt taught in your heart but still you pushed through.

You walk out of your hiding spot, walking up to be next to Charlie. Still trying to keep your presence hidden for as long as you could, savoring those last few moments of peace before a wave of interactions.

Charlie clears her throat and puts on a more professional demeanor despite her nervousness, getting the attention from her dad, “And last but certainly not least, i’d like you to meet our Angelic sponsor-“

“Y/N!?-“ the fallen Angel suddenly started coughing, clearly having choked on his own words. He clears his throat “Sorry! I just wasn’t expecting… you to be here” he lets out a chuckle.

“You guys know each other!?” Charlie looked shocked, her voice pitching up in bewilderment.

“We’ve… met before,.” Your voice was low, But still you pushed through “Though, it’s hardly relevant to anything of importance now. Isn’t that right, Morningstar?”

Lucifer's face contorted into an uncomfortable shaky smile, fingertips digging into his Apple-shaped cane. Perhaps he felt some type of remorse for the way things happened back all those years ago, but even if that’s true, you had no plans to forgive him.

He clears his throat “Yes it’s- unimportant Sweetie.. “

You 3 stand in awkward silence for a moment, all you can do is glare daggers at the short ex-Angel in front of you. Eventually though, you couldn’t stand the scilence any longer, “Well Charlie, I have to get something done in my room and I’ll be back to help with the tour in a few minutes, if that’s ok?”

Charlie looked like she wanted to protest, for you to stay with her through the tour, but she knew you wouldn’t just leave and not come back. “Um, yeah that’s fine! Me and Alastor can get the tour started and you can meet us around the 4th floor?”

You gave a quick nod as agreement and make your way to your room. Sighing, you flop down on your bed, feeling the soft warmth as you sink into comfort. Pulling out your phone, you quickly typing a text to Adam but your thumb simply hovered over the send button, anxiety washing over you. Your message was simple,

‘I promise that everything’s ok, but he’s here’’

You were hesitating, should you even tell him that he's here? You didn’t want to worry him over something so insignificant. He has a show tonight, he wouldn’t be at his best if he was constantly thinking you would be in the same room as the devil.

Or even worse, he could just cancel the show completely and march down here and a cause a ruckus which at best would completely destroy the Hotel’s plans and at worse… No, you can’t think of that.

You look at the message again before just setting your phone on your nightstand. 10 minutes… that’s all you need before you go back out there…

…Lucifer was having… let’s just say a tinsy bit of a bad day. Not only has he been forced to interact with that insufferable yellow-toothed sinner but also, he has been reunited with someone he hadn’t seen in a millenia, you.

The anxiety of the day was only topped off with the added stress of being with his daughter. Don’t get him wrong, he LOVES his daughter and is always happy to see her, but the way she talks and acts with these sinners… Ugh, it reminds him too much of himself back in the day.

Her hotel too… He may have given her the place but he never gave it much thought beyond it being a pipe dream for her. He was just trying to do something for his daughter, especially with… Lilith being out of the picture. He just wanted to cheer her up, and unfortunately it seems ‘grandiose plans’ run in the family.

Even now as Charlie and that Red haired Buck show him around, Charlie explains excitedly about different things they have at the hotel. It reminds Lucifer about how she was when she was little, that glow of joy never seemed to fade away from her despite the conditions she lives in.

But even still, as much as he’s trying not to zone out and actually listen to his daughters rambles, his mind keeps trailing back to one, singular thought. You.

What were you doing here? He knows you were there to ‘support the hotel’ as Charlie puts it. But this is the absolute first he’s hearing about it. Why wouldn’t heaven tell him that another Angel was down here, let alone, you most of all. The last time he saw you was… not the best first meeting

Were you here in secret? You clearly weren't fallen, considering you still had your halo and you didn’t look like you’ve been damaged anywhere close to what you’d be if you had fallen. Not to mention… Adam, the exterminations were his idea so why would you even consider an alternative when you are his-

“Uh, Dad?” Charlie interrupted Lucifer’s thoughts, a look of worry on her face. ”You’ve got a little bit of… horn? Sticking out”

Lucifer looks up and sees that he’s subconsciously beginning to phase into his full demon form. He quickly takes his hand and pats the horns as if he was just dusting off his coat, causing the horns to seem to fade away like dust. Wow, today really seems to be getting to him.

“Ah sorry Sweetie, it’s nothing just… uh..” He thinks for a moment, he has to talk to you alone, just for a second. “*Ahem* I was just realizing I had to… use the bathroom, I seem to have had one too many drinks on the way here. Can you tell me where the… bathroom is?” He lets out a chuckle to hopefully cover his lie.

“Oh, it’s just down the hall and to the right, I can take you there-“

Lucifer quickly lets out a loud ”No!“ Before clearing his through again “I can get there on my own, just wait here and I’ll be back!”

Before Charlie can even answer, Lucifer rushes through the halls of the hotel, yelling a ‘I’ll be back soon’ to his Daughter before turning the corner. He lets out a deep breath as he lays out the plan in his head. Figure out why you’re here, and get back to Charlie as fast as inhumanly possible.

Picking his feet up again, he makes his way to the lobby of the hotel, he looks around for a moment before spotting the check in desk. ‘They usually keep visitor information there, right?’

He quickly scours the desk, looking for any forms or documents that have your room number, before finally setting his eyes on your room number. It didn’t take long to find you seeing as there were such few occupants in the hotel.

He memorized your room and repeated it to himself while walking to your door. Past the first, 2nd, then finally, halfway through the hallway on the 3rd floor he finds it. Before he can knock, a sudden wave of worry floods his senses. Seriously, Why would he hesitate now?!

He shuffled around nervously, starting to doubt this little mission of his. Should he really be doing this? Is he really worried about you being here or is the real reason he came here because he wanted to… apologize to you? It’s true that the guilt of what happened all those years ago was still there. But… Digging up old memories just because he’s selfish and wants to apologize to you? He takes a deep breath.

He had to make things better or… at least get some things off his chest. So, with a heavy fist and an even heavier heart, he gently knocks on the hard wooden door…

This had been the longest 10 minutes of your life, trying to decide wether to send Adam the message, or to even return to tour with Charlie at all. As much as it pains you to say, you still become anxiety ridden when he’s in the room or even the mere mention of him. That spark of defiance you had in the lobby earlier being nothing but a small bit of courage. But you remembered that you had promised Charlie you’d be there for her, and you certainly weren’t one to take back a promise.

Before you could decide what to do, you hear an ever so faint knock on your door. Curiosity peaked, You thought Charlie was supposed to be waiting for you on the 4th floor? Had you taken too long and the tour went south? You quickly made your way to the door and hoped you wouldn’t see a very angry Charlie on the other side.

As the wooden-door creaked open, your face slowly turned bitter at The short, impish man who stood on the other side. Lucifer Morningstar. To be honest, you much would have preferred the angry Charlie, TWO very angry Charlies over this.

The man shuffled awkwardly in place, gripping his cane. Neither of you could break the silence . He avoided any eye-contact with you and even you couldn’t hide The disgusted expression on your face when looking at him. Finally after what feels like 3x the eternity you’ve lived thus far, you spoke In shaky words, ”What do you want?”

Lucifer pushed out his words as well as he could, meek they were, but you understood what he said “Can we please…talk?”

Your fingers gripped at the door, nails embedding into the wood, leaving scratches. It took all you had not to slam the door right in his face, but even if you had, it wouldn’t have solved any pressing issues. If anything, it might make him against Charlie’s idea with the hotel, which you couldn’t afford. You take a deep breath before letting out a quick but unsavory,

“5 minutes”

The short demon shuffles his way into the room as you follow in behind him, locking the door to prevent someone like Nifty or Charlie from walking in. Lucifer stands timidly by your nightstand as you stand on the complete opposite side of the room, facing him. Lucifer runs his neck as he lets out a shaky sigh “I just want to know what you’re doing here…” he pauses, he looks like he has more to say but decided not to.

You can only laugh to yourself “I’m here because I believe I think Charlie’s idea has potential to be great. The exterminations, they have to end… that’s why I’m here”

Lucifer seem a bit… surprised? Surprised with your stance on the exterminations. you figured he needed more than that so you continue “I… I’ve never been one for the exterminations. I've been against them from the start. I just didn't know what else to do. Nothing else seemed…right.“

He stayed silent, processing what you told him. He really didn’t understand you, he had a completely warped view of you. “If that’s all you wanted to know I’d rather you take your leave-“

“No!” You step back at the sudden raise in voice but he quickly clears his throat “No, there’s another thing. I would… I’d like to apologize to you about how things went… when we first met.”

You stared at him, the silence once again feeling the air. You didn’t dare break it, you watched as the impish man looked around with anxiety, trying to find the right words. “It’s always been there, in the back of my mind. How we- I, treated you. It was unacceptable… Lilith kept telling me to let it go, that she was done thinking about it, but I just couldn’t.” He takes a deep breath “so, I’m so sorry for hurting you, Y/n…”

Lucifer Morningstar. The man in front of you looked more akin to a puddle than a person at this point. Sweat dripped from his face, a scrunched mouth filled with a sour taste. He wasn’t looking at you, focusing his attention to the ground. Finally, after many long seconds later. You step forward, grabbing his attention.

“As much as I appreciate the apology, I don’t forgive you.” Lucifer began to speak or at least say he understood but no matter what his reaction was going to be, you interrupted him ‘“-I don’t forgive you, because I’m not the one who deserves it”

To that, Lucifer's head was struck with confusion, “what do you mean?” He tried to make sense of your words, shifting eyes looking around in unease before landing on a framed photo of a candlelit man, an old and forgotten, yet familiar smile on his face… ”You mean… Adam?” Despite his best efforts around you, saying the first man’s name still dripped his words with venom. That same sour taste filling his mouth at the mere mention of him. ”What does-” he stops himself, he knows why.

You breathe in slowly, “What you said to me, all of those years ago, hasn’t meant anything to me in a long time. I’ve gotten through it 10x over and finally understand that I am more than those words” you take another step towards him, closing the gap, “so… there's no use for your apology to me. But Adam… you’ve hurt him more than you couldn’t possibly imagine“

The room was filled with dense air, like any sudden move could kill the king of hell or even you at any second but still you continue. “Adam deserved so much better than what he was forced to have from you, so if anyone deserves your apology, it’s him.” He goes to speak but you shut him down again “but we all know that you are too prideful to do so, and Adam… he’s too stubborn to hear it”

You don’t yell, scream, all of your words coming soft from your lips “So… what you’re going to do, if you truly mean what you say. You will go back to your daughter, forget this conversation ever happened, then you can march back to your big castle with your Loving wife, and leave us be, for the rest of eternity.”

With that, you step away from him, words that have been bubbling inside you for centuries finally having been let out. It felt like several hundred pounds had been lifted off of you. You begin to walk to the door to let him out, wanting the conversation to be over, When you hear him speak a faint ”Ex-Wife actually”

You pause, your teeth already biting your tongue. Honestly, if you really thought about it, it was poetic. The Angel who ruined two marriages, leaving Adam nothing but a broken heart and baggage, ended up with a failed marriage himself.

But even still, you still felt a slight pain of pity for him. Through clenched teeth you let out ”I'm… sorry to hear that. It must be hard.”

This kind of thing, no matter the person, is always tough. You knew the aftermath of it through Adam, even now he struggles with so many issues from it. In that regard, you felt pity for the ruler of hell, but the rest of you felt… glad? Glad that he finally understands just a thorn of the pain he inflicted on Adam.

“The 5 minutes are up so… go now… please.” Your voice shakes near the end, your will power for everything you’ve done starting to break. Lucifer looked equally as defeated, you could tell he wanted to say more but he just nodded his head before walking out the door. slowly, silently, you close the door back before sliding down it as your legs give out.

You wanted to cry, scream, do anything but sit there, but you couldn’t. Your voice hurts from talking, your feet hurt from standing, everything just… hurts.

DING DING DING

A luminous yellow light follows the sound, you lifted your head and saw your phone on your nightstand. Adam… You used all of your strength to make it to your bed, practically having to crawl to avoid any more tiredness in your aching body. You finally land on the soft mattress to pick up your phone, seeing the plethora of messages from Adam.

DIXKMASTER69

Yo Bitch, everything good??

You’ve been typing for like 10 minutes

Answer me

Hellllloooooo??????

Oh, that’s why he was texting. You had completely forgotten your half written message you were debating on sending earlier. You start to delete it and rewrite it when suddenly,

INCOMING CALL FROM DIXKMASTER69

You sigh at the screen, your phone vibration sends chills through your aching arms, it acts as a lifeline for you not to fall asleep on the soft plush beneath you. You press the answer button.

‘Fuck Babe, finally! Are you ok?!” Adam’s voice sounded angry but you know he was just worried “you’ve been texting for like 15 minutes”

“Yeah, don’t worry Adam, I... must have fallen asleep while trying to message you”

“It’s 12 in the afternoon, you dont normally fall asleep in the middle of the day” Adam questions, his voice having obvious worry for you.

“Today’s just been very tiring. But I promise I’m fine, it’s just happened a lot today.” You hated lying to him, your other half, but you know this is something that he shouldn’t have to worry about.

You hear him groan, “how many times do I have to fuckin’ tell you not to overwork yourself for those sinners”

“I know, I’m sorry” you pause “I… I have to go now but I promise I’ll call you later, yeah?“

He was quiet on the other side before he lets out “Yeah, just don’t overdo yourself ok?” His voice was soft, no hint of sarcasm or anger, just him.

You let out a small breathy laugh “I promise. Have fun at your show tonight. Talk to you later, love you.”

“Love you too”

CLICK

You sigh to yourself, you still have the tour to do. It’s fine, everything is fine.

Tomorrow will be a better day. it has to be.

-

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(I really hope I didn’t forget anyone if I did, just asked to be added in the comments!!)

Shoutout to these specific asked as well, love you all <3

[blackynsupremacy]

THERE’S SOMETHING

ABOUT YOU.

CHAPTER 1

pairing: smallville!clark kent x blackfem!oc

fandom: smallville (2001-2011)

guest starring: aaliyah haughton as lyric james

summary: ever since lana lang has moved in with the sullivan’s, clark kent’s nightly telescopic views of the galaxy and daily glimpse of the sunrise tend to get lonelier. that is until a moving truck, a wandering amicable feline, and her frustrated owner, lyric james, makes her debut in his life as her family are the new owners of the old potter house next door. things between the new neighbors start to shift as clark is tasked as her personal tour guide at her new school. one little slip is all it takes for her to learn he’s more than meets the eye in this small town.

contains: lots of words,neighbors to friends, slow burn, martha lowkey being the hookup, snarky teens, some swearing, fluff, friendly banter, a bit of angst. lyric’s thoughts. clark’s thoughts.

taglist: @afrowrites @afrogirl3005 @rosiestalez @sabrinasopposite @tryingtograspctrl @ellethespaceunicorn @jkr820 @simply-the-best23 @zombiehe4rt

next: CHAPTER 2

it was around 8:30 PM on a friday night as clark kent gazed at the stars through his telescope in his “fortress of solitude”. it was just his loft in the barn, but he never forgot how lana lang coined that term for this sacred space of his. lana was known as the typical girl-next-door and the cheerleader dating the captain of smallville high’s football team, whitney fordman, and clark’s first love. well—it’s crazy how things can change so rapidly. lana quit cheerleading to own the talon, whitney was killed while following in his late father’s footsteps to serve this country, and she wasn’t the girl-next-door anymore. she had to move in with one of clark’s best friends, chloe sullivan and her father, gabe because her aunt nell’s new husband wanted to move the family out of smallville, but lana refused to leave it all behind. one thing that didn’t change was clark’s love and admiration towards the girl.

the loft wasn’t just his space where he’d go to think or look into space. he also shared it with her. whether it’d be using the telescope to admire her from afar, having late night talks, or watching the sunrise together. you’d think with this much time spent with someone, clark would finally have the gusto to officially ask lana out. he has tried, but between the obstacles of figuring out his heritage, keeping his abilities a secret, not wanting to hurt others feelings, and his cowardice of opening up to his loved ones, his chances with her all went to hell.

lana’s tasks at the talon were getting busier by the day and she still had her load of class work to tend to, so her visits to the loft for sunrises or meaningful conversations weren’t as frequent. it’s been getting quite lonely here. a deep sigh escapes from clark’s chest as he takes a step back from the telescope, both hands tucked within his pockets. his blue eyes peer at the dark sky that was softly lit with luminous stars that goes beyond this planet he’s come to know and love. his longing for the answers concerning his heritage grow stronger and impatient as his thoughts trail back to the aircraft that’s hiding in the cellar. he wished that this burden wouldn’t have to be so much. he understood that his parents, jonathan and martha, didn’t want to lose their miracle child if he found out where he came from or if the world knew of his powers, they would experiment, exploit, or worse, treat him like an outcast. it’s already hard enough on clark that his best friend, pete ross, knew. they’ve worked it out once he’s sworn his secrecy to the kents and their friendship seemed to be stable, but deep down he knew that pete would never really get used to that. clark just wanted someone—no, anyone to understand his intentions. whether they’re a human or not. why did i have to come down to this planet? what happened on my planet that was so bad that i literally crashed into the quiet lives of this town? why—

clark’s train of thoughts came to a halt and his heightened sense of hearing caught the sound of revving engines and purring wheels coming into the direction of the neighborhood, but not directly to his home. both of the vehicles make a stop and park at their destination. one of the vehicles is a u-haul moving truck the other, resembling what might be a white honda civic. this stop wasn’t an ordinary stop either. it seemed that the destination was—the old potter house. was it possible that nell had changed her mind? did lana know about this? could things go back to the way they were? clark had to pause for a second because he didn’t recognize the car at first, so he looks back into the telescope to investigate further.

it was pitch dark outside to see who exactly were operating the vehicles, so clark knew what he had to do to find out. his eyes focused on the closely on the u-haul, he could clearly see the boxes and luggage near the rear end before his x-ray vision travels towards the front. in the driver’s seat, he could see the outline of a human skeletal figure, stretching their arm muscles and reaching for the seatbelt. his pupils shifted to the car parked behind the truck. there were three figures this time. one sitting in the drivers side, the other in the passenger with their head leaning against the window, and third that seemed to be curling up on the passengers lap which clark assumed to be a pet. the driver taps the passenger’s shoulder to signal them to wake up before they open the doors.

with the low quantity of streetlights near kent farm, it was still difficult to see clearly, but clark was positive he saw three different silhouettes with three different voices as he watched them exit the vehicles. the tallest silhouette was definitely an older male with a deep voice muttering as he made his way to the front door before fishing the key out of his pocket to gain access to the house.

“come on now, girls! this house won’t be moved in by itself. let’s at least get what we need for the night and start fresh in the morning, alright?” he commands before stepping into the house. the next silhouette was slightly shorter than the first and the soft, alto voice was of an older female followed by the final silhouette who had a similar voice to hers, but it definitely sounds like a person of around clark’s age. she appears to be holding a bundle tucked securely in her arms. her own sigh resonates in the night air, her posture deflating with exhaustion.

“man, if i have to move another muscle, i swear i’ma fall apart.” the youngest of the three groggily protested as she dragged her feet forward.

“your father’s right! the faster we get things done, the faster we can go to bed, get some rest and greet our new neighbors in the morning. i’d suggest you put that cat down somewhere and pick up those feet, young lady. we don’t have time for all that whining, now.” the older female firmly responds as she beckons the younger to follow her into the house.

“yes, mama. just—let me put the princess in my room and i’ll be right down with ya’ll. god knows i’m beat.” all three figures trudge their way into the now lit house and close the door.

clark lets the conversation cut there before he takes some paces away from telescope.

it looks like we’re getting new neighbors. i’ll make sure to tell mom and dad in the morning.

he turned off the light switch before descending down the stairs to retire for the night.

lyric james huffs out in relief as her spine finally makes contact with her lavender comforter set delicately draped over the air soft mattress of her new bed, in her new room, of her new house, and in a new town. the bare walls were illuminated with the amber glow of the ivory bedside lamp she recently installed. her closet was about a quarter full and the drawers had the essentials like undergarments and socks, but there were two things she couldn’t live without for one night: grandad’s record player and noir. speaking of noir, lyric could hear the soft patter of paws treading on the hardwood floors and an audible mew of the feline. she got the strength to lift herself upright to look down and find noir staring back at the girl with those large round, yellow-green eyes and her fuzzy,black tail swaying across the floor as if she were waiting for her owner to carry her as she did before they stepped into the new house.

lyric chuckled at her cat, shaking her head. although it was a tired smile, her dimples made a prominent appearance within her toffee skin. “girl, i know i got you spoiled rotten—can’t even get up on the bed without needing an escort.” she reached her arms below to scoop noir up into her bed before laying vertically with her head against her plush pillows and a fair number of stuffed animals. lyric adjusted, so that one hand was underneath the white, paisley bandana wrapped to protect her hair and the other, tenderly stroking noir’s dark coat of fur as the cat nuzzled on her torso. her brown eyes shifted to see the red glowing digits of the time set on her alarm clock. 10:30. i really need to sleep, so i can move all of that junk tomorrow. thank god it’ll be a saturday. her chest raised slowly to deflate as she sat alone with her thoughts. i miss new york already. what’s so interesting about this itty, bitty hill billy town anyway? what does a place like smallville have to offer?

let’s rewind that real quick. lyric james was a born and (formerly) raised native from new york. she’s currently a sophomore with a love for old vinyl records, talking junk, eating sweets, going out with friends (well the ones she had back home), impulsive shopping, and documenting core memories with her digital camera.

her voice was soft as rain and calm as her mother’s, one might say a sound like a voice of reason, but one shouldn’t get that confused with her being a pushover. when it comes to meeting new people, she’s not shy per say, but before opening up she needs to observe certain people. observe of how they speak, their body language, and just how they are as a person in general. if the vibe’s good, that’s what’s up! she’ll crack jokes, speak in fluent sarcasm, and maybe a bit of flirting when she gets the balls. if not, she’ll be cordial and respectfully keep her distance. she’s had moments of naivety in the past when it came to friendships causing her to get burned, but hey— she lived and she learned. that was her just her outlook on life: to live until you die. she was only a teenager, so she’s expected to screw up every once in a while, but when it came to having that common sense her parents instilled in her during childhood, she knows where the line should never be crossed.

her parents, crystal and joseph james, were suitable guardians and they supported lyric as well as nurtured her to be a well mannered young woman, but one thing that got her tight was their demanding work schedules. joseph worked as a firefighter and crystal, an er nurse. don’t get her wrong, she loved that her parents saved lives for the love of it and kept their lives afloat financially, but it also made lyric anxious. as an only child, she’s been with her parents for so long and she couldn’t imagine if something happened to one or both of them. hence why she had a curfew, even back in her hometown to make sure she’s home and near the phone just in case. the main reason why her parents decided to move to smallville was that it was safe. it wasn’t like smallville didn’t have crime going on, but it wasn’t as bad as new york. crystal and joseph knew that their daughter was left alone most of the time and they’d allowed for her to go out with friends and come back at a certain time, but the risk was too high for them to stay ever since—omar. fortunately, they had some colleagues recommend that smallville had some opening positions for their professions and that’s how they got here to get away from their past.

lyric felt her eyelids drooping lower as a yawn escaped from her mouth and reached over to the lamp switch to cease the glow in her room. careful not to wake noir, she shifted her body as carefully as she could to conceal herself under the sheets. she turned on her side, her knees curling up slightly in a fetal position as her bare feet rubbed against each other. her arms wrapped loosely around noir. the sounds of the feline’s low snores were enough to send lyric into a peaceful, calm slumber.

the rising sun of saturday crept in at around 7:15 AM. clark was used to being up this early. that’s farm life, but this was part of his daily routine to wake up, get dressed, and head to the loft to watch nature simply take its course. as he leaned his elbows against the window sill, his eyes of blue soaked up the harmonious mixture of the sky’s color palette of lavender, pink, tangerine, and gold. the clouds resembled the fluffiness of the cotton candy that was served at the fall festival every year. it was silent, but the wind hummed as it lightly tickled clark’s face and fanned his raven tresses with a breeze so gentle at just the right the temperature that he couldn’t help, but to close his eyes and inhale the morning within his lungs. he was sure this weekend was going to be the same: do some chores, hang out with his friends at the talon, run into lex luthor, or maybe fight off people who’ve been poisoned by those cursed green rocks like he’s some sort of superboy. you know, the usual. clark then had that sinking feeling within his stomach and that tiny weight of heaviness in his chest with visions of her.

i really wish lana was here. maybe she’d find some time to at least catch the end of this.

his eyes then traveled back to the house next door. the two vehicles and the “SOLD” sign out in the front yard confirmed to clark that the kents having new neighbors wasn’t a fever dream like he’d hoped. he didn’t really get to see the family clearly, but he remembered a father, a mother, and perhaps a daughter with a pet of some kind. he pondered on the details of where they came from, what they looked like, what were their personalities, and most importantly, were they prepared for what kind of town they’ve moved to given its bizarre history? well—clark, felt he was to blame for the bizarre part, but his parents reassured there was nothing no one could do to prevent it.

after the sun took its rightful place in the heavens, clark decided it was time to get a head start on his chores for the day. that was until he felt something nuzzle itself against his ankle and his ears picking up on the soft mewling sound that filled the silence of the loft. well—that’s new… he thought knowing that it was the norm for animals to be on the farm, but not this one. clark peered down to find two wide eyes of yellow-green that reminded him of the glow of a firefly in the darkness of july. they were attached to a tiny, furry head with a pink button nose, whiskers, and pointed ears all surrounded by onyx fur. one of clark’s brows raised and a grin curved on his lips as the feline continued to wrap around his or her tail around his leg some more. with blended knees, he squatted down low enough to meet the cat’s level to slowly, but gently reach his hand towards the nose first, so the cat could detect clark’s scent properly before giving him the green light to go any further. a dark paw stretches to lightly touch his hand before leaning a fluffy cheek in forward to nuzzle clark’s knuckles, indicating that he can proceed with his touch. clark couldn’t help, but to smile before taking both hands to enthusiastically pet this friendly little, black cat’s face.

“now, i wonder how you got yourself in here, huh? your owner must be pretty worried—“ he paused to check to see if the cat had a collar of any kind in which he came up short. geez, he at least wanted to know the feline’s gender without catching them off guard by picking them up. as if the cat read his mind, they rolled over on the hardwood floor to reveal the underside of their body. after a quick observation, clark figured out this feline was a female before she rolled over again to her original position on her belly.

“don’t worry, girl. you can stay up here until your owner comes back. for now, i’ll take care of you.” he simpered as his palm soothingly descended down the cat’s spine. noir couldn’t help, but to respond to this boy’s touch by filling the room with a satisfied purr as if she were in paradise. clark sighed with content before he realized that he now has to let his folks know about the new visitor. he ceases his petting and his tenor voice softly urges, “i’ll be right back, girl. you stay right here, okay? if you’re good, i’ll come back with a little treat for you. how does that sound?” he coaxed. she responds by mewling and laying on her stomach, tail swaying back and forth across the floor as she watches clark walk away and descend down the stairs of the barn and out to his home to find his parents conversing at the breakfast table in their kitchen. his father was sitting at the table reading the newspaper while his mother was preparing breakfast.

“morning dad! morning mom!” he hurriedly greeted his parents, jogging to the cabinet to retrieve a plastic bowl and the refrigerator, for some fresh milk.

“mornin’, son!” jonathan responds, his eyes still skimming the headlines. martha repeats the phrase back to her son, her eyes glancing up to see to him getting the items needed for cereal, but no spoon nor cereal. martha squints in curiosity as her mother’s intuition urges her to ask clark what he’s up to.

“hey, clark, if you want breakfast, i’m putting something together. are sure you just want cereal, dear?” she questions.

“nah, mom. i’m good just…uh, getting started with my chores. hey, did you know that a new family moved into nell and lana’s old house? i saw the truck come in late last night while i was in the loft. you guys were sleeping by then, but i didn’t want to wake you.” clark spoke, pouring the right amount of milk in the bowl and putting the carton back in the fridge. he didn’t instantly want to stall on the fact of the feline, but he definitely wanted keep his parents in the loop of their new neighbors first.

martha’s face responds in awe, her head nodding with a smile on her lips as she resumes to cooking and jonathan lowers the paper to get a better insight on the topic of the discussion.

“ah, right! i noticed the truck still parked when i looked out the window this morning. at first i thought nell had changed her mind for lana’s sake, but i saw a different man walk to his car. either way, it’s exciting to see some fresh, new faces around smallville, right jonathan?” martha inquired to include her husband. jonathan nodded in agreement,

“oh, yeah. they’re likely a friendly, hardworking family with good old fashioned values that happen to live right next to another average family: a farmer, his wife, and their herculean son with the strength of 2,000 men!” jonathan wise cracked, earning some laughter from his family.

clark’s infectious smile crept on his lips before he takes the bowl off the counter, careful not to spill it.

“very funny, dad! in the case of meeting fresh faces, the new ones i’ve met so far are covered in fur and whiskers. i was out at the loft just now and this black cat just snuck in.”

“oh, a cat? so that explains the bowl with no cereal. well, do you think it’s just a stray?” martha questioned, wiping her hands clean with a plaid, hand towel.

“where’s the cat now?” jonathan chimed in.

“ah—not really, she’s actually very friendly. i’ve tried to look for a collar, but she didn’t have one. look, i’m not saying i’m keeping her, but i think someone would be coming for her soon. she should still be waiting in the loft. until then, i want her to be taken care of before they come.” clark utters, gesturing to the bowl in his hand.

“that’s sweet of you, clark! i’m sure they would appreciate that. oh! just milk won’t do, sweetie. let me see if we have a can of tuna in here somewhere.” martha inwardly beamed as she turned to rummage through the pantry to retrieve a can of tuna. as she fetched a can opener, spoon, and a bowl, her heart couldn’t help to swell at her son’s benevolence. his desire to care for all species on a foreign planet made her feel more content of what happened in the fall of ‘89. sure there was some destruction, trauma, and long lasting negative outcomes, but clark would never fit in those categories. out of the can she scooped the meat into a bowl and handed it to clark.

“thanks, mom! i’ve learned from the best, you know.” he leant down to tenderly kiss the auburn head of his mother and made his journey outside to fulfill his promise to the amicable fur ball that was still waiting on her treat. once inside, he places the two bowls in front of her and it wasn’t a second later before she indulged in the food and drink.

little does this sneaky kitty know that her owner is about to cross paths with smallville’s main attraction.

lyric’s grogginess was short lived after waking up to find noir missing. she quickly sat up to look underneath the comforter to see if the onyx feline was at the foot of the bed. lyric knew that noir liked to sneak away and hide in other places of their old house, so what makes her think noir wouldn’t give this house a test drive for that same purpose? lyric moved the comforter to free herself and swung her feet to the side of the bed. she rubbed the sleep from eyes to get a clearer vision in order to see the red digits on her clock. it was approximately 8:00 am. as soon as the bare soles of her feet touched the floor, her knees followed suit to search under the bed.

“noir?” she called as her brown eyes searched and her head moved from left to right and vice versa, but noir was nowhere in sight. feeling a tad irked with her pet’s usual shenanigans, a huff erupted from her chest and her brows furrowed. lyric stood up to her feet and made her way to the closet only to find just her clothes on the hangers, no noir. lyric checked all the usual places upstairs where she would hide. bathroom? no. linen closet? nah. the den? negative. not even her own parents room provided lyric with the answer she desired.

“now, where the hell could she be?” she muttered lowly to herself under her breath. lyric knew better for her parents not to hear any type of profanity slip from her mouth. her ass would be grass, but so would noir’s if she didn’t pop her fuzzy head out in the next few minutes.

she was such in a tizzy trying to find her cat that she didn’t notice her mother, crystal, calling out for her from downstairs. lyric brought herself back to earth before she made her way down the steps and into the kitchen where she found crystal to be unpacking an open cardboard box and placing dishes, bowls, and cups in their respective cabinets. each item making a clanging sound as they were maneuvered out of the box.

“good morning, mama! where’s dad?” lyric hastily greeted and questioned as she also noticed the absence of her father. her doe eyes perused areas such as the floor, near the refrigerator, and under the tables. damnit, no such luck.

“good morning, honey! your father’s out at the station to settle some final paperwork before monday and running some errands for the house, but he should be back in time soon. we still have so much unpacking to do and meet our new neighbors, so get a move on to get dressed!

“hold up, don’t the ones living here already usually come to meet the new ones?” lyric’s nails reached to scratch her scalp as she raised her arched brow, piqued by the statement.

“yes, usually, but the unusual doesn’t always do harm.” crystal responded to her daughter before she turned around to see her still clad in her nightly attire. lyric hastily nods, her thoughts still running laps around her head.

“you sound like you’re in a rush. what’s wrong, baby?” she placed the items she was unpacking on the counter before she approached lyric.

“ma, have you seen noir? i’ve checked her usual spots and i can’t find her nowhere. i know she likes to sneak out my room every once and a while, but she stays in the house hiding and i keep coming up short— you’ve been down here for a minute, so maybe you’ve seen her tryin’ to get somethin’ to eat?”

“mmm—no. i’m sorry, i haven’t. it don’t help that we barely got any food to start with, my guess is noir went to search somewhere else for that. one thing about her, if she can’t get food here, she’ll get it somewhere else and you know how greedy she is the way you got her spoiled.” crystal chuckled as she heard lyric sigh out a defeated “if that ain’t the truth.” even though noir can be a handful, she adored her due to antics like this because let’s be real, a girl’s gotta eat!

“i just hope you remembered to put that collar back on her neck when we got here.”

lyric froze. her lips tighten as her eyes shut, inhaling and huffing out a breath of deeper frustration with herself before she realized that she didn’t put noir’s collar on when they settled in last night. she was so worn out from going back and forth to move in her essentials to her room, that it slipped her mind completely. now, she knows noir likes to wander a bit, but damn it! she never expected that cat to venture out in a whole new area. crystal took lyric’s silence and that pout on her face as a signal of negligence to complete the task, but she understood that it was late and the whole james family were even dead tired to get the rest of what they needed. a sympathetic smile rose on her full lips and her palms find their way to reassuringly massage the tensed muscles of her daughter’s shoulders.

“don’t worry. you know noir always finds her way back home, she wouldn’t dream of getting into some trouble without you, especially not too far away, so she may be closer than you think. now, i bet you’ll do the right thing and put that collar on as soon as you get her back?” crystal inquired with a playful tone, so lyric’s pout transformed to a lopsided grin, the dimples she inherited from her mother protruding as she giggled. in return for her mother’s wisdom, lyric pulled her into a bear hug and rested her chin on shoulder. this reminded her of the moments in her childhood when crystal would console lyric, whether she was taking her accountable or not.

“yes, ma’am—and i’m sorry for not handling my business. it won’t happen again, i swear.” she murmured near crystal’s ear and pulled back to face her again.

“you live and you learn. i’ll tell you this, instead of looking around in the house, how about going outside? you might find what you’re looking for. you can worry about unpacking the rest of your things later.” after giving lyric her cue to get started, crystal’s kissed her daughter’s cheek and ceased the embrace before finally disposing of the box that was emptied of its contents.

departing with a smile and nod, lyric rushed upstairs to her bedroom and opened the closet door to locate a presentable outfit that was not too laid back nor over the top, but something that was comfortable and fashionable enough to locate the missing noir. no matter what the occasion may be, lyric wasn’t gonna be too flashy nor look like she just rolled out of bed! she settled for an aqua blue top that was slightly cropped at the bottom to expose a bit of her abdomen with a mural of a geisha patterned with black, white, gold, and salmon. she paired this one pop of color with black cargo pants, black bomber jacket, and a classic pair of black chuck taylor’s. she placed the ensemble on the bed and left her bedroom to perform her hygienic ritual in the bathroom before returning to don her outfit for the day. lyric removed her scarf and adjusted her dark, long, natural hair to her liking with the heat of her straightening iron, the stroke her detangling brush, and the spritz of the heat protection spray to ease the guilt of damage. there was no harm in the addition of her signature eyeliner, mascara, and lastly—the brown lip liner and gloss combo painted on her full lips that were the icing on the cake of her everyday look. as for accessories, her ears were adorned with the cherished pair of golden hoops she was gifted for her 13th birthday, and the simple, black crossbody satchel that was her go to for whatever she needed for any journey.

“alright, ma. i’m going out to get your fast tail granddaughter back home!” lyric’s voice echoed out after jogging downstairs to wait by the front door to her crystal respond, “okay, honey! be safe and i love you. don’t stay out too long, now.” lyric reciprocates the farewell before bolting out of the door and into the front yard. it was a sunny day with a moderate fall-like temperature, not too hot nor too cold. her legs moved like clockwork as the falling leaves made a crunching sound beneath her sneakers. lyric squints and furrows her brows as she starts to look around the perimeter of the house, her mind started to go into overdrive mode, thinking of what that sneaky ass cat is up to. god, i just pray she’s not lost in a cornfield or behind a barn getting knocked up by some stray. now, i know i raised her better—but then again, i ain’t get her fixed.

after frantically searching all around the front and backyards, lyric made one more final decision before she could take her search further out into town: the next door neighbors. the chances were low, but never zero. besides, she was going to have to cross paths with them anyway. she took another deep breath and placed her hands in her jacket pockets as the autumn breeze picked up with her feet leading her to the home. it was a brisk 2 minute walk. she stopped and her head leaned up to read the hung up wooden sign that read, KENT FARM— and she wasted no time to walk on the property. to say it was just big was an understatement. as lyric ventured down the dirt path of the driveway, her eyes perused the land that possessed animals such as horses, cows, and pigs. she attempted to not contort her face at the new, pungent smells that filled her nose.

i don’t wanna be rude to these people, but ugh! this is nothing short of a farm. i’d better get used to this though.

the abode itself resembled the classic farmhouse with the white picket fence aesthetic. it was a vibrant, lemon yellow two story house with white trimming on the windows and a welcoming porch with white, wooden steps that creaked as lyric’s feet gingerly ascended before approaching the door and checking to see if any cars were parked that indicated the presence of her new neighbors. once she spotted the parked red pickup truck, she took that as her cue to knock on the front door. in the brief time she waited for someone to come to the door, her head turned to the left to find a colossal, vibrant red barn. it seemed to have an open window and what looked like to be a telescope protruding. lyric’s mind began to wander again, but instead of panic, it was serenity.

that looks like a dope spot to stargaze and listen to some stevie. ain’t nothing like your own personal quiet place.

her thoughts were halted at the sound of the front door hinges creaking opening to reveal a couple around her parents age, they both greeted lyric with a “good morning” and benevolent grins which gave her a warm feeling. the wife was a few inches shorter than lyric with auburn hair, blue eyes, and rosy lips. as for the husband, he was towering over both of the females with sandy, blonde curls, sculpted jawline, and blue eyes as well. lyric regained her focus and introduced herself.

“hey—good mornin’! my name’s lyric james. my family and i just moved in last night in the house next door. it’s very nice to meet you mr. and mrs.—“ she paused to lead them to their names to politely address them like how she was raised. with a smile, she held out her hand to give each adult a handshake before the husband reciprocated the salutation on their behalf,

“well, lyric, it is certainly a pleasure to meet you and welcome to the neighborhood! mr. and mrs. kent will do, but when you feel comfortable, my name is jonathan and this is my wife, martha.”

“lyric—what a lovely name. we definitely look forward to meeting the rest of your family very soon and welcome to smallville. is there anything we can help you with, honey?” martha enthusiastically chimed, that sunshine smile reappearing that compelled lyric to return a dimpled simile of her own as a result of that welcoming compliment.

“ah, thank you both so much! first, i just wanna let ya’ll know you have a lovely home. second, if it isn’t such a bother— did ya’ll happen to see a black cat with these big, yellow eyes, no collar, and sneaky? i mean—she has a collar, but because i was so tired, i forgot to put it on her last night. her name is noir. she likes to wander off sometimes and i was wondering if ya’ll seen her around here? i understand if you haven’t, i was making sure before i start putting her face everywhere in town.” lyric’s face heated with embarrassment as she dumped her predicament on these lovely folks, she takes her hands that were previously tucked in her pockets and fidgeted with them. who knew that one kitty could cause this teenager this much stress and chaos? lyric knew, but in this circumstance? give a girl a break.

after lyric drops the cat’s exact description, realization set in martha’s mind and the gears started turning in her brain.

lyric. what a friendly and polite girl! she must be the cat’s owner. the same cat that snuck into the barn and the same cat that clark was currently caring for. not to mention that she’s a sight for sore eyes! this girl could use a trusting and kind first friend in a new place. who better than clark? maybe this was the fresh face that could bring him out of this lana funk.

an invisible light bulb popped out of martha’s head, her smile never ceasing at her clever thinking. it was now martha’s turn to respond to lyric.

“oh, no! that’s unfortunate. we have a son who’s he’s about your age. his name is clark and he would definitely be of service to help find what you’re looking for. he’s actually in that barn right over there.” her auburn bob sways as her head tilts in the direction of the barn, a nonverbal signal for lyric to take a look.

“are you sure about that, mrs. kent? i don’t wanna bother nobody with my problem.” lyric questioned, using one of her hands to brush a piece of hair out of her face.

“i’m positive, lyric! one thing about clark kent, when there’s a call for help, he’ll answer. i’m sure he’d be happy to assist you!” martha said with a reassuring grin.

lyric reciprocated with a grin and nodded her head in approval.

“by the way you’re hyping him up, he sounds pretty cool. alright, mrs. kent, you got a deal. i’ll take you up on that! again, i really appreciate your help! you said that barn over there, right?” lyric pointed to the left.

lyric took the kent’s nods as approval to give them a wave, walk down to the porch steps, and make her brief trip to the red barn with the telescope in the window. the entrance was already opened, giving her easy access. she looked around to see the piles of hay and various farming tools and machinery. her head turned to one side, then the other to see if she could spot the mysterious clark. her gaze then shifted to the beige, wooden staircase that led to the next level.

“here goes something.” she mutters under breath, her legs carrying her to the staircase to get the next lead in finding the missing noir.

“hello! is anybody up there?!” she called out as she ascended.

clark was still in the loft. he was lounging on the sofa with noir comfortably laying across his lap, softly purring and snoozing the day away after a snack and some playtime with a laser pen that clark found. he was now waiting for lyric’s arrival to retrieve her furry companion. his heightened sense of hearing and open window worked in his favor when he heard the recent conversation between the girl and his parents in the distance. that soft voice he heard last night confirmed the match for the voice of the new girl next door. last night, her tone conveyed raspiness and exhaustion, but while conversing with his parents, it was soothing and pleasant to the ear, sensitive or not. he was content in knowing that the feline, noir (now that he finally knew her name) had a caring owner and home. he also couldn’t help, but simper bashfully at hearing his mother’s compliment about his willingness to help others. his cheeks were glowing red when lyric enthusiastically agreed and the two were only seconds from meeting. she already thinks i’m cool even though we haven’t met. that’s—interesting.

clark’s thoughts came to a halt when he hears footsteps and that same voice calling out for another human— well, being in his case. him and noir perked up and glanced in the direction of the footsteps that were approaching closer to his exact location. noir let out a mewl that louder than normal.

“noir? noir! is that—“ lyric gains speed at the sound of a “meow” that belonged to the onyx kitty she’s missed so dearly. once she made it to the top of the stairs and rounded the corner, her movements ceased to find a boy sitting on the couch. clark turned his head in her direction. a kind smile that revealed his pearly canines appeared as he gingerly scooped noir in his arms and approached lyric. silence filled the room as they inspected each other’s features for a moment before speaking.

as clark was standing, lyric could tell he was in the 6’0+ range of height. his hair was dark like hers, but he had ivory skin, benevolent aqua blue eyes, sculpted jawline, and rosy lips. he resembled the prince in that little mermaid movie that lyric always enjoyed as a child—after some years, she’s realized it wasn’t just the songs that drawn her in.

clark curiously gazed at the girl before him. she was at average height. he noticed her medium earthy skin tone complimented her deep brown eyes, long, natural dark hair, and shimmery, full lips. he knew that it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that she was pleasant to the eyes. the teen’s conscious’ brought them down to earth before they awkwardly stammered their introductions in sync,

“hey! i’m—“

“hi! my name’s—“

“sorry—“

“my bad—“

they both respond with a brief chortle before clark chimes in,

“ladies first.”

“oh, right! um, my name’s lyric james aka, your new neighbor and owner of that fast tail cat you got.”

lyric gives the boy an amicable grin and playfully glares at noir. she holds out her arms towards clark’s and he instantly takes the cue to hand noir back in lyric’s awaiting arms. he beams as she embraces the feline, her knuckles nuzzling between the ears and pecking her head.

“god, don’t you ever do that to me again. i’m too young to have a heart attack, but i’ve missed you, girl!” she affectionately murmured.

“i’m clark kent by the way! it’s really nice to meet you, lyric.” he holds out his hand and patiently waits as she shifts noir into one arm, popping her on her torso like an infant and reaching her hand to grasp his in the friendly exchange.

“nice to meet you! your mom talked a good game about you helping those who need it. it looks like you really came through and i appreciate that, clark. this is noir and i’m sorry that she snuck over here disturbing your peace, but i forgot to put her tag on, so that’s on me.” lyric confessed, looking at her cat with the expression of a disappointed mother before gleaming in gratitude towards the farm boy.

“hey, it’s no problem, really. this sounds a bit embarrassing, but i’m relieved she snuck in. i was feeling kinda lonely up here and she cheered me up. plus, i got the chance to meet you and get out of doing my chores for a while.”

they briefly laugh before lyric chimes in,

“hey, there’s nothing embarrassing about that! trust, when i’m feeling down, i can count on this gremlin to bring some excitement to my day. even if she get on my everlasting nerves with her shenanigans, wandering off being the biggest issue—now, that you said it, she got me out of doing my chores too!” they laugh again as she playfully rolled her eyes before quickly spotting two empty bowls on the ground. she snickered to herself at her what her mother referred to this morning and it didn’t go unnoticed by clark.

“care to let me in on the joke?” clark wittingly quizzed.

“i think it’s funny how when i was looking for noir this morning and told my mom about it, she said it was because noir was just looking for a snack and that i got her spoiled. it looks like you gave my baby the royal treatment, huh?” lyric chuckled and gestured to the empty bowls.

clark reciprocated his own laughter before he replied,

“i just wanted to make sure she was taken care of before her owner came back. it’s the least i could do for her after she cheered me up! i’m just glad that she has a good home. even though it hasn’t been very long, i think i’ll miss noir when she goes.”

“well, clark, if you want to see noir again, you can! that’s if—you let me kick it with ya’ll. i won’t lie, it’d be nice to know someone when i start at smallville high on monday. you cool with that?” lyric proposes, raising an arched brow and a smirk playing on her lips. inwardly, she didn’t want to put the pressure on by dropping the “f” bomb on him just yet. not until they get to know each other better. lyric wasn’t opposed to it and she got the vibe from clark that he felt the same, especially with the way they hit it off.

the infectiousness of the action caused clark to smile and nod in agreement.

“i’m cool with that. ah! i’m such an idiot.” he jokingly pinches the bridge of his nose while shaking his head. “i’ve probably kept you waiting here all day when you’ve got stuff to do at your place. i’ll walk you home?” that was always the gentlemanly thing to do and clark wanted to make a good impression on his new neighbor who would hopefully want to join him and his small circle of friends starting monday. as they walked down the stairs and out of the barn towards her home, they continued to their small talk for the brief duration of the stroll. he asked the basics of where she was from before moving to smallville, what her life was like there, her family, school, and how she’s adjusting to the new house so far. clark felt a sense of nostalgia. he hasn’t walked down this path towards that house in months, it was refreshing.

they stopped and reached their final destination. clark took it upon himself to walk lyric up to the door while still keeping a safe distance behind her. her father had yet to get extra keys made, so she had to knock on the door. as they waited, lyric turned her body to face his with an appreciative expression and broke the ice,

“hey—all jokes aside, it was really nice of you for taking care of noir until i got her. thanks again! i get a good vibe from you, clark kent. there’s just somethin’ about you. one day, the whole world will see it and they’ll appreciate it like i do.”

clark couldn’t count on his fingers how many times this girl has made him laugh or smile within these several minutes.

“it’s no problem, lyric. it doesn’t hurt to give back to others, whether they’re covered in fur or not. i’m just happy that i can do some good in this world.”

clark reaches over to pet noir on her head one last time before the door swings open to reveal an older african-american woman that looked to be about the same age as his mother. it didn’t take clark’s x-ray vision to see where lyric got her looks from. her mother’s skin tone and eyes matched with lyric’s, her straightened shoulder length hair was dark and shiny. she smiled and greeted the teens with full red lips and the familiar dimples that clark once saw on her daughter’s face. lyric introduces her mother, crystal, to clark and vice versa. crystal was immensely impressed with the farm boy’s manners, politeness, and small town charm. in smallville, chivalry would never die.

after they both make their acquaintance, crystal leaves the two alone to finish unpacking. lyric urges clark to stay put for a second before heading upstairs to her bedroom to put noir’s collar on and places the cat on her bed. she digs into one of those household junk drawers where one could find the items needed at the right time. she retrieved a pack of her mother’s post-it notes and a pen before she power walked to still find clark waiting patiently on the porch, standing with his hands in his jean pockets.

“like i said, if you want to see noir, don’t be a stranger, alright?” she handed him the packet of notes and the pen, “you know what to do, clark.”

“you got it, lyric!” he took the pen and wrote down the digits of the kent’s landline before giving the items back to her.

“when we get our phone in order, i’ll hit you up, so you can save mine. until then, if i’m not doing anything moving-wise, would you like for noir and i to swing by the barn tomorrow? i mean, that’s if you’re good with—“

“i’d love to see you both.” he interrupted her with the same enthusiastic tone. both teens nod with a smile on their faces to confirm their meeting the next day. clark watched and waited until lyric was safely in the house before he traveled back to his own.

maybe this fresh new start wasn’t so bad for the both of them. life will always come with change whether we want to or not, it’s all about what one is to do with that change. how could they adjust? for clark and lyric, they adjusted by the absence of a sneaky, onyx feline. this could be the beginning of a refreshing new era of friendship between the farm boy and the new girl next door.

[midnighthazee]

Greenridge ABO Series

Series Masterlist Masterlist

Warnings: Torture, mentions of abuse, mentions of blood, explicit language, name calling, fear, near death experiences....

WC: 1757

Chapter 1

“I have business to handle with the Harlow pack tomorrow. Frankie and Triston are going with me to meet with our allies. I need you here to be in charge of the house while I’m gone.” Alpha Lewis says to Hayes.

“You got it. I will keep you updated.” Hayes nodded his head.

“I know nothing will really be going on around here but I will be gone for a few days. Maids should be here to clean at 9 am… Oh and uh, make sure they feed the omegas. I think they forgot yesterday.” Lewis rolled his eyes as if it was silly for them to have forgotten.

“Surprised I can’t hear their stomachs growling from up here.” Milo chuckled, walking into the room.

“Y’all two stay out of trouble this time. Last time you burned down my shed.” Lewis pointed a finger at Milo.

“Hey…it was old anyways. We built you a nicer one.” Milo said.

“Yeah so I don’t want to lose this one either.” Lewis said, leaving the room.

Lewis is Alpha to the Nyko pack. A pack known for its ruthless leader, large numbers, and murderous ways. Alpha Lewis took over two of the neighboring packs, making them all submit to his rule. Anyone who refused, he slaughtered in front of their family. In doing so, he grew vastly in territory and numbers, now having nearly fifty members loyal to him. No one dares cross him, for a war could break out - most of the surrounding packs don’t even come close to the numbers he has. 

For the most part, any remaining packs that neighbor his territory live in harmony with him. They stay on their land and out of his way and he doesn’t overtake their land.

Alpha Lewis’s immediate pack consists of a lesser alpha, five betas and three omegas. The lesser alpha is his younger brother as well as one of the betas. The rest of the people under his rule live in their own dwellings and not in his house like the immediate pack. A few members of the pack share rooms but the omegas are kept locked up in the basement.

Nightfall was approaching as Hayes and Milo unlocked the padlock on the basement door. Alpha Lewis had left late morning and should be in Harlow territory by now. Which means he’s far away and off-the grid for the rest of the night. He will probably check in tomorrow morning but for now, the boys were home with just the omegas. The two other betas left behind decided to go see a movie in town.

The basement was half finished. The unfinished part had prison looking cells - one for each omega and an extra. Cement walls and flooring with reinforced steel bars in the front. The walls and floors were damp from leaks, the air smelling of piss and mildew. Each cell had a metal cot with a thin mat on a wire frame, a hole in the ground for them to relieve themselves, and a chain embedded into the wall and connected at the ankle of the omega inside.

The omegas were filthy, hair matted, and covered in injuries and bruises both old and new. They cowered into the back corner as the young alpha and beta appeared. They stopped at one of the female’s door. It was their favorite omega - YOU. You whined, pushing yourself further into the back wall, but they just laughed. 

“C’mon bitch….we wanna play.” Milo taunted.

Hayes opened your door and stepped inside. You cowered in the corner, shaking and shying away as he unlocked the cuff on your ankle. Then he snatched you up and guided you out. You winced in pain as he forced you to walk. You knew Alpha Lewis must be gone if they decided to “play” with you. They only took you out to play when he wasn’t home to boss them around and keep them busy. So they use you to stay entertained.

You endured whatever game they came up with, knowing no one would take your side or care what they did to you. Their latest interest is a game of hunting. And it seemed like it would be the same game again tonight as they led you through the living room towards the back door.

Wincing at the bright lights, you looked down and tried not to trip over your own feet as you walked. Your limbs hurt, you were tired and hungry, and you were not in the mood to entertain them. Not that you ever were, but most nights they bring you out, you use it to your advantage and study the terrain. One day you will escape, and when you do, you will know how to get away. But tonight, you didn’t have it in you.

“Alright bitch… run.” Milo commanded with an eager smile.

Your feet were heavy and you felt like doing anything but running. All the walking made you lightheaded honestly and you wanted to just curl up and die. You drop to the floor, sitting as your hands support you from fully laying on the floor.

They both sigh dramatically.

“I think she needs some motivation..” Hayes says.

Milo pulls a gun from the back of his pants. It was a BB gun, modified to have a stronger shot and shoot bigger pellets. He aims it at you, touching the side of your head. Your breath catches in your throat as you slowly turn to see the barrel of the gun aimed at you. Hayes flashed his BB gun too.

“I got new pellets…” Milo wiggles his eyebrows. “They are silver.”

Hayes whips his head to his brother, brows furrowed.

“So… run.” Milo growls.

You scramble to your feet and take off, knowing too much silver will kill you. You hear the pop of the gun and hear the whoosh of a pellet go by your ear. He just missed you. You run into the treeline, heading for cover in the woods.

“Silver?! Are you nuts? We aren’t out here to kill her.” Hayes speaks lowly. 

“Relax… I won't hit her much. I just want to use these special ones here.” Milo holds out a gloved hand with pellets in it.

“Why are they blue?” Hayes reaches for one.

“Don’t touch without gloves. Each one contains a small dose of cobalt.”

Hayes steps back quickly. “What the hell?”

“I have an antidote. I’m not gonna kill her.” Milo rolls his eyes.

“Silver is one thing Milo, but cobalt?” Hayes lectures. “Lewis can’t find out we do this when he’s away…remember?”

“She’s getting away, c’mon.” Milo says, running into the woods after you.

This went on for over an hour. They would get too close when you stopped to catch your breath, which was often, and you would feel the pellets pierce your skin. The pain kept the adrenaline pumping, pushing you to get up from behind whatever tree or bush you were using to hide and keep running. This was the first time they used silver pellets. Most of the time the regular pellets hurt enough to keep you running away, especially when they got too close. But this pain was much worse. 

One of the first times they decided to play their little hunting game with you, you decided that the pain wasn’t worth all the running. You refused to play along and in turn you were badly beaten - worse than the pellets would have been. They threatened to tell Alpha Lewis and when that didn’t scare you enough (because you knew he wasn’t home), they took to beating you. They broke three ribs and your leg. The healing was excruciating and took longer than it should have thanks to the terrible living conditions and lack of food.

They must have explained to Alpha Lewis what happened when he was gone because he didn’t say anything about your injuries and was more irritated with you than usual. He also withheld a few meals from you and kept you locked in the basement and used the other omegas for his fun for a while. From that day forward, she knew not to underestimate the brothers, or the absence of their alpha.

You ran as fast as your legs would go, the ground beneath your bare feet feeling like glass shards with every step. You huffed as you weaved between the trees and bushes.  You could feel the branches slashing at your skin as you ran past but you didn’t let it stop you. Plus the cover of night made it nearly impossible to see anything or where you were going.

As you ran, the world felt as if it began to tilt. You blinked and shook your head trying to focus. It didn’t work and you lost your footing, stumbling forward. You hit the ground with a thud, knocking the air from your lungs. You cough, trying to breathe in air as your heart pounded.

“We can smell your blood.” Hayes taunted.

Forcing yourself to stand, your limbs feel heavy. Wincing as you stand, you stumble as you try to stand straight. What was happening? Was this because you hadn’t eaten in like two days? You heard a branch snap behind you. Whipping your head around, you don’t see anything. They sounded close so you took off again. 

As you run, you begin to slow. It feels as if you're trudging through mud. You push with all your might but you don’t feel right. Looking around, you realize you’re not on your usual path. These trees haven’t been marked by you from the previous nights. There’s no dirt path beneath you either - at least that you can see in the darkness of the woods. Looking around, you were definitely lost. Fear creeped up as your stomach churned.

You run, hoping you can circle back to the path, afraid to run into any neighboring territories. Alpha warned you of the awful things they would do if they found you unwelcomed on their land. Shivering at the thought, your eyes feel heavy. You push through your head as it spins but it’s no use. You stumble over a tree root and tumble forward.

You reach a hill and manage to tumble down the ferns and ivy. Your body hits the ground with a thud and you feel yourself slipping into darkness, your whole body screaming at you in pain. When the brothers do find you, you are definitely going to pay for this.

TAGLIST:

@its-the-solar-system @estella-novella

[milla-frenchy]

Recs | April 25

April readings 🤍

Please, rb the fics you appreciated, that's how they live 🤍🙏

Check the warnings before reading, some of the fics are very dark

Joel Miller

On the job @stellamarielu

You and joel are forced to work together, but neither of you can get past the others stubborn attitude or contractor!joel and interior designer!reader fuck in a walk-in closet

Wide open @ilikeevilblondes

After a long day of work, Joel expects nothing more from the evening than getting some shut-eye. Fate has other plans, however, because the daughter of the family next door forgot to close her blinds again and is putting on quite the show

Give it to her like a man @sceletaflores

Joel gives the best graduation gifts...

Embrace @pedge-page

In the park @toxicanonymity

Tempting @pedgito

Joel's pent up, you've got ideas

Messy @joelsrose

Popsicle stand @toxicanonymity

Only teasing @magpiepills

You’ve been teasing your neighbor, Joel, but he’s got other ideas

Don't make me ask again @arcanefox207

Teasing your dad’s friend has its consequences

Collared | part 6 @tateypots

You are kidnapped by Joel and Tommy 3 years after the outbreak

Safe and sound | part 6 @guiltyasdave

An injured Joel and Ellie stumble into your home in the middle of the night. Trusting them isn’t easy, but you won’t let another person die in this house. It doesn’t take long until you’re terrified of the day they’ll leave again

Feast @toxicanonymity

Kiss it better @baronessvonglitter

After an awful day, you turn to Joel for help to de-stress

Slow, deep, close @toxicanonymity

You wake up with a nightmare about Joel carving your skin. As he faces the damage he's done, you ask him to give it to you slow and deep

A short and bittersweet fic about what Joel could have experienced episode 2 season 2 @joels-princess

A borrowed shirt to dry off @secretelephanttattoo

Joel episode 2 season 2 @iiconicxpersona

Change of clothes @toxicanonymity

After cheetah print pt. 2, cum inflated reader needing to run into a store. She has to squeeze into her booty shorts... someone is there to help

Joel dealing with wifey: the ex @pedge-page

Clint Flood

Tell her to stay away from the light @iamasaddie

1982, Clint parks at the screening of ‘Poltergeist’ in the local drive-in. Somewhere between ghosts intrusions and seances, he finds a much more appealing thing to look at in the car next to him

Cherry lips @aurorawritestoescape

Clint and you have a simple relationship - you fuck each other and go on with your lives. Can it stay that way? What if one night changes everything?

Did you miss me @yxtkiwiyxt

Clint returns after a week away for work, and you're fucking pissed because he didn't bother to call you even once. But now, all he wants is to be close to you, and he's got that irresistible way of turning things around and getting back in your good graces…

Pero Tovar

Without chains @604to647

You help Pero shave in preparation for his journey back West with William

Dave York

Distractions @baronessvonglitter

You and Dave are finding it hard to forget that one night.. and a chance encounter gives you both a second opportunity

Hitman | Part 5 @punkshort

Fresh on the heels of a breakup, you move into a new apartment in a shady part of town. When a mysterious man breaks in, insisting he knew the prior tenant and needs to recover something left behind, you get caught up in a whirlwind of danger and attraction

Frankie Morales

Thirty rain showers to get to you | chapter 1 @jolapeno

He is in love with her. She is in love with him. They're already best friends, yet somehow it takes thirty moments for them to admit this

Three days till sunset @sawymredfox

The clock is ticking, the time to ponder is almost consumed, and a decision must be taken

Dieter Bravo

Fucking Dieter from behind @sp00kymulderr

I think of you all the time | part 1 | part 2 @schnarfer

Best friends to lovers, to worse

Tim Rockford

Wrong number @604to647

Detective Tim Rockford receives an unexpected text after leaving for work

Threesome (and more)

Conversation pit @toxicanonymity (Connie x f!reader facing Steve x Javi)

D x C @whocaresstillthelouvre (Clint x Dieter x fem reader)

Clint walks in on you and Dieter in a particular situation and decides to join in

My writing

She's a rainbow (Jackson!Joel x reader)

Joel returns after a long patrol and you greet him with a surprise

You oughta know (Clint x reader)

After your ex breaks your heart yet again, you ask your dad’s best friend for a favour

Friend zone (Tim x reader)

An event leads your best friend to reveal a secret he's been keeping from you for years, and you finally find what you've been searching for

Fics recs

[butterbabyflapjack]

chapter4 . blood and menthol

✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

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

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

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

✧˖° wordcount: 22k

✧˖° chapters: one, two, three, four, five

✧˖° ao3

✧˖° taglist: @fionasapple88 @alllaboutangel @fan-goddess @ireallydontknowohcrabs @littlestar2005 @chuiisi @morrrrphin @ohmillerbaby @dilfismz @moediexoxo sorry if i forgot anyone!

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

✧˖° author's note:

I'll edit this someday. please blame any typos on my nails, and please pardon my tits cause I gave you the ability to stream music from your 2007 flip-phone, which isn't technically impossible however unlikely but I don't wanna rewrite so here you go, enjoy!

✧˖° chapter 4: blood and menthol

The neighborhood’s so quiet, save for the sound of your and Brian’s footsteps across Gary’s darkened drive. The hush of midnight all around you; its distant chirps of cicadas carved through dusk. And even having been here once before, at this bastard’s house, you’re more on edge than it feels you should be. So much that even nightfall’s silence seems to make a sound, one only your paranoia can hear, until Brian’s voice beside you breaks through that anxious murmur of the night.

“Spare keys behind the garage?” he wonders of what you’ve previously told him, and after shaking yourself for the hundredth time, you nod.

“Yeah,” you tautly say, before clearing your throat. “Yes… Beneath that hideous rug with the smiling sunshines on it.”

As he saunters through the shadows beside Gary’s hushed, unassuming house, he brushes aside the fronds of a few untamed bushes; holding up one cycad’s low, hanging branch with all the flourish of a supposed gentleman as he waits for you to pass him.

“Well, at least he’s courteous,” he muses down at you, “making it easy for us. As if under the rug wasn’t the first place I’d check.” 

His dark eyes follow closely after you as you attempt to make yourself small enough to slip between the wall of his chest and the house, and even nervous as you are, your pulse still briefly squeezes as your eyes are tied to the lingering of his. A silent glance in your mutual nearness, before you’re tearing yourself away in shirking past, hurrying off as he waits. 

Gods, is this gonna be a problem all night..? You’d think your hots for teacher would’ve faded by now in favor of the much more important things you need to be focusing on, other than all those ways his gaze alone feels to unravel your mind.

The branch he holds scrapes down the side of the house as he follows after you, with you once again slightly tense to have him at your back. Hopping off a bit quicker to get distance from him; slinking around the dark bend to the back of the house in fetching that key from beneath the rug again, so much quicker than the first time you’d broken in. And to be honest, the last time you were here, you’d nearly just given up on breaking in cleanly–so close to just busting out a window and scrambling inside.

A key is quieter. Safer. And you have other people to protect other than yourself tonight. And as you unlock the back entrance of Gary’s garage with restless fingers, you curse yourself for still being apprehensive when there’s so much to lose tonight, especially by not being steady. Hoping Brian doesn’t notice how you shake, doesn’t chastise, as the lock clicks obediently open and you curl your tremulous hands into fists at your sides. And good job–you’ve accomplished the grandiose task of unlocking a door–so far, so good, or so you congratulate yourself as you slip inside. Cautious as you make your way through the shadow inside that dark and dusty garage, with the door left ajar for Brian to follow in after you. 

He seems so undisturbed, so at home in this–breaking into someone else's home in the dead of night, while you can’t seem to shake your hyper-awareness of just how easily all this could slide straight to hell, more and more the closer all your plans actually scrawl themselves into being. For yourself, for your sister, your niece… Even Dexter and Brian aren’t safe from the fallout of your potential failure tonight.

Whether your hands still shake because of adrenaline or nerves, you can’t say, but you ball them into tighter fists, regardless. Walking by Gary’s mini-van, his choice of car just making you hate him even more, before you’re jolting out of your skin as you make to sidle past the front of it–just like you do every time Brian touches you, and why is he always touching you–?! Doesn’t he know what personal space is?!

His fingers form a bangle around your wrist from behind, and you’re rigid as he smoothly turns you back to him.

“Hold up a sec.”

Your knotted brows are more to conceal your speeding heart than to question him, and you tear your hand from his as though he’s scalded you; forcing some amount of measure to your tone. “What?”

He doesn’t immediately respond, seeming distracted from it. Something coiled in that look of his as he heeds you; a prowling jackal to the shape of his lips.

“Don’t look so nervous,” is his eventual tease, and you feel yourself glowering up at him.

“I’m not nervous.”

He seems to tongue the sharpness of his teeth behind his little smile; a measured chuff escaping his arrow-straight nose.

“As much as I appreciate your adorably thin bravado, you're not the one who’s supposed to be rushing on inside.” He quirks a raven brow at you in the dusk of Gary’s garage. “This is why you brought me along, remember? To deal with wrangling your little friend into submission, tying him up with a nice, pretty bow, so you can take him out?”

You don’t like how infinite his amusement is in toying with you, especially with how uncertain you still somehow are, indecision weeding through the web of your heart. And it’s not like you’re changing your mind, like you don’t want to kill the disgusting fuck who owns this garage you’ve broken into, but…

It’s just—like you’ve previously told him… A lot. And it’s falling into place so quickly, converging to a point where you can’t back out.

Tension takes a firmer hold of your jaw.

You’re not backing out.

“Just stay back and keep quiet,” Brian commands, your dutiful partner in crime. Debonairly entertained, as he always is, whilst departing, “Let the big bad wolf lead you inside.”

You pull a face up at him. Big bad wolf? Really?

Cheesy, cocky fuck.

“I think you have some sort of God complex.”

His eyes sparkle slightly through the dark.

“Yeah, well,” he lightly shrugs, “give God the wheel then, honey. You need to watch before you walk… That is,” he slowly eyes you, “assuming you’ve never knocked a grown man out before inside his own home…?”

Which, no, you haven’t. You’ve apprehended people, sure–held them at gunpoint to prevent their escape, handcuffed and thrown them in the back of your cruiser, but knocking someone unconscious to later torture within an inch of their life…?

Nope. Haven’t quite done that one. 

So you just bite your lip and sigh; stepping back against the shelves lining the front of the garage to allow for him to pass you.

“Go ahead, then, Murder Jesus,” you say, and see his godless smile. 

“That’s a new one,” he notes as he slips on by you.

“Feel free to add it to your list of nicknames, right beneath ‘blasphemic motherfucker’ and ‘human equivalent of the common cold’,” you say; adding as a supposed afterthought, “oh yeah. And ‘big bad wolf’, since you’re apparently fond of that one.”

He lowly chuckles as he leads your mutual way toward the door which leads into the house.

The hinges of it creak far louder than you remember the first time you broke inside, and while you flinch, the sound doesn’t deter Brian. He just smooths his way on inside; holding the door ajar for you with one arm outstretched. His face nearly invisible in the dark, and yet you feel his interest curled around you. Before, once more, he’s leading your way further inside. 

In, past a dark, little kitchen that hasn’t been cleaned in too long. In, down a hall past a shadowed foyer on the right, and all the while both your footsteps lightly creak along Gary’s hardwood floors, cinching your heart with each telltale step that you go.

Brian slows just enough, his profile half-turned, that you suspect he might ask in which direction Gary’s office lies. But then he sees it; dim light pouring out of some distant room to the left down the hall, mute against this night-bathed, windowless corridor.

Something ugly trickles its way down your neck as, in your mind, you see Gary’s office again; that room where that vermin now hides. That room with his drives of abuses, that room where you came so close to killing him, if only he’d been home that first night. That room where you were first introduced, face to face, with that hate-blinded creature inside you; unearthed from some place previously untouched. A creature which stirs in you now, more and more as you picture it, picture him–Gary, sitting there, relaxing in that room, and you don’t realize you’re forging past Brian until his hand’s once more a shackle round your wrist.

Jerked back by his leash from your warpath, you turn with indignance to see him severely looking down at you.

Wait, he mouths silently, and though you tense as though to argue, you swallow it down. You didn’t sign a devil’s deal not to get a devil’s help tonight, after all, and so you wait, as that devil instructed, for him to uphold his end of things right now.

He eyes you a moment more, like he’s watching that stubborn struggle inside you, and only once it seems he’s deemed it sufficiently doused does he continue on, leading your way again, while you swallow hard before following. 

The further you go, the closer you come, the more your heartbeat hollows a steady cavern in your chest, and it’s all you feel, all you can focus on beyond the shape of Brian’s back.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

A tempo slowing to a savage crawl as at last you turn that hallway’s bend and see Gary there— actually see him. Back turned with how he sits at his sprawling computer. A thick, pudgy outline against the glow of many screens, and he does have a lot of them… and what he must often use them for makes you sick.

You and Brian pause at the room’s doorless entry, just watching him from afar, and you’re frozen–not from hesitation, but from hate. Held impossibly rigid as contempt and loathing fight in you to be fed, to sink their teeth in and tear at anywhere their vicious maws might latch. And all that doubt which bleeds through you slowly spills, drifting away. So quiet beneath the hammer of your rage. A whisper which grows till it’s howling and urging that you hurt him, that you kill that bastard right now. And even the imagined sound of it, of Gary’s deserved torment, is the only sound that in any way drowns out the remembered sobbing of your niece on those tapes–the worst sound you’ve ever heard and will do anything to never hear again.

The whole world feels silent beneath your heart’s hateful pulse. Maybe that’s why Brian’s so soundless as he brushes past you, stalking like a lynx into that room. His features duskly edged by the fluorescence of all those monitors as he prowls to where Gary sits so unsuspecting, so honed on whatever’s on screen. 

Brian’s towering outline is black against the glow; Dexter’s syringe already primed, held loosely at his side, his agile thumb upon its plunger. And where your own hands still hold an overwhelmed tremble, his own a master’s repose.

Hesitation isn’t a thing that exists in him. Steady, as he always is; well-versed in what violence may come as he sinks that needle deep into the side of Gary’s neck before his prey can even realize what’s happened, that a hunter’s even here, hunting him down. Squeezing paralytic venom in his veins as Gary yelps more from surprise than anything else; twisting back in his swivelling chair so swiftly he nearly falls right out.

From the doorway, you see he and Brian’s profiles carved against all those monitor’s light. Can barely see how Gary’s bewildered panic is craning upward, met by Brian’s lazy, little smirk.

“Looking forward to when you see me again,” Brian says with coolly. 

Gary’s hand flies to where that needle bit, abruptly fighting as though to stand, to flee this smirking stranger in his home, but that stranger’s not in the mood to deal with that, it seems; shifting forth to grapple a panicking Gary from behind before he can fully stand, wrestling one arm around his neck and squeezing.  

“You’re about fifty kinds of fucked right now Gary, you just don’t know it yet,” he says from behind, wrangling in Gary’s struggling. Voice a smooth hum above the strangled, drug-addled sputters of Gary attempting to demand who he is, what he’s doing here, to say anything or draw a single breath around Brian’s python arm. “It’s probably best you calm down and just go with it.”

He tries to throw his elbow back into Brian’s gut, and is rewarded by how much more fiercely Brian bodily chokes him. 

He exhales his amusement against the top of Gary’s struggling head as he speaks as though to stall a nervous horse, one who’s frightened over nothing. 

“Relax, big guy… There you go…” his grip’s tightly adjusted as Gary’s oxygen-starved flailing wilts and starts petering out, “–You’re not going anywhere I don’t want you to.”

The second he’s fully slack, Brian releases his neck without a second thought, allowing Gary’s limp-fish body to slump from his seat to the floor with a heavy and unceremonious thud, and it takes surprising self-restraint on your part not to come right up and kick that unconscious vermin as hard as you can in the ribs.

Instead, with all that self-restraint you apparently have, your nails carve painful crescents into your palms as your gaze simmers down with disgust at his form, before you’re glancing up at Brian again. Seeing him already watching you—a dark sculpture against those screens—as though his intensity prowls around the hedges of your overwhelmed mind.

It feels invasive, that look. Like he can so easily slip in and out of the walls of your mind. And you do your best to block off whatever your tangled expression might betray, even when there’s nothing to hide.

If anything, you only speak to curtail that darkened brand of curiosity he seems to reserve just for you.

“What now?”

At length, he tears his gaze instead toward Gary on the floor.

“Now,” he returns, indifferent as ever, “I carry your fucked-up friend here to his five-star trunk ride to hell.” His brows are mildly raised as his interest’s returned to you. “Unless you’d like to spare me the trouble by simply killing him right here…?”

The idea of it’s more tempting than he might realize, as you really don’t like existing in a world where Gary’s alive. But still, your little, thoughtful frown at the thought of his life ending so swiftly in ignorant black seems enough to curb the suggestion of sparing him from your table, as already Brian yields with a brooding sigh.

“Ah, well,” he melodiously hums. Already crouching low to drag Gary’s crumpled body from off the floor; hefting him up like a satchel of rice, which he tosses over the sturdy bridge of one of his shoulders. Rising to his feet again with the ease of someone doing a thing a thousand times before whilst he muses, “Maybe next time.”

Next time…

You hate how he keeps saying that.

“There won’t be a next time,” you counter, aggravation weighing your lashes as he carelessly steadies Gary’s hefty weight. And he merely smiles, his amusement grating, like jagged teeth on your skin. 

“Whatever you say, sweetheart~” he says, saccharine; already walking past you from the room, hauling Gary along for the ride.

---

Dexter found the perfect place for your kill tonight. 

And as, together, you and Brian and Gary all bound toward it–one big, happy family–Brian lazes one lithely rugged forearm upon his window’s opened ledge, fingers tangling with the wind as he drives down that darkened stretch of road before you. Winding, as it does, in and out of foliage so dense it swallows the stars and sky above you in swampy woodland. Your tires splashing through flooded portions of the road as asphalt fades to dirt the further out you go, your passage thinned to a single lane that leads to what will soon be someone’s hell, just not Brian’s or yours.

You stare out your window at the steep, rising trees all around you, suffocating night; ever thicker the deeper you go. Down, down this rabbit hole, until there’s not a chance anyone will witness what you’ve done, what you will do. And though you still don’t trust Brian nearly enough to tumble into the furthest depths of where you’re going all alone with him, here you are, even so–alone with him, tumbling. 

And together, you tumble deeper, deeper still along that marshland road, until at last Brian’s fancy car begins to slow. Tires bumping as he turns off at a near invisible fork in the narrow road, leading off into the web of trees. Your passage rougher with disuse; wetter with lingering humidity. Until, eventually, an old, abandoned boathouse rolls slowly into view from the lingering, midnight dark.

Its dusty windows flash as Brian pulls toward it, old glass muted against the spotlight of his headlights, falling dim as he eases his flashy car to a bumpy halt. Mottled, greenish-wood paneling peels with age all across the small cabin’s exterior, and there’s a tiny dock attached to the side out back; no longer adrift in what water once lived here, that has since sunk away, drained by time to some place else. And as the car’s engine shuts off, you’re already slipping outside without waiting for Brian. The low murmur of insects and frogs serenading you, and nothing else.

It’s silent as a grave all the way out here. And it strikes you that you need to be cautious. This is a perfect place to kill Gary, as well as anyone else.

Desperate for whatever clarity the chill of your gun might give you, your hand draws to where it rests against your hip, like the weight of it might spare you from your nerves. Yet still, you flinch at the sound of Brian’s door abruptly slamming closed, followed by the sound of his fancy-ass shoes as they tread on the earth.

“You sure it’s remote enough?” he idly barbs, sparing a glance at your newest surroundings; everglades lit only by what starlight leaks betwixt the canopy above.

You bite the inside of your lip to keep from immediately retorting, as it took a while for Dex to find this place, one you felt safe working in, and the least his brother could do is be appreciative of that. 

“Dex wanted to make sure we’d have plenty of time to work without being interrupted,” you excuse his choice of locale. “I’d say he did a pretty okay job.”

You hear Brian’s low chuff as your eyes trail away from that dingy little cabin before you. Watching him saunter around the car and toward the trunk, with keys toyed in his long fingers.

“A bit overcautious, my baby brother,” he muses. Popping the trunk, which echoes through the little clearing you stand in before being absorbed into the trees. And then he’s slipping those fancy-ass keys into the fancy-ass pocket of his charcoal slacks again, and you don’t know why your eyes draw toward their loss–or, actually, you do–that car’s the only way out of here. 

No, just–stop.

You don’t need to be focusing on that.

You have enough to worry about without keeping track of car keys or Brian’s every particular whereabout.

Plastic baggies crinkle in the night as Brian starts loading up gear from the trunk, and–forcing yourself from distractions–you wander over to help. After all, like it or not, you’re in this together. And the sooner tonight is done, the sooner you can get on with your life. 

The trunk is stuffed full with way too many boxes and bags of equipment, including the black leather satchel Dexter lent you, which you’ve been charmingly referring to as his ‘kill-bag’. You’d dug through it earlier, before leaving your house, and found it mostly packed full of clothes. And crumpled up between all that murderous gear, you slightly recoil upon seeing Gary’s form; crumpled like a broken, pudgy doll with a punchable face and a swollen bump on his head from hitting the floor.

Good. There’s more where that came from.

You’re so glad to be rid of his presence you nearly thank Brian when he abruptly halts from loading gear to instead grab one of Gary’s forearms, yanking his portly body up and over the lip of the trunk so that he topples face-down to the earth outside it. And when you glance up at him beside you, you find his gaze already studies yours.

“Don’t get distracted,” he says, before turning back to loading gear again.

Heat flickers up your throat at how easily he reads you, and are you really this open a book? Or is he just annoyingly talented at reading you?

“Have you ever killed someone like this before?” you ask to distract yourself, grabbing up bags of tape and tools beside him. Glancing at how he keeps himself focused. And for a while, he seems almost to ignore you, before eventually he’s asking:

“Like what?”

You really shouldn’t be this apprehensive still, and yet you still swallow against a knot inside your throat. “Like this. Like Dexter does.”

He appears to spare the notion some thought. Like he’s forced to tumble down so many previous kills just to find any just like Dexter’s, which is admittedly slightly concerning, but we’re not being nervous here, remember? 

“I sure as hell tried,” he says at last. Hooking more bags around the lengths of his fingers, before sparing you a glance beside him. “Or did you already forget?”

Which, no. Of course you didn’t. You’ll remember that night you and your team found Deb on that plastic-drenched table for as long as you live. So much that for a second, a harrowing flash, you can’t seem to scrape the unwanted image from your mind–of Deb’s frail, naked body strapped to that table…

And your mind’s running wild, it must be, because just as swiftly as you see her, she instead becomes you. 

Bound and stripped bare, tied up in that garage.

Wrapped tight in a web of clear plastic that makes you helpless in your struggles to move. Every inch of you flinching as Brian smoothly steals inside your terrified vision, standing above where you're tied face-up. A halo of light above his darkly-curled head as his dexterous, latex-wreathed hands creak with the motion of his fingers, testing the trigger of some sort of saw, like he wants you to see as its engine burns, just for you. A handsome smile on his face as he makes a meal of your horror beneath him, and you’re forced to harshly blink just to somehow make the image go away, to rid yourself of such a scene, so that it’s taken back to the shadows of your mind from whatever overactive paranoia it surely spawned from.

Why are you picturing that–what’s wrong with you? That’s not going to happen, tonight or ever, and in frustration you tell yourself again to stop worrying about everything–!

“Or, at least,” Brian continues over the spiral of your thoughts, seemingly oblivious to them; a heavy roll of plastic tarping hefted up beneath one sculpted bicep, “I tried, to…” he selects his words with care, “gently encourage someone else to.”

His own brother, as you recall. ‘Cause that’s not fucked up in the slightest. Then again, Brian Moser and ‘fucked up’ go comfortably hand-in-hand.

“As you’re well aware,” he says above shifting plastic, undisturbed by whatever your lack of response to this might mean. “Seeing as how you likely dismantled that would-be crime scene, my dear detective.” Even as he says it, his baritone drags; increasingly unamused. “Uninvited, I might add. And you pigs truly do have perfect timing… My brother was so close to tasting freedom before you and your self-righteous hogs came bounding in to ruin everything.” 

Irritation roils down your nape, and though you don’t exactly want to piss him off–you still need his help; a lot of it–you can’t exactly help yourself from biting, “That whole plan was incredibly shortsighted, by the way. Trying to make Dex take Debra out.”

From the corner of your gaze, you see the way his movement briefly tenses, and hear his flat, “I wasn’t asking for your opinion on it.”

You simply shrug. Grabbing still more bags laden with gear, and they’re starting to get heavy but you’re desperate for this to be over with as quickly as possible.

“Just offering some advice for next time,” you muse almost to yourself, “in case you get the bright idea to try something like that again.”

You feel his darkened glance. Feel the weight of whatever thoughts he refuses to voice, and yet in their absence, still you continue:

“He was never going to kill Deb.”

He snatches a box of stretch-wrap from the depths of his trunk far more fiercely than one needs to, though his tone remains smooth. “And I suppose you know everything, don’t you?”

“I know that much,” you return, stuffing your arms with a few last bits of gear, too. “She may not be blood, like you are, but…” Hands overfull with hardware, you step back from the trunk enough to steady the whole of him in your unwavering gaze. Firm in this, at least, if in nothing else, whilst you tell him, “She’s still his little sister. Will always be his little sister. And if you truly want what’s best for Dexter, you’re just going to have to live with that.”

A tightened ripple travels down the pale column of his neck, knotting his scruffy jaw in lack of response to this. And it seems a violinist's string is pulled taut in him; one which plays a note he’s disinclined to let you hear, to let anyone near the thorny note of.

“You and my baby brother have so much in common,” he lowly murmurs at last, all velveteen gruffness whilst he focuses on task. Adding like a honey-laced insult, “No wonder he likes you so much...”

All things purchased or thieved at last all saddled up between you, he nudges closed the trunk with one lanky elbow of an overfilled arm. Stepping over Gary’s misshapen body in venturing off without you–without another word, another glance–off toward that abandoned boat house in the distance, while you watch him go for dragging moments before forcing yourself to follow where he leads.

The inside of that cramped, old cabin is dark. Untouched by anyone besides yourself and Dexter for so long, and the two of you had only stopped by briefly, just long enough to vet it as a kill space. 

“What do you think?” he’d said, walking in with the sureness of owning the place, like he was a realtor selling you on it; so much you almost expected him to tack on cheerfully, ‘It’s great for last-minute homicides~’

And you’d glanced around, wary footsteps creaking on those splintered floors, before resolutely telling him, “It’s perfect.”

You were so much more sure about this back then. And, again, you blame Brian for your sudden lack of aplomb. That way he needles beneath your skin without effort. 

It’s more-or-less a singular room, this place, with wooden walls and floors. One wall on the left lined by cupboards and an old sink that doesn’t work, while another’s veiled by moth-eaten blinds and dirt-stained windows. The furthest wall’s hedged by a long, vacant, cobwebbed counter, and beside it there’s a boarded-up door leading out to the old dock outside, leaving the front door the cabin’s only real entrance. And already deep in dusty shadows, you see Brian flip at a grime-covered switch, idly testing the room’s only light; a dangling, naked bulb which sways above a scarred and heavy oak table at the center of the room.

The light flickers, then pops, as though clawing itself back to life, still barely clinging to existence thanks to an ancient generator that’s somehow barely functioning outside. And as the room flickers into a low, steady buzz of light, Brian’s dark eyes drag to that table in the room, with thick legs and a top notched by years of storing gear or gutting fish or whatever else its previous owner used it for. And it’s like he can see how his brother dragged it center-stage, when first he and you came all the way out here; smiling softly to himself as though he pictures it.

“Dex, you’re so predictable,” he muses in fond derision. Heading toward the length of empty counter beyond it, spanning that furthest wall from both the door and you.

He sets his bags down on the floor, for a moment–deftly unwrapping a roll of plastic sheeting, which his brawny arms flex as he shakes in unfurling. Laying its clouded, billowing length out across the top of that counter as it crinkles and sinks into place, and only then does he stoop to fetch his bags, again. Setting them down upon the tarp-laced counter as you force yourself to move past the doorway you’ve been watching him from. Walking in past that large, center table and coming up alongside how his height looms so high above yours.

You let Dexter’s kill-bag droop off your weary shoulder, slipping down on the dirty floor, while the rest of your gear is plopped heavily upon the counter in much more of a mess than how Brian’s currently arranging all his own. 

“You know, I’m not usually the sentimental type,” he says, focused on his hands, his work. Taking items out of bags one at a time as he places them, all upright and faced-forward, all a single inch apart, as though compelled to exhibit them perfectly. “But there’s a few things I find myself wondering about whether they’re still being held in evidence for me.”

Dumping items out of bags beside the meticulous showcase of his own, you nearly scoff at the presumption held in such an offhanded statement. “Nothing’s being held for you, Brian. It’s being held to aid in the criminal case against you.”

Beside you, Brian shrugs. “All the same. I’d like to take them off your hands before leaving town again.”

And you don’t want to indulge his ego at how simple he makes the task of that sound by asking any follow up questions, but you can’t repress your curiosity enough to not eventually ask, “...What items?”

He scarcely smiles. Sparing the merest glance at you, before focusing once more on his work. Setting tools out as though for your future selection, which makes your stomach tense inward when forced to actually think about, so you do your best not to.

“Some of my sculptures,” he says, nonchalant. “I could always make more, but…” he shrugs again; the merest flex of broad shoulders. “I’m rather fond of these ones.”

You eye him as he continues meticulously placing tools, with him too engrossed to really regard you. 

“I’m not stealing anything out of evidence for you,” you say at last, and see one corner of his lips curl up.

“I don’t recall ever asking you to.”

“So you’re just going to stroll right in and take them? While being on the FBI’s most wanted?”

He blithely hums to himself. “You make it sound difficult, saying it like that.”

Your lower lip juts at his brazen assurance, but you don’t see a point in trying to dissuade him, misguided though he is. You’d probably make more progress persuading a brick wall than in any way persuading him.

Let him find out the hard way. It’s about time he’s arrested.

“I’m still surprised our search of your place didn’t turn up a parka, speaking of raiding your place,” you say. Spilling out the haphazard contents of your last plastic bag, you turn to fully face him. “Or even a pair of mittens. But I mean… I guess it makes sense. You weren’t chewing on menthols like your life depended on it while dicing up Tony Tucci like a Christmas ham because you weren’t always catching a cold in that giant fridge, right?”

That huff of laughter suits him. Knots your insides up tight. Pleasantly annoyed with you as he muses, “Maybe I just like the taste.”

“No one likes the taste of menthol.”

Halted for a moment from his work, he reaches down inside the pocket of his slacks. Large, agile hand withdrawing something crinkling, its wrapper scraped against your ear as he smiles down at your thoroughly disenchanted expression, and of course he brought menthol with him. Unwrapping that lozenge one-handed before tossing it idly behind his teeth.

If anything, your lack of enthusiasm only fuels that little, mischievous smirk of his.

“Yum~♡ ” 

And you can’t help it. A little laugh escapes in a stunted breath before you clear your throat to stuff away the sound of it, though you see his smirk grow all the same.

Finished staging his tools, he goes about fixing the mess of yours, like he just can't stand the disarray of them. And then he glances about the rest of this small, musty room you both stand in. His chiselled features caught in the glow of the naked bulb which hangs from its short length of cord over the table, pendulous from the crumbling ceiling above. 

“We need to get the rest of this place set up,” he says, before his shadow-hued eyes draw to you. And though he says it, he doesn’t move. Something about his darkness feeling to slowly sink inside you, tying your thoughts into snarls you can’t seem to untangle from. “But before we do… You’ve been grilling my ass all day and night with questions. It’s only fair you answer one, yourself.”

You can smell that lozenge on him. Cold and bittersweet, just like himself. And he’s unfairly attractive just lifting one dark eyebrow down at you like that, so effortlessly beguiling, so much that you would have torn your gaze away just to spare your pulse from spinning out if not for the challenge in that look of his. ‘Cause you’re not about to back down from a challenge, not from him–he wouldn’t let you hear the end of it, and it’s only a question.

“Fine,” you accept, and see his subtle, watchful smirk. “Ask away, Mr. Moser.”

His seeming relish that you’ve accepted is fox-like, and the man is certainly dashing, if disastrously so. But, then again, what devil isn’t? And for a moment, that devil merely eyes you, as though running the edge of his interest across the shape and shade of your mind.

“Your boys in blue gave me quite the nickname,” he says at length. His low, serrated voice taking on a wholesome note of mockery as he recites that name right now, with all its noteworthy horror, “The Ice Truck Killer…” To which his smile is smooth, all sugar and cream. “Quite the daunting title, truth be told.”

You make a show of hiding what might be your amusement. “Your point being?”

His lozenge clicks against his watchful canines. 

“So,” he says, too casually for how his words feel like a loaded gun, “what do you think they’ll call you…? All those dear friends of yours down at the station? When they find out what you are?” His eyes glint harsh. “What you actually are, instead of this well-behaved, manicured little shih tzu you pretend as…?”

He’s so damn cocky. So assured of his words holding truth, when they clearly don’t, but even so it takes a moment to respond. And you don’t know why your throat slowly closes, only that it does. 

“That’s not going to happen,” you say at last. “Not if you do everything you’ve given me your word you’ll do tonight.”

That curl in his amusement’s so slight. A clever shadow to him.

“Who said I was talking about tonight?” he drawls, before his dark brows barely hint with a crease of supposed concern. “I’ll keep your secret safe tonight.” His eyes glimmer dark. “But I might not be here the next time you need a little help. And you may not be so cautious the next time you dirty your hands all by your little, eager self.”

You’re so sick of him bringing this up, alluding to things that won’t happen, and though your lips part to denounce what he says, his words somehow poison your mind, twisting their way in your thoughts.

“Stop it,” you attempt to cut his fun with you short, and see his brows further hitch at your blunted insistence, like he hasn’t a clue as to why you’re so upset.

“Stop what?”

He knows exactly what.

“Stop trying to fuck with me about what’s happening tonight ever happening again,” you hear yourself growling; aggrieved that he’s still playing dumb. “It’s not going to. And I dunno why you’re so adamant that it would.” Your teeth dig into your cheek as you’re grumbling, “I have enough to worry about right now without you continually trying to worm your incessant way inside my head. What happened to you insisting I not be distracted?”

He exhales a low breath as his gaze, like rough-cut jade, is dangerously glinted. And he doesn’t hesitate from sinking a few steps closer to where you stand, closing through what little distance lie between you. 

He takes your chin in the speculative hold of his hand, perched between knuckle and thumb, while you blink up far too quickly at him in surprise of it. Unable to pull away from the warmth of his hold, even as you inwardly scream at yourself to. Somehow too stricken from anything but to stare as he slowly tilts your face, this way and that–just slightly, so curiously–as though appraising the shape of your mind in his hand. The design of your thoughts. Searching for his place in them.

“Hmm…” he’s low to muse, and why can’t you slap him–!?

“...I’m already in there,” he observes, tone dragged an octave lower. “Right… there…” he goads, so softly, giving your chin a little pinch like he spots it–himself, in your head–and it truly feels he’s twisted his way inside. His thumb stroked up along the curve of your hesitant chin as his gaze alone sows seeds of himself you can’t seem to tear out the roots of. “There I am~” he lowly smiles. “So warm and so damn snug. So at home within this lovely skull of yours.” 

The corners of his hooded eyes slowly pinch, like he knows how so little succeeds in strangling your pulse.

“I’ve been in there a while, too…” he goes on just to taunt you, the dark shape of his eyes nearly glowing. “Huh… No broken windows… No dented shutters… Not a single sign of forced entry to those walls of your mind…” His little smile’s edged with guile. “Seems I merely had to whisper at the door, and you rushed forth to let me inside.”

Your jaw feels like glass in his touch, so hard and close to fracturing, as at last you succeed in doing what you should have done the very second his taunting started–slapping his damn, disastrous hand away, whilst his smile edges sharp enough to slice.

“Quite the imagination you have,” you grouse up at him, fighting the burn of blushing from your cheeks. Tempted to shove him away from how closely he stands, though for whatever reason, you’re hesitant to actually touch him. Probably because your feelings on Brian Moser aren’t exactly contained, it seems, and are very much verging on some humiliating form of physically and mentally debilitating. 

“Is you speaking part of our deal in me getting your help tonight?” you grumble up from his shadow. “‘Cause if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather we work in blissful silence from here on out.”

His laughter’s low and simmering, a dragon’s rumble in his throat. And even the sound of that spears treacherous want right through your middle, which you fight with increasing frustration to staunchly ignore. Telling yourself it’s annoyance he wields, and nothing else, which so tightly entangles your thoughts. And fuck, get it together, stop letting his disgusting good looks steamroll all functional thought–he’s a wanted serial murderer, not whatever the hell your evidently untamed libido wants him to be. You have a job to do tonight, and that job’s to kill a man, not to begrudgingly eye-fuck another one or whatever the hell you’re doing, and it doesn’t matter how unfairly hot he is. Or isn’t. He’s not.

Eyes darkly glimmered at your request, he lifts a hand up to the softness of his lips–slips the invisible zipper of their seam closed–and you hate how charming he is even when keeping his stupid mouth shut.

Just as requested, the two of you resume your work in merciful silence, transforming this room into a sterile playground of things to come. Laying out large, clouded tarps along the cabin’s hardwood floors, draping the walls with similar coating; clear, heavy plastic hanging ceiling to floor, until the cabin’s details are swathed in them, muted behind their mask. Windows and cabinets all hazily obscured inside this new, plastic world you create for yourselves, as together you tape every edge down with roll after roll of packing tape, until you stand in a smooth and softly crinkling plastic bag, one that will keep every spill and slash of carnage from ever slipping out, from ever being found by anyone. And it’s unnerving, how all that plastic eats away at every sound beyond itself; how every step of yours or Brian’s presses polymer to wood, how every ripple of tarp draping the walls fails to echo. How aseptic this room feels when you know, very soon, it may be dashed in blood. A synthetic tapestry painted in arterial shades that will likewise stain your hands, perhaps even stain your soul. And you know Gary has to die tonight, it’s too late to spare his life, and–what’s more–there’s not a shred of you that thinks he deserves to keep it. But as you look around this pristine, plastic visage which precedes what nightmare may come, you struggle to scrape how that sinkhole of doubt in you grows.

If nothing else, you’ll put a bullet in Gary’s head. You may not’ve killed a man before, not even in the line of duty, but Gary isn’t a man. He’s far less than that. And a bullet, at least, you can manage.

Light hazes off the billowed ridges of plastic hanging all around you, dimly caught against the room’s only light as Brian wraps that center table as though entombing it. And when at last the room is done, prepared to Dexter’s meticulous standards, it seems so too is Brian’s vow of silence.

“How about I go fetch your friend?” he lightly suggests, with a glance around this plastic landscape; keen eyes ensuring there’s no holes for filth to slip loose. An edge to the shadow of him as his gaze returns to where you’re uncertainly hovering a few feet away from him, especially as his interest travels slowly down the contours of your shape. And though your lips form a scowl, though you want to scold how brazenly he does so, a coiling spark low in your stomach won’t seem to let you speak. 

“I’m sure my baby brother didn’t leave you to your own devices tonight as far as your wardrobe’s concerned,” he says at length, dark eyes returned so casually to the frazzlement of yours. “So why don’t you slip into something a bit more comfortable while I’m away, hm?”

Lifting a measured brow, he merely eyes your strangled silence as it drags, before he’s turned to depart this plastic room, and thank Gods he didn’t seem to notice what a tongue-tied idiot you so often become in his insufferable presence. If he had noted it, you probably would’ve thrown something heavy directly at his handsome fucking face just to shut him up.

Forced to shake from the unwitting snare of him, you turn toward where you left Dexter’s kill-bag slouched upon the floor beside the counter packed full of hardware. Your nerves given a pinch as you wander up and notice that length of chain you were so aghast about back at the store, coiled amongst those tools all so methodically placed.

He doesn’t seriously expect you to use that, does he?

Turning away from all those potential methods of murder–some certainly messier than others–you focus instead on what you should be focusing on. Crouching down before that kill-bag to withdraw from it the second costume you’re to wear on this ill-fated ‘date’ your night’s deemed fit to drag you on. But hey, it was your idea, so you really can’t be complaining about it.

Dark, heavy mucking boots. Elbow-high gaiters the shade of shale. Off-white latex gloves. A thick, rubber apron, the same black as your shoes. And to tie it all off: a bulky, clear-visored ultrex face-shield, which you’re really not sure is necessary–you’re not about to enter the splash zone, are you? Then again, you seem to recall Dexter’s own version of this helm being smeared in red by the time you walked in on him in that abandoned storage shed...

Fingers wriggling into the tight fit of your latex gloves, you drag each sleek, crinkling gaiter up each of your forearms, the elastic bands of which cinch around your biceps and wrists, protecting your forearms from anything wet, which you definitely try not to think about. And once they’re on, you consider that clear-visored crown for a moment, before simply setting it aside amidst the showcase of murderous hardware, unsure if you’ll actually wear it despite Dexter’s monotoned insistence as it replays in your head that you should.

It’s quite the ensemble, even now, when not fully pulled on yet. Not truly intimidating, but… if you were to wake up kidnapped, naked, bound to a table, laying there helpless before someone wearing it…?

Yeah. It’d be a little disconcerting.

You’re jerked back from the fictive image of what you must look like by the sound of the cabin’s door creaking open on rusted hinges, again. Twisting across one shoulder to see Brian pushing his way in again, nudging the door fully open with the bridge of one shoulder as he hauls an unmoving Gary upon the sturdy line of his other. 

He lugs Gary to that table at the heart of the room, tipping his weight off so he slumps down like a dead trout upon it, plastic wrinkled beneath his heft. And for all those times you’ve felt like slapping Brian, you currently feel like slapping yourself just to snap from your senseless nerves. Swallowing hard at the sight of an unconscious Gary on that table, before stiffly turning away; focused on getting dressed, on distracting yourself from anything that might stand in your way, including and especially yourself. 

“Aren’t you going to dress up, too?” you ask the wall as you lean down to drag those boots out.

You hear Brian shifting Gary’s form atop the shrink-wrapped table, adjusting his limbs in a manner to be more appropriately tied. Assuming, without a glance, that the shuffled sounds of tarping and fabric and buckles must be Brian undressing him; shucking his clothes away piece by piece just like his brother would have done if he’d been the one helping tonight.

“I’m not getting my hands dirty,” he says, and it feels his gaze scrapes up the length of your back, tensing you in the wake of what might only be imagined, seeing as you stubbornly won’t turn. “Am I?”

His baritone’s glossy, goading, and at its challenge you can’t help but snark, “No. I just think it’s kinda cute how you and Dex dress alike when you kill people.” Slipping more sugar into your tone, you further wonder, “Did you coordinate outfits on purpose? Or was it just an adorable coincidence?”

You hear his little chuff, before he’s musing, “It’s efficient. But I guess your current getup makes you a part of the family…?”

Kicking out of your shoes, your socks are soft on the vinyl blanket beneath you, barely making a sound as you step inside each of your heavy boots, one by one.

“What,” you wryly venture, arms a bit awkwardly wobbled as you struggle with the height of those boots, “you’re my brother now, too?”

“Wouldn’t you say I’m more of a father figure?”

“The idea of you fathering anything is horrifying.”

His mirth-laced hum does disastrous things to you, threading warmth where it shouldn’t exist. Forced to fight against the pull of it, of him, as you grab your rubber apron somewhat harshly from where it’s draped upon the counter in front of you. Yanking its neckband gruffly overhead so that the sting of it might save you from yourself.

You’re reaching back to tie it when you hear his footsteps treading plastic, walking toward you, and though you tense to turn around he’s already slipped those drawstrings from your hands, taking the task of tying them from you. 

The column of your spine flinches taut as you feel him tug their blackened lengths into place, snug around your middle. His long, agile fingers working deftly as they loop a perfect knot at the small of your back; purposeful, firm in how he slowly ties them for you. And when he speaks, his voice is a saw-toothed murmur; its deepness scraping up your skin in delicious, sickening ways, sending ripples up your neck that rouse every hair along your skin to tight attention.

“You look good like this…”

Gods, and you thought you couldn’t be any more tense…

Why is he always fucking with you? This has to be on purpose… Actually, no, there’s no way he knows how much existing this close to your orbit fucks with you. At least you fucking hope not, Gods, you’re–it’s the stress of tonight, that’s why you’re such a mess. It’s getting to you, that’s all, that’s it, but even knowing this it’s still more of a struggle than you’d like to admit to unwedge your tongue enough to speak.

“Like what?” you dryly ask, forcing blandness. “Someone who sprays down sixteen-wheelers with a high-powered hose at truck stops?” 

You do your best to corrode that ever-present something that always feels to flex the air between you, and especially when he’s standing this close. But whatever that something is, it further curls around your every tangled thought as he finishes tying that knot. As you feel his knuckles drag down the curve of your back, as though appraising the job that he’s done–the scarcest touch, yet it's still so disarming.

“No,” he responds, retaking your apron’s knot with the hook of two fingers. Tugging you just a step back so that your ass runs flush with his groin; a puzzle piece of him which feels far too convincing a fit, and you don’t know why you can’t move, your whole body clamping as his words seek the back of your ear, dipping low–the heat of them ruffling your hair. 

“Like someone who takes what they want,” he murmurs.

For one stupid, thoughtless moment, you swear you nearly melt back in his touch. Nearly sink into those hands which barely touch you, and it must be imagined, how restrained they feel from taking more, from pulling you deeper into the dark of himself. And you want to push away from him–you do–but you’re reduced to sculptor’s clay in his artist’s hands. An unfired doll for his fingers to form, to play with; to mold into whatever shapes they like. 

So it’s nothing short of a goddamn miracle when you somehow manage to resist the inexplicable spell of Brian fucking Moser and that incline to ruin he’d lead you on, managing to scrounge together enough syllables to get out, “Y-ou… should probably finish tying Gary down.” And yeah. You stuttered. It’s mortifying.

He doesn’t budge. A hum wavered low in his throat from behind you as his hold of your drawstrings twists a fraction more tight. 

“Should I…?”

Yes, he fucking should–so why can’t you say it? Why can’t you just get away from him–?! Just take a step in any direction but his, just–!

“He’s not gonna stay unconscious forever,” you attempt to save yourself, and at least you’re not stuttering anymore. “How long does that stuff keep someone out? The M99, or…”

With his hand still knotted in your drawstrings, his thumb softly trails across the hollow of your spine whilst he far-to-casually informs you, “He’s probably due to wake up any second now…”

And the panic of that wrapping tight around your throat finally frees you from his paralytic touch, whatever witchcraft he wields to continuously strike you senseless and needy and dumb as you flounder out, “What–?!”

You twist around so sharply that his hand falls away from your back, with him lowly smiling down at that way you back up into the counter behind you just to create some much-needed distance, and why is he standing so close…?! 

It’s goddamn annoying how much you’re forced to crane your panicked glare up just to meet his lofty smirk. And you’d like to think you’re composed whilst composedly sputtering, “–Then go and–! Go finish tying him up then, Brian! You– what – Brian–!”

The green of his gaze is so sharp when he’s amused like this, and he exhales a rumbled laugh as he regards you. Seeming to enjoy this frazzled show of you unable to get a full thought out, like he finds the ordeal of you funny.

“Alright, alright, calm down, killer…” he mercifully allows, the barest curve to his watchful lips. And you thank the Gods for small miracles when he steps away, leaving you and your poor, constricting heart standing there alone, pressing back into that counter as though your life depends on it, watching as he instead shifts further down its length. One long-fingered hand nabbing a few, lengthy boxes of industrial grade stretch-wrap, his movements as smooth as always, before he’s turning off toward Gary passed out on that table again. Offhandedly musing as he goes, “By the way, has anyone ever told you you work great under pressure…?”

The blunted sarcasm isn’t lost on you, but you’re still too tongue-tied to hit him with anything more than an unamused scowl, which he isn’t exactly privy to with his broad back turned to you.

He gets back to work preparing your victim for you, like he always should’ve been doing instead of invading your personal space. Uncoiling long, clouded strands of stretch-wrap from multiple tubes that he uses to strap Gary down till he’s basically mummified, the flesh of his stomach sticking out of those plastic binds around his groin and chest like dough in a tube, and he’s truly revolting, both inside and out.

Turning away from how the mere sight of him fills you with swift-burning rage, you turn instead to that counter of tools. Your interest unwittingly drawn toward a small and sleek tank of propane that glints a bright, cerulean-blue against the room’s hazy light, with a silver nozzle angling out the top of it. 

Is that a blowtorch…?

You’re already stepping toward it as the thought enters your mind. Taking it up in your hands; its metal cold and biting beneath your inquisitive touch.

“I didn’t see you pick this out,” you muse down at it as Brian straps Gary down, and feel him glance for a moment at what little he can see from that angle of what you’re holding–though it seems he sees enough.

“I didn’t,” he says above the sounds of shrink-wrap twisting and layering over-and-over itself. “You did. You practically threw the entire store inside our cart.”

Even restless as you are, you can’t seem to help a devious smile as it sneaks upon your lips. Arching a brow back in his direction. “Well. Yeah. You were buying, so…”

You hear his little chuff as he goes on working. 

“Childish,” he rebukes without a glance. 

“Rude,” you shoot right back, not one to let him insult you.

And apparently you’re now in a conversational foodfight. 

“Pitiful,” he abrades, tossing you a look from where he’s at.

“Arrogant,” you tautly return, turning to face him.

“Hopeless.”

“Annoying,” you fire back. “Got any more adjectives for me? I could keep going all night.”

To which he lowly laughs, standing fully as he turns to face you, too, having finished wrapping Gary all up like a fucked-up present. 

“Speaking of taping people’s mouths closed, would you like me to tape up Gary’s for you?” he asks. “Or would you prefer to hear him begging for his life?”

He toys a casual brow at your pause to this request, but you can’t help the way such a simple question lands like a kick to your gut.

You’ve imagined how you might make Gary pay tonight, many times, but that particular detail has eluded you…

Do you want to hear him begging for his life...? Hear his disgusting voice at all?

Fuck, this… 

Just… Breathe.

“...Not yet,” you eventually get out through the noose of your nerves, through those grasping hands of hate inside you. Unable to keep your voice completely even as hesitation stirs within your gut, despite all your efforts to tamp it down for good, but at least you’ve decided on one thing: “I wanna have a little chat with him, first.”  

Your gaze is hard on that blowtorch, so cool within your hands, and yet you feel Brian’s interest as it scratches at your edges, trying to work its way in. But you don’t say more, and he doesn’t ask about what you intend to have a ‘chat’ about. Merely observing you in silence whilst you fight to quell that tempest raged inside.

You’re not ready for how, without warning, you hear a low and strangled moan beside where Brian stands. The sound dragging both his and your attention toward it–yours tightly hinged, while his follows loosely. That pit of nerves you keep trying to will away hewn that much deeper as you see Gary’s toes barely twitch upon that table where he’s bound. The thick strand of glassy tape which straps his head down contorting his brow as he weakly tries to move his head, to move anything at all, though with him so fiercely confined he can’t shift an inch.

He’s awake. 

Fuck.

Fuck–!

–His eyes blink groggily open. Pupils shrunken against the light, and they’re the only piece of his face he can seem to move. His fingers unsurely fluttering where they’re tight at his sides, grasping at that tarp-covered table beneath him as consciousness crawls back into his body.

Brian steps away from that table as though without care about what’s happening atop it. Walking toward you, taking post near your shoulder, as though keen to gain your exact vantage in this moment; to see what you see, to feel what you feel.

And what are you feeling…? What is this overbearing, thorn-toothed thing trying to claw its way from your chest?

He takes the blowtorch from the distraction of your hands, with your attention pulled so tautly toward Gary struggling back to life upon that spotlit table that you’re barely aware of what his hands are doing at all.

“When it really comes down to it… there’s only one real way you can fuck this up,” he murmurs down from your side, soft enough so as not to disturb your still-addled prey. Setting the blowtorch down amidst all those other tools he’s displayed for you on that counter behind you. And as Gary labors to pull from the narcotic slog Brian’s drug towed him so deeply into, he wonders at your side, “Want my advice?”

And you do. 

You very much do. 

You feel so suddenly lost, without it–so entirely overwhelmed by your hesitance and anxiety and wrath. Thrown out to sea, with only him as your mooring. His words. His presence. His help.

And really, just how fucked are you, with Brian Moser as your lantern in the dark?

He awaits your reply, the patient teacher, and after fighting how some weight closes in more and more on your chest, you manage to give it. Speaking as though to speak at all is foreign. 

“Yes…”

He hums, seeming pleased by this answer. His touch on your skin nothing short of electric, a jolt through your haze, pulling the spiral of you into him as he softly takes your chin from your side, scarcely tilting your gaze up to where his hovers beside you. His eyes shining black as he studies what your constricted face is doing beneath the mountain of him.

“Well, my lovely student,” he says, so at ease, as though this situation that’s currently unraveling wasn’t at all alarming. “It’s like I’ve said before… you only get to kill a man once.” For a moment, his eyes flit to Gary, following the intensity of your own. “You don’t want to have regrets over things you didn’t do to him. Things you might’ve resisted. Things this bastard’s earned.”

One corner of his lips tilts slowly upward as he sees that panic further unfurl the flower of your heart, and he gives your chin a little pinch as though to halt it. And you have to admit–it does a decent job.

“Don’t think,” he commands. Orders it, and you obey him. Are helpless to it in this moment, broken down as you are by apprehension; a fruit with splintered rind, opened up for the honey of his influence, whether virtuous or vile. “Let instinct sink its teeth in. That animal inside… let it off its leash. Let it decide what you do, what will happen. Let it commandeer things for a while.”

It’s all he says, before his touch falls from your chin. His other hand smoothed up the small of your back, nudging you gently forward, and even with such tempered touch you stumble as though newly birthed before once more gaining your balance. Swallowing hard, feeling pure tension radiate through your ribs as you force yourself to breathe, to venture those few steps forward through what little distance still lay between you and that table Gary’s on.

A moan crawls up his throat the closer you come, with him struggling against his mouth’s dryness, though he hasn’t yet noticed you.

“Whuh … H.. hel..?”

He doesn’t seem to know he’s even speaking. Sounds just eeking out of wagging lips while his drug-wildered mind still writhes. 

“H… ello..?” Voice hoarse, it’s trailed by a fit of coughing, until he’s questioning with more perturbed insistence, “Hello…?!” And that naked bulb which hangs above his head must be blinding to his fluttering eyes, because he winces as he tries and fails to twist his gaze away from it.

You can see it. His mind slowly ticking. Realizing he’s awake, that this isn’t a dream, that he’s tied up, undressed, strapped to some kind of table he doesn’t recognize in a room he can’t recall. That he has no idea where this room is–this strange, unsettling room, coated top to toe in plastic tarp–doesn’t know this disquieting place, how he got here, why–

So many questions. And something about his confusion is intoxicating. A talon upon an itch you cannot scratch; that only his struggling can, as slowly you draw toward him. Stepping inside the sphere of his limited vision as he lay there weakly fidgeting, fighting against his bonds as he realizes they’re there. The plastic of them crinkling to a halt as he catches sight of you soon standing over where he’s strapped. Owlish eyes twitching to the motion of you.

Like a specter, you watch him fight to come together. And it's hard to comprehend yourself when all you feel is that sickly apprehension that worms its way through your skull. When all you feel is the overpowering grip of rage, slowly peeling you apart in pieces until there’s nothing left in the void of you. Just hate, and nothingness, all cradled around those fractals of your heart. Your pulse so unnaturally rhythmed as you feel it sing inside you.

Thump…

Thump…

It’s all you hear. 

All you feel. 

And it's unnerving, even to you, and especially to Gary with that look which he now wears, just how swiftly you unravel like this. Like you’re no longer in control of yourself. Like perhaps you never were, and are only just now scarcely beginning to realize how fragile that cage which houses your fury.

“Who… wh-o are you…?” he slowly asks, rigid with a tentative, newfound fear and budding uncertainty. And though he fights to bury it, he’d have to be completely braindead not to think something bad could possibly happen inside such a strange room. 

Still. Something about that irks you. ‘Cause he should know who you are, already. Why you’ve brought him here. Why you have him so pleasantly wrapped and presently tied in the middle of fucking nowhere–

Anger eats at you as you remind yourself to breathe. And when, in rising panic, Gary tries again to speak, to fill the tension of your silence with anything else, your body moves of its own volition–one latexed palm slamming down over his filthy mouth, gruffly smothering his sputtering lips. 

The way his words cut short, that tiny tremor to his pupils, rouses something hungry in you from its sleep. And with your other hand, you raise one gloved finger to your lips as you coolly eye him. Shushing his demands, his confusion; though, benevolent as you are, you’ll seek to settle that for him.

“Shut the fuck up, Gary,” you say from above him, watching him blink very fast. “You only speak when you’re answering my questions, now. That’s the only sound I wanna hear leaving your disgusting lips. Shouldn’t be too hard of a rule to follow, even for you. Right?”

When he doesn't respond but to strickenly tense, when he can’t, you give his mouth a squeeze to get your point across. See his cheeks rumple up beneath your gloved thumb and fingers.

“Do you understand?”

For a moment, even if you’d let his jaw loose, he doesn’t seem able to speak. But something about the way you watch him makes him struggle to nod his head beneath your palm, the tape on his forehead tugging his skin with the attempted, jerking motion.

Still, you hesitate to actually ungag him. Reluctant to really hear his revolting voice. Everything about him repulses you. Everything. And you’d be more than happy never to hear him speak again. But, eventually, your hand slides roughly off his face, and you tilt your head to one side from where you stand. Making sure to give him ample view of your features from where he’s taped in place–showing off all the detail of your face.

“Do I look familiar to you?” you ask, and see his brows knot–see his head shaking no, side to side, the smallest tremors.

Your gaze flattens with impatience. “You can answer my questions out loud,” you prompt him; annoyed. This has only just started, and it’s already taking too long–you’re sick of looking at him. “Do I look familiar to you? Even a little bit?”

Again, he hesitates, sweat a sheen on his brow, before he's shaking his head again, only this time he’s sparked into sputtering, “I… I don’t… I don’t know, who…” He blinks very hard, like he’s struggling to really concentrate, still half-tangled in some drug-dizzy dream. “I–I don’t know who you–”

“Huh,” you cut him off sharply. So thoughtful, and yet it sounds false. “Now see, that’s interesting. Because we’ve met before, Gary.”

When his eyes widen, you patronize down at him, “Yeah, Gary–you should know who I am already. But I guess you were too busy ogling my six-year-old niece to notice me the few times we met, huh? Or notice any of those pictures of me around her house…? To remember anything at all beyond your perversion and gluttony for children…?”

You can see his muscles tense in response to that. And when he doesn’t respond, you flash him a thing like a smile, though it’s the furthest thing from an actual smile you've ever worn.

“Well,” you continue at last; amiable. “Allow me to refresh your memory. I’m Ava’s aunt.” And with this knowledge, you watch as something wracks his constricting brain; a coin of thought tumbled down through panicking slots inside his head.

“...Ava,” he wavers, bumbling the word. Flinching eyes blinking quick against the light as he haltingly adds, “Ava Black…?”

You’ve never wanted to slice a name out of someone’s mouth more than you want to slice your niece’s name out of Gary’s mouth right now, and it takes decided effort not to promptly fetch a blade for the task.

“So you remember her, at least,” you eventually say. Words betraying how your anger bleeds profusely. “Good. That’s good. I’m glad you remember her, because she’s the reason we’re here right now.” You glance around this plastic bag you stand in, as does he, struggling to do so from where he’s held in place. “Quite the place,” you lightly venture, eyes returning to him, “isn’t it?”

His breath becomes shallow with nerves, chest rising and falling fast beneath that plastic. Yet his jawline hardens–even now, staring up at you like this, it hardens as though with remonstration, as though whatever reason brought him here is wrong, undeserving.

“Look,” he stumbles, and though his pudgy jaw is firm, his words still waver. “I dunno wha-t… what this…” his eyes dart about in his motionless skull, taking in the oddity of his surroundings, “this is, but, I… I babysit for Ava, yes, that’s… th-that’s not… Look, whatever this is about, there’s clearly be-en some sor-t of… of m-misunder standing, but I–”

“Has there?” you cut him off again. “Well, why didn’t you just say so, Gary…? I would’ve untied you like ten minutes ago.”

He actually seems to think you might–the relief of it whispered across his anxious features, and you can’t have that. His hope. His relief. There’s no relief for him where this is all going. Nothing even close to reprieve.

“Except…” you’re slow to add, as though suddenly remembering. Honing your gaze to carve out all that hope from him. “...I found the videos, Gary…” 

Your pale gloves angrily creak as your hands curl into fists, and you wish they were strung around his windpipe. “I found the fucking videos,” you continue, with such candied inflection it barely suits that dangerous edge you hold, that you can’t seem to pull back from. “Of you? And my niece? And all those other little girls you got your filthy hands on…?”

You can barely hear yourself speak above that mounting hammer of rage within your pulse, and how are you still talking beyond the need to make him pay for that? How are you still here, enacting anything beyond making him pay for that?

Even fearfully twisted, you can see his mind squirming, see him still trying to fight his way out of this. 

“What videos?” 

You should cut out his tongue.

“Let’s skip the part where you tell me someone else stuffed those hard drives beneath your floorboards,” you depart with an edge, willing your tone alone to slash at his guarded expression whilst muttering, “You’re in the videos, dumbass.”

You’re so wrapped in this moment, so utterly consumed that when sudden movement catches on your periphery, it’s like the rug of the world’s been violently shifted, spinning out until you wobble just a step. Reaching out for that table’s edge to steady yourself from how it’s suddenly hard to think, as whatever that movement was seems to redirect course, heading toward you quite swiftly, and suddenly Brian’s arm is around your waist. An anchor you won’t admit you’re so grateful for; the man’s ego’s inflated enough.

“What was that…?” he wonders beside you, lithe fingers digging into the plush of your side as, for a moment, he steadies you against the tower of himself. And if you could think at all between how your rage for the man strapped to your table and your utter magnetism toward Brian so discordantly splits you open, you might’ve been able to comprehend the question.

As it stands, you’re left inwardly striving to scramble back your lost stability for long enough that Brian’s interest slowly draws more amused. 

“You alright…?”

Great question–he’s just full of them. And you struggle to unweave your thoughts before giving a short, stiff nod.

“Yeah–” you assure, not knowing if it’s true. “Yes–I just…”

He chuckles lowly, and with cheeks burning at just how charmed he seems by all of this, you strive to reform your center as more than a wavering string. Glancing up to see the shape of his smile’s knowing. 

“Tunnel vision,” he affirms. Firm fingers giving your waist a squeeze. “Sorry to distract. Just wanted a better view. This is much more interesting than I’d anticipated.”

Gary doesn’t seem as delightfully interested in whatever’s going on here–with what he still hasn't wrapped his thick skull around.

“What the fuck is this?!” he shrilly demands, lost from his previous reticence beneath the blow of finding out there’s additional parties in the room, which seems to’ve further untwisted him. His fat body wriggling atop the cabin’s table in his rising confusion, though he scarcely even moves; his attempts to tear through rolls and rolls of plastic heightened tenfold. “What are you– What –Wh- Who are you people–?!”

Brian raises a slow brow down at his thrashing desperation. Soft lips casually pursed, though he says not a word. And when he glances instead at you, it’s as if he’s waiting for you to speak; for you to address your quarry, or perhaps to object to if he, himself, does. And when you don’t say a thing–anxiety once more momentarily stifling you–he slips quite easily into orchestrating things on your behalf.

“Well,” he says to Gary at last, with his arm still snug around you. Good-natured, in what seems his exposition. “This is Ava’s aunt, as you’ve already been introduced.” He flashes a handsome grin, one shared in the politeness of greeting. “And I’m the guy who’s going to watch her kill you.”

There’s a second which hangs in time, in which language and time itself no longer make sense, no longer drag forward, with you all caught inside its sluggish web. And then those halted seconds all catch up at once, speeding forth and crashing into you, into Gary, until his eyes are nearly bulging from his head, a skipping vein on his brow doubling tempo.

“You…” he struggles, like he can’t comprehend human speech, what it is Brian’s saying. “You… Y’… What…?! You… Y-You can’t…” 

He can’t continue. Can’t bear repeating what was said, not even to clarify what Brian’s so calmly told him. And Brian waits, patient as ever, for the reality of his situation to slowly steal its way inside. His thumb dragged along your waist in how he holds you, musing to you like a lion to its hunting cub, “People try so hard to dance their way around the inevitable…”

That edge to his tone is apparently the key that once more gets Gary talking– blathering, really.

“Yo-u c-can’t… You’re both crazy–! You can’t... Y-ou can't kill me–!”

“Oh, I’m afraid we can,” Brian returns, quite simply. “And we’re going to. Just as soon as your lovely executioner’s finished preluding your end.”

Gary’s a broken record on that table, plastic twisting with his every failed attempt to set himself free, and he’s sweating more and more the longer he lay there.

“Y-you,” he stammers, panic dragging him further from sense, “You can’t–!”

“Yes, you said that already,” rumbles Brian, with dark eyes shining. “Might I recommend you try a different angle from all those potentially leading out of this? Perhaps a remorseful prayer? Or you could try tearfully begging...?” Gentle lines crease beneath olive eyes as he smiles, oh-so-helpful. “I’m not sure either would work, but it’s worth a shot, right?”

You can practically hear Gary’s heart slamming up against his ribs. That adhesive across his brow reflecting sharply against that light overhead as he tries again and again to writhe even a single inch to either side from how he’s imprisoned.

“I–I–!”

“Words, Gary,” Brian chastises from above him, “I’m not a mind reader.”

“I… It-It’s…” He fails to swallow, the sound a half-formed hiccup in his chest. “I… It’s not my fault,” he stammeringly implores, owlish eyes bouncing between you and he both as you stand there silently regarding him. “I… I have a p-problem, okay? I ca-n’t…”

“You do have a problem,” Brian mildly agrees, though it seems he isn’t thinking of quite the same problem Gary is.

Gary tries to shake himself, to keep his head on straight. Breaths coming fast; staccatic.

“I couldn’t... help it,” he eventually squeaks out, pathetically babbling, “I- I- I… I couldn’t h-elp myself, b-but… but I’m going to get help! I’m… I’m going to…!”

Brian purses his sculpted lips. Glancing thoughtfully, for a moment, about this abandoned little cabin in the woods, before his eyes return to the man strapped to its table.

“I don’t think anyone here’s going to help you, Gary,” he smoothly says. “Not in any way you’ll immediately appreciate, in any case. Though you’ll certainly be abstaining from all those things you just can’t seem to help yourself with for a while, so…” His slow-formed smile’s all cheek. “You’re welcome~”

Gary’s once more fighting to shake his head, a vein on his temple throbbing. “Th-is is a joke–this isn’t… You’re insane! Y-you can’t–!” 

As his naked arms and legs anxiously twist beneath all that clouded plastic, his composure takes a nosedive toward violently inconsolable.

“Yo-u can’t do this!” he shouts at Brian, at you; nostrils flaring as he struggles in place, little good it does. Spit speckling his chubby chin as he screams and writhes like a rat in a glue-trap, “You can’t do this! Y-y-you–! Let me go–! Help! Someone help me! I’ve been kidnapped! He-lp! Help–!”

It might’ve been funny watching him completely fall apart like this if the repellent sight and sound of him didn’t jam the spokes of schadenfreude so discordantly. And as that cocoon of plastic around his body crinkles more whilst he howls and demands and beseeches, Brian’s vast well of patience at last seems to be wearing thin.

“Could you at least cut his tongue out before continuing?” he asks, as though privy to your previous thoughts on the matter of Gary speaking. Gazing down at where you’re stowed under his wing, the pad of his thumb smoothed up again along the softness of your hip with you so presently overwhelmed you barely notice. “I’m kinda over the whole him talking thing.”

And though the idea is tempting and surely a justified way of keeping someone like Gary quiet, the thought of actually wrestling his tongue from his fat fucking face is absolutely revolting. So you just muster up what mettle you have in slipping out from Brian’s grasp, which falls easily to his side again as he curiously watches you go. Heading toward that counter of tools at the cabin’s furthest wall, fetching a half-spent roll of duct tape from off its length before returning. All while Gary sputters and shouts and Brian quietly observes you, his focus glued to your every intent, heedless to all else inside that room with you.

You can’t rip off a strip of duct tape fast enough before you’re slamming it over Gary’s objecting mouth, his protests continued regardless in a stream of angry, muted sound, eyes wide with fearful spite as he glares at you.

Ahh…

Silence.

Well.

Sort of.

Still. He won’t be making much of a racket for very long.

“Hand me the blowtorch,” you say; a command to your murderous teacher turned murderous assistant now that you’re at the helm. And as Gary’s eyes nearly bulge from his head in how intently he stares up at you, falling eerily still and silent from what must be the shock of what he’s just heard, of what it could mean for him, your vengeful gaze never wavers from his.

Stepping up just a bit from behind you, Brian chuckles as though at the show of it–you and Gary, watching each other like that. Fiendishly amused by this entire ordeal as he hums, “You sure about that?” Which at once grabs your attention, as since when does Brian Moser second-guess the murderous or morally reprehensible intent of anything?

Your gaze whips back at where he stands, firmness formed before flickering reservation. 

“Don’t I look sure?”

Above that scarcest curve to his devilish lips, his dark gaze is slow to appraise you. Assessing you, head to toe, as his sturdy arms are folded across his chest.

“Oh, you do,” he affirms with a lilt, dark eyes returned to yours. “But I know a thing or two about your weapon of choice, and I think you’re underestimating just what a blowtorch can do.”

AKA, he doesn’t think you can handle it, and you feel your jawline further grit.

All the more reason to prove him wrong, then.

“If I am,” you say, “there’s only one way to find out.”

He studies you a moment longer, while amusement feels to curl along his every dangerous edge. And then he just kinda shrugs, very Dexter-like, as if to say ‘I tried.’

“A trial by fire, then,” he too-readily concludes, “and with fire, no less; how poetic.” And then he's turned to fetch your torch without another moment's hesitation. Which, in itself, you admit, is somewhat alarming, seeing as how you’ve perhaps never successfully convinced the man of anything before, but you’re not about to back down from lighting Gary up like a firecracker when you have something to prove, especially not after insisting. 

In fact, Brian’s so precipitously on board with this little torch-led plan of yours that he even whips out his phone from the pocket of his dark slacks as he goes, flipping up its screen as he taps away at the keypad for what you soon come to hear is a song.

“How about a little music to set the mood?” he muses, blunt thumb tap-tap-tapped across his phone, whilst his other reaches for that cobalt-tanked torch from where he’d previously set it. 

He sets his phone aside on the counter’s plastic edge as he works with both hands to ensure your torch’s canister of butane is appropriately configured—how thoughtful of him—whilst a jaunty little tune titters out of his phone’s shitty speaker, chorusing the kill room in trumpets and guitars.

Your expression couldn’t possibly fall more unenthused when you hear it’s Johnny fucking Cash warbling a fucking Ring of Fire.

“No.”

It leaves you on reflex; like a gag. And as Brian saunters smoothly back to you with torch in hand, his gaze holds a low glint of play. Completely ignorant to a panicking Gary, whose wide eyes follow after his movements as best they can from where he’s strapped.

“No?” he wonders vaguely, your weapon offered in a leisured hand.

You take it–gruffly–muttering, “Turn that shit off.” To which his brows tug into a fetchingly baffled crease.

“What shit?” he asks, oblivious as always to his countless misdeeds.

“The music,” you grouse the obvious up at him. “Would it kill you to take this seriously?”

His eyes darkly sparkle as he grins. “Only one way to find out,” he echoes you, before rolling his eyes at that tightened scowl you’re wearing. “Oh, c’mon sourpuss–you can’t barbecue someone alive without a little ambiance.” His lips purse as though with thought. “But we’re being rude–how about we take a vote?” And, with a glance down at Gary sweating bullets beside you, he mildly ventures, “Help me out here, big guy. You don’t wanna be charbroiled alive like a fucking hot dog without some music to set the mood, right?”

You don’t know why you’re entertaining this. But, still–you stand there, entertaining this handsome asshole, waiting just like he does. The two of you watching Gary’s frantic gaze further bulge as he screams and writhes on that table, every sound he makes blunted by tape.

Brian nods down at him as though considering all those voiceless things he’s saying.

“Mmhm… Mmhm,” he hums in supposed agreement. “Honestly, Gary, I couldn’t have said it better myself.” And, turning to you, he lifts a subtle brow at how you cluelessly stare at him. Because of course you don’t understand gagged nonsense. But, lucky for you, Brian’s here to translate the language of muted screaming for you.

“He said–for a final time–to stop questioning myself and my methods,” he so-helpfully fills you in. “And maybe you’ll listen to him more than you listen to me.” To which he shrugs. “Unlikely, but–I’ve seen more impossible things.”

And you’d thought your expression couldn’t fall flatter. But it must, such is his barest, cheshire grin. 

“Whatever,” you relent at length, seeing no point in arguing with the inarguable. Blowtorch tightly gripped within one hand, which feels somehow heavier than it should be at your side, while your other hand’s held out to him expectantly. “At least toss me my visor. I don’t want any sparks flying back at me.”

Does a blowtorch spark as well as flame…? 

You don’t know, but you’re not about to ask him; not while he wears that clever smirk of his. In any case, you think it’s likely advised to wear a visor whilst flaunting flame around, especially when you barely know what you’re doing.

A larkish glimmer hints his gaze as he turns away obediently to fetch it for you—which, again, why is he suddenly so helpful? Elegant shoes softly twisting tarp against wood as he plucks up your visor from amidst his meticulous showcase. 

“I should have bought you a welding mask,” he observes, turning back to you; clear-shielded visor brought in his elegant hand. Regarding you as you take it from his offered grasp–that way you try not to touch him, how you fidget uncertainly in adjusting its fit ‘round your head.

He steps a bit closer to help, unprompted; taking upon him the task of fitting your visor snug around your brow from your tenuous hands, and you can’t help that little thrill which spears through your pulse when his fingers barely brush against yours. Your hands falling like anvils to your rigid sides just to avoid that ever happening again.

“And better gloves,” he remarks as he helps, making no note of your awkwardness. And, finished adjusting your helm, he backs up a welcomed step to take in the full sight of you, as though ensuring you’re really ready for this. “As fetching as they are, latex isn’t exactly flame retardant.”

Wrangling your pulse under control again, you waggle a few gloved fingers at him as though showing off a freshly-painted manicure, fawning candy-sweet, “Gee, you like them?”

When he hums a little laugh, the black pools of his eyes inadvertently draw you toward them. 

“Don't let it go to your head,” he says, with one brow archly hinted. “I’d so hate to see how effective you are without modesty holding you back.”

With that, he leaves you center stage. And it truly feels like a stage. One with a spotlight on your head, aware of your every intention, your every probable mistake. Especially as Brian wanders off around that table. Leaning idly back against the showcase of tools as it stands at his back; that counter’s ledge his standing seat as he takes his place as your audience.

His muscled arms fold loosely across the breadth of his sturdy chest. Dusk-hued eyes nearly alight through the relative darkness that clings around the light of the stage. Hawk-like, in how he watches. His interest trained to your fingers as they tense around the handle of your torch; to their anxious adjustment of your visor he already assisted to place. And it’s the best seat in the house, really–where he stands there, watching you. Enjoying this little show of life-and-death you’re about to put on for him, as though performed with him in mind. 

…A performance of which you’re apparently stalling, seeing as how his smirk as you go on standing there just staring at him slowly curves his lips more and more, until it eventually snaps you out from the spell of him.

“Don’t tell me you have stage fright?” he smoothly wants to know from where he leisures, and for all your righteous rage and your indignant fury you still can’t shake how your nerves snake their way in your gut whilst you toy that deadly instrument between your latexed hands.

You can do this… There’s no question of if you should. There’s just some part of you that fears what may happen as a result.

‘Don’t think,’ the memory of Brian’s words tells you, ‘let instinct control you,’ and though you hate how effective his advice, you still do your best to hearken to it.

The sapphire steel of that butane is cold through the thin, rubbery membrane of your gloves. And as resolve and reformed anger knots the muscle of your throat, you work up the nerve to test its trigger—though it doesn’t do a thing when compressed. No flames, no sparks–nothing.

“Adjust the valve on the back,” your murder guru helpfully informs, like he’s the devil at your back, so you do; rubber-coated fingers twisting the blue, plastic hinge near the top of the butane’s tank until a soft hiss of gas feeds the air from the length of its nozzle.

Biting the inside of your cheek, your finger slides forth again to test that trigger, pressing down, and you don’t have to hold it. The very second it’s depressed there’s a sharp, metallic snap which echoes sharply off the plastic-covered walls—a sound that has both you and Gary flinching, has your heart-rate jolting in your chest as teal and ocher flame hisses forcefully to life from the length of the torch’s silver nozzle, so angrily seething from its instrument in your hands.

You cannot move. Staring as though mesmerized–a vengeful moth to vicious flame–before Gary’s muted screaming behind his duct-tape gag pulls your slow attention. Your eyes as cold as that butane tank gripped so tightly in your hand.

To be honest, you’re not sure what you’re doing with this whole ‘blowtorch a pedophile’ thing, where to start–have I mentioned you’ve never done this before? But as said pedophile’s anxious, tied-up form starts thrashing and kicking with renewed, frantic effort to somehow detangle himself and run out into the swamp he’s not even aware he’s swallowed up in, his bare and kicking feet seem as good of place as any to make him hurt. After all, you don’t want to kill him. Not yet. He has to suffer like Ava did, first. Worse, if you have any say in it, and you do–you have all the say in it. Can deal with this trash however you like.

He can never truly pay for what he’s done. But he’ll sure try. You’ll make him.

The shine of flame bounces off your face shield as you lower it down across your face. Ignoring Gary’s cries just as you do some faint warning in your heart which whispers that what you’re doing can never be undone, that it may scar itself to your psyche forever. 

You ignore it. Ignore him. Walking down the length of that heavy, shrink-wrapped table, booted heels dragging ground as Gary’s fearful eyes fight to follow you. That band of tape across his brow further digging into his skin.

For whatever nerves remain lodged in your throat, you still sound surprisingly calm when you talk to him.

“This little piggy went to market…”

Some part of you’d like to think that in any other moment, any alternate segment of life, you wouldn’t be this monstrous thing that's found you now. This creature you almost don’t recognize. But here you are, and you don’t care this bastard’s terrified, that he’ll soon be suffering and you’ll be its cause. It’s the opposite of that–some rage in you likes it–and really, he brought this all on himself.

You let that angry flame hissing out of your torch’s nozzle warm the air by his panicking feet. Nearly numb to his voiceless shrieks and wretched sobbing as he tries more and more to pull away from both it and you.

“Which piggy should we start with?” you ask above Cash’s Ring of Fire. And as your stomach knots up, you won’t let yourself continue to second-guess this. Forcing yourself to act, to get it over with–he deserves this–driving that angry flame to the bottom of one of his writhing feet.

Those cries of your niece, still an unwanted echo in your head, are replaced instead by the way Gary harrowingly screams, and it’s your therapy, your drug, your rehab–not quite absolving those unspeakable things he’s done, but smears their weight, makes them harder to hear, harder to see replaying over and over in your mind like they have been since you saw those fucking tapes, and your grip further strangles the torch’s slender tank within your hand as the hungry teeth of flame dig further into the bottom of his foot, making a meal of his sensitive flesh. The sounds he makes so physically raw, so pain-stretched, that for a second you nearly pull back just because you’re so overwhelmed, but you won’t let this stop, instead you forge deeper–pulling those screams from his lungs like he’s an apple-mouthed pig being roasted alive, and he is a fucking pig–and the smell…!

The motherfucking smell–!

You’ve barely been at it at all, roasting this sick bastard’s feet like you’re welding a seam, when you abruptly recoil–jerking back with that flame still burning air as you stumble away from him, stomach twisting as you fight not to throw up, a retch echoing off the inside of your mask. 

You’re barely cognizant enough to flip that hissing flame off before slamming your face into the crook of your elbow to try and block that horrid fucking scent, only for your face shield to block you before you’re ripping the damn thing off. Hear it clatter against the ground as you smother your nose in your arm against the searing stench of it. 

The blistering perfume of burning flesh assails the entire room; your eyes a watering mess whilst you fight how you’re gagging. And through your nauseous fit, Brian’s low thrum of laughter eventually simmers its way past your ear, strumming past your reeling mind enough to raise your piercing glare at him from behind your half-smothered face.

He smiles across the table at you from where he’s contentedly perched, arms still folded in his half-lean against the counter. Dark-spun eyes briefly closed as he savors the acrid smell lingering through the room. 

“Mmm,” comes his melodious hum, watchful gaze lowly flickering. “You’re quite the chef. What’s for dinner?” His smile crooks at one end at whatever your half-smothered face is doing. “I’m starved~”

Your stomach once more turns against you at the mere prospect of food, and thank Gods you skipped dinner, and also fuck him–!

“Shut up–!” you manage to get out without gagging into the crook of your arm, whilst he flashes that jackal smirk of his across the kill table and a still sobbing Gary.

“I tried to warn you…”

“You could’ve warned me in more fucking detail!”

He barely shrugs. “Yeah, well–I thought this lesson might sink a bit deeper if you found out yourself that Gary smells like pulled pork when he’s roasted.”

And you can’t help it–you’re already picturing how he wolfed down those pulled pork sandwiches earlier–forced to smother your face that much fiercer inside the safety of your arm as he cunningly smiles.

Your arm gaiter crinkles against your nausea-flushed skin. “Fuck you!” And though you can barely make out your own words with just how badly they’re muffled, the corners of Brian’s eyes still softly crease.

“Fuck me?” he chuckles back, mischief glimmered in him. “You’re the one who insisted on the blowtorch.”

Daring to once more breathe the air in the room, your elbow drops from your tentative face just enough to test the scent of it, which is still pretty bad, but… you’ll live. All whilst you’re mumbling, “You’re a horrible teacher. I dunno why I listen to anything you ever say.”

He gives a sharp, satisfied little smile. “And yet a lesson was learned, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I agree you’re an asshole.”

His amusement never ceases to have its way with you. “Careful. Or that smart mouth of yours might land you in detention.”

You roll your still-stinging eyes. “Do I have to remind you you’re not an actual teacher?”

“Aren’t I?” he asks with subtle play. “You seemed so assured I was a bad one…”

Why are you even arguing with this insufferable ice truck freakshow?

“You’re having far too much fun with this,” you grouse at him, stomach finally settling, and see his feline mirth.

“I admit,” he says, deep voice threaded with darkened levity, “it is a tad amusing just how bad you are at this…”

You glower as he so adorably smirks, like he’s some fucked-up murder ken-doll with you his unfortunate, barbie victim, and did I mention fuck him? And you’re about to argue further about what an ass he is, when instead he once more speaks.

“Seems a blowtorch isn’t your thing, my woeful student,” he says, and your lashes weigh flat; too aggrieved and presently nauseated to be anything more than a brat to him.

“Then why don’t you just hand me something else to torment this fuck with?”

He lightly smiles, not glancing at all those tools behind him. His focus—as ever, it seems—hinged on you. “What would you like?”

And though your gaze steals across all those neatly placed tools laid out beside him, their sheer magnitude is so overwhelming you can’t seem to choose. And before long, you’re once again mulishly glowering across that small room at the nefarious tower of him. “Whatever you think is best, Professor Fuckass.”

His eyes crinkle. “Well would you look at that,” he lightly observes. “A nearly respectful nom de guerre...”

“I wouldn’t get used to it.”

“And, what is this… the second time in one evening you’ve sought my advice…?” His disbelief of this is far too clever, and though you suspect it’s all false, that way his dark eyes drag their way down your features still invokes very real, very unwanted heat wherever they touch. “Fascinating.” 

The desire to just walk up and punch him has your hand aching. 

“Just hand me something!”

Lowly chuckling, he gives a little nod of his head toward those tools at his side; jaw-length, raven curls lightly bouncing. 

“Well,” he says; the sage professor once more. “As luck would have it, I have just the hardware in mind, my lovely pupil. Something to appropriately lull your wrath. Feed all that hungry retribution I find, more and more, I’m so beguiled by.”

You do your best to ignore what his toying flirtations unfortunately do to you, your heart pathetically squeezing. But you can’t deny you’re curious as to what tool he seems, already, to’ve chosen for you. Enough that you swallow down that tempting ‘you’re a self-serving vapid weirdass fridge-loving manwhore’ comment that so gracefully traces your tongue. Instead watching, with wary intent, as he pushes off from his casual lean upon the counter. Unfolding his strong arms as he turns, disregarding you, to walk down its tool-laden length.

His roaming fingers lightly trail across its tools and supplies all displayed there, passing from tool to tool, as though searching for just what you need. Slowing, as though to contemplate the merits of each as he goes, until at last he hums in presumed confirmation of what he’s claimed to have already known. Reaching to select something you cannot see around the silhouette of his tapered waist; plucking it up in one hand before bringing it toward you.

His gaze wraps you up in its darkened tide, his focus never strayed in his approach. Almost like he’s playing chicken with you–intimidating with just a glance, daring you to run–and so you refuse, though it picks up your pulse.

It’s only once you’re swallowed beneath his height that you realize he means to slip behind you, and what is with this motherfucker and his apparent penchant for standing outside your vision—?! And though you swiftly turn to cut his antics short, he takes you by the waist just as suddenly–firmly pivots you around so that you’re facing away from him, again.  

You’re about to punch him in the throat when the flat plane of his stomach brushes warm against your back, which inexplicably stifles you. And, okay, not inexplicably, not exactly–he’s fucking hot, okay? And why is he doing this to you? All this, while a disquieted, “Brian, wha—?” actually withers and dies in your throat.

His words find the back of your ear. “Stop questioning me.” 

And as you falter, too derailed to really fight, his hand takes a hold of your elbow from where he stands against your back. Travels warmly down the length of your arm to your wrist. His touch weaving like fluid in how he takes that ill-used blowtorch from your tentative grasp, resting it just before you on the ledge of the table. As, into your palm, he transfers the cool, silver weight of whatever his chosen instrument. Gently closing your anxious fingers around its rubber-laced grip. And you glance tensely down to see some sort of saw in your mutual grasp with a jutting, three-inch blade at its tip.

No—not some sort of saw. It's the one he specifically chose for you back at the hardware store. Like he always suspected your night might lead to this.

A reciprocating saw.

‘A Moser favorite’, or so he’d told you. 

Something about that ties little knots near your navel, and if he notices, he’s disinclined to say. Instead instructing you in a bearish rumble so near the side of your head.

“This,” he says, manipulating your hand in the relative vastness of his own, “is a reciprocating saw.” 

He’s perhaps more serious than you’ve before seen him. As, with the guidance of one firm finger, he smooths your latexed fore down the length of the saw, past its secondary grip. Down, across the flat of its steel-carbon blade, tapered thin and half-lined with teeth. And even as unsmiling as he is, you still swear he pauses just a moment to breathe the scent of you in, though you really can’t be sure. “The one I told you about.”

His proximity, his touch–it all ensures you’re paying very close attention to everything he’s saying, and perhaps that was always his desired effect. To have you held in the heart of his hand, strung listening on a knife’s edge like this. And you have to hand it to him–it’s a pretty damn effective educational technique, if also dreadfully distracting. But what is Brian if not dreadful and distracting?

“Its blade pistons back and forth very quickly,” he continues to instruct, your mind highly attuned to how his words jaggedly pour against your ear. “Whatever it touches will cut. Will slice quite easily. Or else carve through with enough firm insistence.” 

The heat of his body against yours is far too intoxicating. His thumb grazing the delicate skin inside of your wrist as it traces the band of your glove. 

“So make sure that something isn’t you,” he lowly says beside your temple. “This is where control is your ally. Control of yourself, if only just. It’s a dangerous tool, this weapon, so be measured. Be present. And, above all else…” You hear the fatal softness of his smile so near your crown. “Have fun~” 

When he shifts away, you somehow feel colder at the loss. Watching with indescribable, flickering tension as he strides back to his spot in the rafters, with you left struggling to dislodge how tightly your jaw’s been wired shut.

This fucker has way too much of an effect on you.

His aura’s a wolf’s as he folds his lengthy arms again, settling back in how he watches. Avid light burning low in his gaze, two darkened embers, and he seems quite keen on this show you put on. Eager not to miss a single scene. A hungry witness from his leisure, and it takes so much longer than it should for you to somehow loose his gaze from how it slides inside and carves his name under your skin.

Stooping down to fetch the faceguard you’d previously tossed amidst your nauseous fit—which was all his fault, by the way—you strap it back on your head, its visor glancing against the light in its angle away from your face. And as you steady a trembling Gary within the crosshairs of your vision, that chosen hardware’s handle is throttled in your grip.

He sounds to plead with you from behind that haphazard gag of tape, his bugging eyes imploring. And as you stare down at him assuredly pleading with you, something stirs more and more in your chest. Something which fades all else in this room to hushed, pulsing darkness. Something sweltering, a discomforting comfort that slithers down the length of your spine, coiling low like an asp in your gut.

This thing in you, so much like hate, like loathing… it's given breath as you eye him. Fawn-legged with a stumbling, newborn uncertainty as it breaches some oil-slick surface, staining all of you greasy and black, and all you know is you can’t push it back. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at that rot that is Gary, but eventually you reach for that strip of adhesive strapped across his wordless cries, ripping it off him as he sucks back a painful, startled breath.

He doesn’t hesitate to degrade all that supposed morality some part of him still seems to insist he has, and yet having his foot burned like forgotten French toast has kinda put a dent in all of that.  

“Pl–please,” he snivels up at where you watch him, that pulse in his throat skipping fast. “Stop– please, I didn’t–I didn’t mean to do anything, I didn’t–! Please stop, please don’t–!” 

That thing in you. It leaks more and more as he talks. Acidic; sharp across your insides, corroding everything that’s touched.

“Please le-t me g-go! Please–! I didn’t–!”

“Do you think you deserve forgiveness?”

The question catches Gary off guard, such is its measured calmness. Himself blinking fast, rambles halted in his throat, before he’s gushing in a string without breath, “Y-yes! I–I do! I– pl-ease, please, I didn’t–I didn’t mean to do what I–wh-what I did, this is-n’t, it isn’t–I didn’t–!”

The longer he goes, the less sense he makes, until you’re left there wanting to slap him across his sputtering face as if it will bestow him any clarity. 

And it bothers you, you find. How, after all this time in this room together, after all these things he’s rambled on and on about, he still hasn't said those two important, near-magical words:

I’m sorry.

Hasn’t even attempted to lie them. Like the thought never once crossed his mind.

He should really say he’s sorry, shouldn’t he?

You’ll make it easy for him. After all, you’re here to help where you can. To make things right.

“Are you sorry?” you prompt to this end, very simply. Head scarcely tilted to one side in how you watch from above, and see his naked body twisting beneath that plastic as though still trying to flee you, as if he still has a chance to make it out. 

“Ye… Yes–!” he stammers, failing to convince as the words seem to burn his own tongue, yet still he scrambles for it. “Yes! I am!”

You watch him for a slow and silent moment, and nearly hear his rabbit-heart, so much faster than your own.

“How sorry?�� you ask, and see him hardly halted from persuading.

“S -s- so, so sorry–! I’m so sorry, I–I–this was–I w-wasn’t–!”

He’s rambling again. And, unamused, you soon cut him off.

“You see,” you say, watching him, “I just don’t quite believe you, Gary.” Your lips lightly purse as you hang there like a guillotine above his sweating, taped-down head. “Maybe you should try again. Try harder this time. Really convince me.” 

As he eyes you from where he’s fastened to that table, his forehead struggles beneath adhesive to crease, while the uncertainty of his drawn-on silence has you once more calmly prompting, “Go on.”

He’s really struggling to get the words out, like he isn't sure which words are keys to let him slip on by.

“I–I’m so, so so-rry,” he tries again, tape twisting at his brow with the effort of meeting your watchful gaze. “I-t wasn’t–wasn’t wh-at I–I d-didn’t mean for–I didn’t–!”

There he goes again, meandering, not really accepting blame for anything he’s done. And your contemplative hum interrupts his nonsensical warbling as your fingers tread down that heavy handle of the saw in your grasp, so weighted at your side; tensing in a row, once then twice, pinky to fore.

“See Gary,” you softly tsk your tongue, “I’m still not quite convinced.” Your tone is that of both you and he being caught in this predicament together, and together must solve it. You’re here to help.

He doesn’t say anything, his chubby jawline quiveringly tight, and so you rev the engine of that saw in your hand a bit, just to hear what it sounds like, just to loosen his blathering tongue, which briefly snarls as its trigger’s compressed. So sharply it even startles you, though you tense against showing it. See him whimper aloud as his interest jolts to that tool in your hand, alarum stripped toward some free-fall ledge.

“Maybe it’s something about your face,” you say as that engine’s snarl fades, seemingly oblivious to it; your eyes on your prey. “Or maybe it’s the way you looked while you were raping my niece in that video you were dumb enough to take. But you just don’t look like a trustworthy person, Gary.” You tilt your head again. “How many times have you watched that, by the way? I couldn’t really stomach it even once, myself.” You hum, so soft, so thoughtful. “I might have to scrape through your contacts just to see if you sent it to anyone else.” 

His eyes are tethered to that reciprocating saw as though fixed to an oncoming train, with him tied on its tracks. And you lift its heft above one shoulder, your elbow casually bent as you rest its weight just beside your head.

“But, maybe I’m biased as far as apologies go,” you continue. “I do have a horse in this race, after all, so I’ll give you one more chance.” You eye that way his gaze is so craned in his skull, glued to every shark-like tooth of your blade. “Tell me how sorry you are. Tell me all about how you’re a changed man. Tell me you’re better than this, that accidents happen. I’m sure you’ve got a good excuse in there somewhere, and I’m anxious to hear it.”

Twisted with dread that he can’t seem to swallow, he wriggles with words when his body’s wriggling won’t free him.

“I di-dn’t mean to!” he near-implodes, growing louder the more cracks in him leak composure out. “It’s not my fault! I-I’ll tur-n myself in–! I’ll–I’ll do whatever you want—!”

You purse your lips again, intrigued by this offer that soon has you prompting, “You will?” with mild contemplation.

He swiftly nods his taped-down head. Tries to, anyway, against how tightly Brian’s strapped him.

“Yes!” he chokes out, “anything! J-ust let me go!”

“Well…” you muse, amicable. Fingers thrummed along that handle in your hands again. “…Alright, then.”

You’re not fully sure what’s in control right now, but any restraint you once had is sheared thin beneath what furor ricochets in your head, too volatile to rule, too violently blurred to make any sense of. And as you reach up to lower your visor down across your face, Gary’s eyes are trembling wider. Your features surely masked from him in a sheen of reflective light as you venture, “I bet you’ve probably been wondering why you’re strapped to a fucking table right now.” 

You lower the saw to his neck, as though its blade is magnetized, drawn to that artery of his throat as it races to get away from you, and all the while he’s sputtering, “W-ait–! Wait–! I–!”

“Well,” you muse over him, weighing his skin with the jagged heft of that narrow blade, and feel him choke back a breath beneath it. “I wanna show you. And when I’m done… I’ll let you go.” Your eyes crease with a smile that never really comes. “Promise~”

Gary continues to cry, continues to plead, but you can no longer hear him above that fire which billows smoke thick up your throat, so fueled by the need to scrape this sadistic, child-eating fuck from the sole of existence. And you’re sure he’s screaming as you further dig that shark-toothed blade against his panicked pulse, but you can’t seem to care, can’t seem to help yourself, and all you really hear is your finger pull that trigger. Hear it floor to the hardware’s hilt as its motor kicks once more to life; a growling beast whose vicious, mechanical chugs bounce off the plastic-coated walls, and it was supposed to be slow, supposed to be drawn, his suffering, and yet you’re not really here, not anymore—not that version of you that you’ve known.

He’s far more fragile than he seems. And the second you start is the same that you’ve clipped through that wild, pumping artery. 

Red.

First a mist torn with teeth, then a flurry– 

Red. 

It slices you just as it does him; a ruby-wet, violent slash sprayed across your visor.

Red.

 Red.

   Ȓ̷̨̢̢̘̲̤͚̩͎̻̙̙̜̟̣̪̫͉͉͔͓̠̜̻͚̺͉̳̜̘̜̳̫̲̩̘̗̰͖̰̯͖̥͚̃͛̾̐́̐̆͊̓̂̍͘͘͜͝e̸̡̡̢̠͎̽̓̀́̇̀͗̇͊̓͌̆̄̆̒̈́̈́̃̔̒̊̍̈́̐̍̉̌͛̇͘͝͝d̶̥̮̱̱͚̣̞̣̉̅̑̀̇͛̐͒͑͂̔̇̊͆̍̈́̉̀̿͂̎̓̀͑̌̉̓̽͜͝

The color eats into your vision, and it’s all you see as you hold that saw inside him with both bloody hands, force its blade to dig deeper; a pistoned edge through squelching, ruddy meat as you squeeze that fucking trigger ‘till your hand’s numb and garnet splatters pulse in waves from his convulsing throat all across your mask, your naked throat, your gaitored arms, your aproned chest, so slick and offensively warm and there’s so much, too much when there shouldn’t be, you need to slow down, you’re going to fast, you shouldn’t–

Your wrist which holds the trigger is painfully twisted as your saw-blade hits bone, but you grab on firmer with your other hand and just keep on pushing—slave as you are to that saw-blade, to its hunger manifesting yours as it tears and cleaves and consumes beneath the waterlogged-snarl of its engine–

So.

Much.

B̷l̵o̵o̵d̷.̶

More than a person has to spare then go on living, but you can’t comprehend it, what’s false or fact; some part of you’s slipped beyond grasping. Left with nothing beyond what red-hot, feverish urgency compels you not to stop, forces your hands from ever resisting–you just keep sawing as all of you’s tremblingly tense, and all of him’s twitching like some death-spasmed insect beneath all that plastic the further you rend, and you just keep going, keep dragging that teetering blade ‘till you can’t even see–your mask transformed into a bridal veil of red, dripping down to that pool which steadily grows beneath your feet, your very vision spilled with it; red, red, red and you can’t fucking stop, the blade’s in his chest now–you’ve dragged it from his throat to his ribs, spilling the warm, sanguine cavity of his insides open as the plastic which shackles him splits just like the cage of his heart when you lean with more fury on that scarlet handle, so slick in your uneasy grip. A fuse so-ignited it defiles you, infects down to your marrow, that same marrow you shatter in him as you just keep sawing and splitting and tearing and you won’t ever stop and–!

Something’s tight in your airway, you can't seem to breathe; forced into adjusting your vengeful, impatient grip on that saw handle’s wetness and you have to keep going, you have to make him pay–scarcely sparing a second to swipe against your blood-shattered visor with the back of an unsteady hand, which only stains it further, you can still barely see, and yet–

And yet you still see it. 

See him.

For just a second, you pause–your breath erratic in your chest, your blood-greased finger slipped from off the trigger–as you see Gary on that table.

Lying there.

Unmoving. 

Blood pooling thick off the sides of that table’s every shrink-wrapped edge. A wet sack that used to be human. A molten mess of naked, ribboned flesh and entrails with its heart carved halfway out of what used to be his chest, as though some great and thirsting beast tore its claws through what was once living, and–no– no, no, he–!

He can’t be dead yet–! He–!

He hasn’t suffered nearly enough–! Not nearly as much as Ava has, and–!

He can’t be fucking dead yet–!  

He hasn’t earned it–! 

Hasn’t nearly paid his impossible debt–!

Rage wraps your mind in its vice. Blinding. Suffocating. And that sound which tears up your throat, scrapes your airway raw, is strangled by frustrated hate. And the second you floor the trigger once more is the same your other hand slips on the saw’s foremost grip, slick on the carnage which coats it–your fingers nearly tangled with its angrily snarling blade as it pistons back and forth without bias of what it might cut through, but you don’t care, you don’t fucking care, you don’t–!

–You don’t notice how Brian means to disarm you until he already has.

He comes up from behind in your blindness, and the second he’s there he’s seized your trigger-bound arm from behind and is wrenching it back. Stripping that heavy, bloodied blade from your red-slicked hands as its engine sputters and fades without you there to compel it, and you’re too overcome by the unthinking need to punish the already dead to keep it from being stolen; to keep it firm in your vengeful, scathing grasp.

You’re a fox in a trap. So intent to be free that you’d gnaw your own arm off. Completely mad and mindless with fury and anguish and so many awful things, so many glancing emotions all firing and misfiring in your heart and in your head and you’re–

“Get the fuck off of me–!”

You barely recognize yourself; savagely twisting against his tightened grasp to be free–hearing the grisly tool he stole from you be tossed aside before he’s seized and spun you in his grip, making you face him.

He’s saying something– loudly, you think–his lips are moving above how you glare, his expression stern, but you can’t hear him through wrath’s dominion–all you hear is your own viciously desperate screams lashing out at him like you’re some kind of rabid beast as you pummel and twist and–

“Let me–! A-agh–Get the–! fuck–! Get off me!”

He doesn’t listen, doesn’t care, and when you wrest one hand free enough to slap him, he merely flinches and lowly laughs–a mark of blood-slicked fingers sliding wetly off the high curve of his darkly-scruffed cheek, but he doesn’t recoil, doesn’t release you–

He seizes your offending wrist–brings both your trembling hands to the wall of his chest as he forces you more against that bloody table at your back, which tightly digs into the meat of your haunches; your heavy boots slipping in that steady pool of red which drips in streams from off its ledges.

“Easy there,” you finally hear him speak; his poise so foreign amidst your chaos that it offends you. “Hey, easy– Stop– Stop fighting me–”

It’s like he battles with a blood-drenched toddler, such is his strength above yours, but you can’t seem to stop. Your fruitless struggles eventually petering out like a flame in his storm till you’re wilting. And though you seeth and sharpened cries escape you as you struggle and thrash for release, you can’t escape him, you can’t even see–your visor so caked in sanguineous filth that it feels you can’t breathe.

A half-restrained sob leaves your chest as you continue to fight him, and his motions are coarse as he further restricts where you’d lead. Grabbing that gore-drenched faceguard from your head and tearing it off you, slinging it to the foot-trails of red at your feet, and you’re breathing far more fiercely as he takes your blood-stained jaw in the firmness of his grip, forcing your gaze up to his whilst you blink as though stricken.

His emerald-umber eyes hold yours with steady strings as he says your name, like your name on his lips were a disarming incantation, one meant to unshackle your mind from wherever it is, wherever it’s been, and you’ve never heard him say it. Your name; not before this moment. Your name, so deeply penned by his velvet voice, and it’s far more calming a hymn than any one word should ever be, the sound of it far more addictive…

“Calm down…”

His voice is hushed. Wrapping you in the silk of its stillness.

“There you go… Just breathe…”

There’s too much fuel in your veins; it's so hard to douse its voltage. But your hands clasped within his cease trying to flee, so tremulously halted, as he releases your face and holds them both against his chest, like he wants you to feel the measure of his heartbeats. And he’s a haven someone like him shouldn’t have, shouldn't be.

Blinking up at him with wild, wavered eyes, each breath you draw is shaken as, slowly, gradually, you start to settle, and he just as gradually smiles.

“You’re shaking…” he observes; large hands a solid anchor around yours, and they clasp just a fraction firmer around your trembling. And you bite your lip till it stings before you manage responding.

“I’m not shaking.”

His eyes lowly glint from above you. “Uh huh. And you nearly cut your own hand off, or at least a few fingers before I stepped in to stop you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Your teeth dig in your cheek again with the effort to steady your pulse, but still you argue back through your struggling, stubborn embarrassment, “No I didn’t.”

It’s all you say. Your only argument. Very convincing. And a sound like a low, wolfish chuckle is exhaled from his strongly-bridged nose.

“You’re the worst fucking liar. Are you even trying to convince me?”

Strung raw a million different ways right now, you merely glower, and as you try on instinct to pull away as though his comments have bitten, he softly laughs and pulls you into him. Wrapping one strong arm around you in some sort of embrace that leaves your eyes popping wide against his chest and your heart somersaulting into your ribs.

You hear his little hum within the warmth of his chest. A low rumble which vibrates through you as his long-fingered hand traces mindless, little circles across your back, as though tracing constellations. 

“It wasn’t a bad performance, though,” he says, as though excusing his previous insults. And he sounds like he means it, like he’s praising when he adds, “You put on quite the show…”

He hums again, so warm and so deep. But this time it's different. No longer thoughtful or amused, but almost…

Rueful.

And then he murmurs against your hair, so soft and so low, “It’s almost a shame it has to end like this…”

There's something lurking in his darkness. Something strung on a razor's edge. And no sooner has this sentiment left his lips that he seizes a rough fistful of your hair at the nape, fingers harshly knotted as he jerks your head back to fully face the towering height of him.

A muddied gasp dies on your teeth at the shock of it, with you wincing less from the sting of his ruthless grip than from the blow of your whiplashed bewilderment, especially as something glinting and cold finds your throat. Its sharpness angled up beneath the fragile line of your jaw–a dextrous and small, slender blade, like that of a surgeon’s scalpel–held so precariously against your neck, a flirtation of pressure which indents without breaking skin.

Your heart leaps up in fearful confusion beneath that attentive, carefully wielded blade. Blocked from response but to stare as comprehension slowly tears the walls of you open, brick by crumbling brick, while he gently tsks his tongue down at you. So reserved in how he feeds you his disappointment, like you really should have seen this coming…

His dark-fire eyes slowly map you, trailed across those things you can’t say.

“Did you really think I’d let you live,” he wonders lowly, a roughened murmur, “knowing as much as you do about my brother and me?”

✧˖° author's note:

look. in my defense, brian’s always been planning to kill you.

also i couldn’t resist giving you this move dex would be so proud :')

one chapter left~ might take me a minute to post it, life's kinda kicking my ass, thanks for reading!

[humunanunga]

So here's what I think it means: Ramb was most likely talking about Noelle, right? She'd be on the right with the laptop, maybe playing Cat Petters, while Kris was on the left, maybe using the cards and dice to learn parlor tricks (if web searches wouldn't pull up results for teaching humans magic, they might've still been interested in learning sleight-of-hand).

And I think that explains what happened to Spamton.

Tenna doesn't recognize him anymore because they knew each other back when Spamton was a [[BIG SHOT]] in a matching red suit. He might've even had his own commercials on Tenna's screen, but this was also when he resided in Queen's mansion alongside Swatch. (And if this was when the King and Queen met, then it's also when Spamton would've met Jevil.)

Meaning... Spamton's calls with his mysterious benefactor could've been through the landline. Especially if they were still on dial-up internet back then. They stopped because Noelle stopped coming over with the laptop.

And as for Tenna... the dates 12/25 (Christmas Day) and 2/13 (Valentine's Eve) prominently show up, and Kris' implied aversion to watching TV might've been because it was always shoving the tragedy in their face. But it's still unclear whether Tenna knows Dess was never found, or if he was trying to focus on better times, or if he really was trying to push Kris' buttons; but he should at least know she's gone. Dess was the mayor's daughter, after all. If she went missing, it would've been all over the news.

And that could've been why Asgore was removed from the force. He wouldn't let it go, so Carol made him. And if Chapter 4 says anything, he's still investigating in secret– and suspicious of her. And maybe she's just a coldhearted ass who got tired of her public image revolving around an unsolved case instead of her success as town mayor. But she's definitely sus as fuck.

Back to Ramb, though: I think him petrifying establishes what generally makes a Darkner "belong." Darkners are animated objects, and maybe he was simply an overdue loan like the tutorial for drawing dragons, but Ramb was library property regardless. That one Zapper might've been for Asgore' TV all along, since he seems to have the same kind at the flower shop, and his remote could've been borrowed or mixed up.

Meanwhile, the Pippins were safe because they were... that property's property. The Rudinns, according to one, were from Kris' deck, explaining why Lancer and Rouxls were unaffected.

What it doesn't explain is Chapter 4 (which so far is likely more to do with the two Dark Worlds being treated as flipsides) or why the classroom Darkners don't seem to recognize Kris, but maybe the latter's for gender reasons. If Ralsei is an outdated sona, then Kris at least used to present as a boy like the brother they wished to be more like, and the Card Kingdom simply wasn't there to witness Kris' transition. Or maybe those Darkners forgot the Lightners just like the Lightners forgot them, but... speaking of Dark Worlds...

...belonging. The storage closet is an ideal place for a Dark Fountain because anything could belong in a place like public storage.

And maybe that's why Ralsei was put there in the first place. Safekeeping.

Darkners in Castle Town are safe from the Player. We can harm Darkners and even Lightners in other worlds, but not this one. We're not given the option. That's how Ralsei's been kept safe all this time. Chapters 3&4 give us opportunities to hurt his feelings, which Kris will resist, but he can't be damaged or killed through Kris.

Maybe not just Ralsei either. Kris' side of the room, or at least the side they sleep on, is empty... and noticably desaturated like the door to Dess' room... and their locker is also empty. The locker could be due to their implied absence, but it could also be because they knew a Player would come (or come back) and they didn't want to give us access to anything of theirs that they wanted left untouched.

It's been speculated since Chapter 1, I've been coming back to the possibility that this isn't Kris' first time being under a Player's control. We don't know how we seized Kris' body or why, or if we're the first; even if we are, though, there's a chance Kris knew to expect us. And so they prepared accordingly while they still had bodily autonomy.

Might post another ramble after I finish my Chapter 3&4 replay, now that I have save files with Dealmaker, Jevilstail and the original Starwalker again.

[n30nwrites]

Good Doggy (Shifter! TF141 x Male!Reader)

Chapter 1

Masterlist here

Warnings - Some awkwardness and staring

Updated; 3/5/2024 with more details

Beta Reader: @letmelickyoureyeballs whose saving my life right now.

You had to leave your job in the city for your own safety, to an abandoned house left by your aunt, who you were close to until she passed. It was a struggle to get there, most of your cousins wanted to burn it down, as did your father.

But in times like these, you needed it.

The car pulled up to the house, a Jeep that was filled to the brim with everything you could grab. Suitcases and trash bags filled with items. You didn't even have a bed, just some pillows and blankets. Maya would be by later and she would set up her own room. Thinking of her caused you to fiddle with the knife in your pocket, your thumb rubbing over the runes that were etched into the metal.

The house was nice. Large, you looked it up on Zillow because you could barely remember what it looked like. 4 beds, 3 baths, fully paid for.

And you would be alone in it. 

The car was parked so that your trunk was facing the garage, opening it with a click of a button and dragging everything out. Quickly, avoiding your neighbors’ stares as they walked out. One neighbor in particular who didn't seem to stop even when you stared back at him.

A mohawk, buff thighs and arms, and his mouth was slightly opened as he kept staring. You stared back, glaring at him as every time you turned back in the car he was there.

Until he turned into air. Just a second and he was replaced by someone else, someone who was taller than him and with a mask that had a skull on it.

You had a mask on as well, but yours was a plain black medical mask. And Mohawk was back next to him, and both just stared.

You didn't like the staring, you escaped that city for a reason.

So you finished shoving all your stuff in the garage and locked your car, staring at them until the garage closed, where you could finally take a breath, taking the mask off as you relaxed in your closed-off house, all the doors locked and the windows covered.

You went to your future bedroom, your aunt's items were gone. All the furniture was taken when she died. In your cousin's words "You got the house, not her stuff" and you were fine with that. No pictures, no couches nor shelves, just plain purple walls. All appliances were gone as well. No fridge or stove, it was dead.

And Your cousins just burned it all. It was such a waste.

You were fine with it, it was almost comforting. Her spirit wasn't around anymore. 

"I'm hungry..." you grumbled to yourself, grabbing your new phone and calling the closest pizza place.

"How is that even possible?" John Price was angry. He liked things to be planned to the very last detail. It kept him and his pack safe. Moving to this small town with a large forest was for safety, and now it could all be screwed up because of a new neighbor.

A new neighbor that was supposedly Soap's AND Ghost's mate.

Stupid fucking shifters.

He says that as if he isn't jealous. Part of moving here meant that they also had the ability to leave quickly if needed, and having an attachment like a mate, especially a human one, meant that Ghost and Soap wouldn't leave without you.

Whether they would force you or not would be your decision.

But it was all so stupid. Stupid enough that Price thought about killing you, for just a moment. And then he looked at Soap's lovestruck look and completely forgot that idea.

It was time for him to meet you. To actually see what the big deal was.

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick wanted Soap to shut up. Ghost knew when to be quiet, and Gaz could appreciate that. But if he had to be reminded of how lonely he was one more time he was going to snap.

Of course the second in command and the lieutenant found their mate. Of course it had to be a human.

And Gaz wanted to be happy for his friends, of course he did but god did he wish it was him instead. He had always been so lonesome and just focused on finding this one person, but since he's left to live a (relatively) normal life, he's had no hope. It's just been him and the pack, and while they were great people, he couldn’t see himself marrying them.

He almost cringes thinking about it.

But Gaz shuts up instead as Soap goes on about this person who moved in right across from them. About how amazing they looked and what Soap spotted in their suitcases. He seemed obsessive over every detail and Gaz wished it was him.

But he grins and laughs and tells Soap "I can't wait to meet him" because that's what good friends do.

NEXT

Alright so I know it's been a hot second, here me out. Things have gotten super stressful and I basically couldn't function for a few months but I'm gonna try to write some more so here's a new story I'm working on, IDK I like the idea of it and it's mainly for me more than anything so.

[writingchalamet]

Angels Like You

This is part 1 of my new Bucky series, taking place just after FATWS, Sam and Bucky are visiting Sarah when they meet her neighbour Y/n, who happens to catch Bucky's eye, the rest you'll have to find out...

Slow burn, eventual smut.

2.4k words

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, mentions of graphic physical abuse, fluff, y/n has a child

Please do not read if you find these topics upsetting or triggering, my inbox is always open for any messages 🧡

Chapter 1

Bucky's ears tingled with the sound of Cass and Aj's voices echoing through the house as they played, along with the clatter of feet smacking against the wood floors and laughter. A smile crept its way to Bucky's face as himself and Sam walked down the drive to Sarah's house, upon hearing the chaos that ensued inside. The sun beamed down in golden streams lighting the path towards the house, that's when he saw her, sitting on the front lawn with Sarah, smile on her face, eyes gleaming and laughing along with something Sarah had said to her. He felt it instantly in his chest, his heart stopped for a minute.

"You okay, Cyborg?" Sam nudged his vibranium arm arching his brow in question. "Yeah, yeah sorry, thought I forgot my keys but we're good" Sam side eyed him but continued down the path to the house.

"Sam! Bucky! Hey! Kids your uncle Sam is here!" Sarah called out to the boys, rising from her seated position from the floor, her unknown companion says something about drinks and heads inside, not before turning her head and nodding towards the two men. "Hey baby sis" Sam engulfs her in a hug as the pair reach, her reply about not being a baby is muffled by Sam's chest which gains a laugh from Bucky. "How are you guys doing?" Bucky asks as they split, nodding his head towards the house.

"You know, we're good, busy as ever, the kids miss their uncle though" she nudges Sam. "Hey, not just anyone can be Captain America, think of the street cred those kids will get" Sarah and Bucky both roll their eyes scoffing in unison. "Anyway I have a question, who was your hot friend that was sitting with you?" Sam wiggled his eyebrows smirking looking back towards the house, where you could be seen in the kitchen window making a pitcher of lemonade.

"Sam! That's my friend Y/n, she lives next door, and she has a bakery in town" She sighed as she answered knowing she couldn't avoid the question. "Yeah, yeah okay, but is she single" Sam enquired rather pointedly. "Not for you, she's not, stay away Sam! I'm serious she got out of a real bad relationship and she doesn't want to date!" Bucky couldn't help but feel his own heart break a bit, he didn't know what was wrong with him, he hadn't even met you. Just as Sam was about respond, no doubt some witty comment about being the hero to sweep you off your feet, the sound of the front door opening interrupted them, Cass and AJ came out carrying a pitcher and glasses placing them on the outdoor table before pouncing towards their uncle and his friend. But Bucky couldn't keep his eyes off the front door as you emerged with a little boy attached to your hip, he pointed at the sky and muttered something as your pointed back a smile adorning your face as you approached the group.

"Hey" you breathed out as you reached everyone, standing next to Bucky, you couldn't help but feel judged as you felt his strong gaze unwavering on you and your son. You didn't know much about Bucky, just what Sarah had told you, the former Winter Solder turned good guy, born in 1917, Hydra captive then the Wakandans broke his trigger words or something like that. But why was he staring at you, was it because there was no apparent ring on your ring finger and you had a baby, you knew he was from a different time but surely he didn't think so outdated. "Hi, I'm Bucky" he extends his had to you, you shake it nervously, unwrapping one arm from your child to do so. "Y/n".

"Hi I'm Sam, and who's this little guy?" Sam gives you a wave, then tilts his head smiling at the boy in your arms, who buries his head in your chest at the sudden attention. "Oh this is Forrest, you gonna say hi baby" you tickle the babies belly erupting the sweetest giggle from him as he nuzzles further into your chest, "sorry he's shy around new people" you smile stroking his curls away from his eyes. "Aw just like you Bucky" Sam laughs which earns him a smack from Sarah. "How old is he" Bucky asks quietly, still not looking away from you, "He's one and half" this time you speak directly to Bucky turning more and meeting his eyes, it's then you realise the soft smile he wears across his face as he looks rather intently at you.

As you turn towards him, Bucky takes notice of your face, committing it to memory, he notes every line, freckle, the way your smile curves, the slight indentations in your cheeks as you do, the way your nose crinkles as you look at your son, how your eyes seem to brighten when you talk about him, then he notices a small scar on the side of your face above your eyebrow, how the jagged little line fades into the skin. He spots another faded scar like it on your hand as you continue to brush back the babes hair away from his face. Forrest points up to the sky and excitedly squeaks "bird" as one flies overhead. Bucky again couldn't help but make another mental note, this time of the way the baby who very much resembled his mother, and how his little face lit up at the sight.

"Oh well done Forrest, bird!" Sarah came forwards enthusiastically clapping her hands pointing to the sky. "Bird! Bird! brr brrr brrr-" Forrest continued to babble away to himself, pointing to the sky at the birds. "Bird was his first word, that's pretty much all he says besides mama and bye, he loves birds" you laugh bouncing him on your hip. "Oh Sam he'd love you in your bird costume!" Sarah jokes, Sam however who's eyes seem to pop out of their sockets at the comment does not find it funny, while Bucky laughs. "Costume! it's a suit, a suit that saves the world I'll have you know! bird costume.." he tuts kissing his teeth.

"Well I think your bird costume is cool uncle Sam" AJ pipes in. "Me too" Cass adds though is overlapped by a heavily frustrated Sam "-it's not a bird costume!! you know what, next time any of you guys need saving I'm leaving y'all to fend for yourselves. pfft bird costu-" his rant was cut short by Sarah "Well that's not true and you know it, you love me big brother, kids get in on this" Sam is soon bundled to the floor by Sarah and the kids piling on top of him all of them laughing harmoniously.

"Okay as much as I want to stay I have to get this little angel down for his nap, so I'll head back to mine, thanks for letting us play guys" You shout at the group hearing a faint 'okay love you' from Sarah under all the laughing. You turn to Bucky and smile, "It was nice to meet you Bucky, maybe see you again sometime" this time you extend your hand to him which he took in a heartbeat. Smoothing his thumb over the soft skin as he stands a little taller nodding. "Yeah it was great meeting you guys, bye Forrest" he turns his attention towards the tired toddler in your arms who sleepily lifts his hand giving Bucky a small wave goodbye, making the old mans heart skip a few beats. "Bye Bucky" you gently let your hand slip from his holding eye contact with him for just a few more seconds before daring to tare yourself away.

As you carry yourself down the driveway, one thing you were certain of. Bucky had made your heart melt in just a few small moments.

Bucky and Sam had been staying with Sarah for two nights now. The pair of them loving the 'uncle duties' as Sam liked to call it, playing with the kids while Sarah worked, showing them how to fly Redwing and dangling off Uncle Bucky trying to take him to the ground. Buck wouldn't admit it, but he secretly loved how the kids had taken to him so quickly. the thought of being a part of a family especially one with kids seemed so far out of reach, so he appreciated Sam for letting him join his. However, he did feel a tinge of disappointment over the fact that you had not been over to visit since the first day they had arrived. Sure, he had caught a glance of you cooking in your own kitchen window when they were on their way out yesterday afternoon, and sure you heard a commotion through your open window looking up in an instant hoping to catch a glimpse of a certain blue eyed beauty, eyes meeting for only a second before you had to tear them away to check your toddler wasn’t playing with knives or anything. Bucky again felt the small pang of rejection in his chest as you looked away just as quickly as you looked at him.

Over dinner that evening Bucky was surprised it was Sam that brought you up as a topic of conversation clearly reading the signals that he had wanted to know more about you without seeming nosy. “So, your friend Y/n” Sam suggested the topic after swallowing a mouthful of beer, finding the confidence, Bucky instantly perked up, waiting to see what Sarah would say. She only tilted her head to the side cocking an eyebrow. “What about her Sam” there was a brief pause, Sam looked between Sarah and Bucky, “You know, what’s her deal” he took another swig of his drink feeling slightly under pressure. The man could fight evil and not break a sweat but ask his sister a challenging question and the boy would crack. “Her deal is none of your business Sam” Sarah stated matter of factly. “Oh, common Sarah, we’re just curious” Sarah huffs and sits back in her seat looking between the two men. Bucky gives her a subtle nod letting her know it’s okay.

“If either of you say anything to her, I will beat you both senseless, got it!” she points across the table at both the men sitting next to each other. Bucky and Sam raise their hands in unison, the sight quite comical for Sarah.

“I told you she got out of a bad relationship, but I didn’t say how bad. She moved from Wyoming to get away from him, she was with him for years, he’d keep her locked in the house, put her in the hospital god knows how many times, but she was too terrified to press charges against him. Then she got pregnant and it got worse, she told me he said he was gonna kill her and the baby and she finally left while he was at work one day, got in the car and drove for a day straight until she got here, she didn’t know anyone, she was living out of her car, I let her stay at mine when I met her and found out what happened and got her in contact with her family again and they helped her buy her house and open her store, she used to have a café back in Wyoming before she met Matt, but he made her sell it, asshole. But anyway she has a restraining order against him but he keeps showing up here, we don’t know how he found out she lives down here, but he keeps coming and waiting for her outside her shop across the street and just stares at her, we don’t know if he lives in town now or if he just travels here to shake her down then goes back, but the guy is nuts.” Sarah’s chest felt heavy as she released the intel on her best friend, she couldn’t read the faces of her brother and Bucky, something distinguishable between disgust and regret of asking on Sams face but Bucky she could practically hear the gears turning in his Vibranium arm as he clenched his fist, nostrils flared and jaw tight, the man looked ready to fight.

“Have you guys not called the police about harassment” Bucky all but snarled. “Yeah, but they said they can’t do anything as he has never breached his restraining order, he’s not allowed within one hundred feet of her or Forrest and no contact is to be made, and so far he’s not done that, he’s never even met Forrest, I don’t think he’s ever seen him, he just sits on a wall in town opposite her shop, and the police say that’s not harmful and no means for arrest, or some shit like that I don’t know.” Sarah shook her head again at the thought.

“That’s bullshit” Bucky’s hand hit into the table with force causing the drinks to knock over and spill. Sarah let out a little yelp at the sudden boom of his voice. “Ah sorry” already picking up the classes and reaching for napkins and cleaning the mess. “Maybe we could hire her a bodyguard? What about Torres, I bet he’d love it!” Sam piped up again nodding to Bucky with a grin on his face. “She doesn’t need a baby sitter, what she needs is the police to do their job and arrest the creep who threatened her and her sons life multiple times but is still somehow walking around scott free” Sarah’s words seem to hit a nerve with Bucky, as he rises from the table storming towards the exit.

The thought of you in danger kept Bucky awake all night, not that he ever got much sleep anyway, but you and Forrest were keeping him up more than usual and he found it near maddening. Deciding to take things into his own hands the next day, he asked Sarah if you would be home, after finding out you would be in your Bakery he was very excited to pay you a visit, though that excitement soon turned to dread at the sight of a man having you pressed against the wall with his hands around your neck, while screaming in your face through the window of your shop. Matt had picked the wrong day to break his restraining order, and Bucky sure was happy of his saviour complex.

[scary-grace]

Enough to Go By (Chapter 27) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Your best friend vanished on the same night his family was murdered, and even though the world forgot about him, you never did. When a chance encounter brings you back into contact with Shimura Tenko, you'll do anything to make sure you don't lose him again. Keep his secrets? Sure. Aid the League of Villains? Of course. Sacrifice everything? You would - but as the battle between the League of Villains and hero society unfolds, it becomes clear that everything is far more than you or anyone else imagined it would be. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Chapter 27

It’s bizarre to be so close to All Might. He’s the object of so much of Tomura’s hatred, and you’ve laid your fair share of blame on him, too – the Number One hero, the strongest and the fastest, able to save everyone except the person who matters most to you. But that’s not who he is anymore. Right now he looks so thin and fragile that even your hatred could break him in half.

The words leave your mouth in a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“Present Mic left you in the interrogation room to teach you a lesson. He was not authorized to do so. When we came to retrieve you, you were unconscious.” All Might coughs into a handkerchief. “There is an unusual amount of strain on your heart.”

You don’t want anyone thinking about that. “Is this some kind of good cop, bad cop thing?”

“No,” All Might says. All Might’s not a good liar. “If you choose to view it that way, perhaps. Your relationship with Present Mic is adversarial. I have hope that you can help me with something else.”

“With what?”

“You said something to Present Mic before he terminated the interview,” All Might says instead of answering you. “You appeared to take the blame for Shigaraki Tomura’s ascent as a villain. I’m interested in why you said that.”

You clam up. All Might doesn’t look worried. “You were unconscious for quite some time,” he says. “It gave me the opportunity to compile some research I’d been conducting. You see, it didn’t strike me as an accident that the first town Shigaraki destroyed when the war began was your hometown. The destruction was telegraphed enough in advance that most of the residents were able to evacuate, and I took the opportunity to interview them, to see if any of them could tell me something about you. The picture that emerged was similar to the one that emerged when I spoke to your friends, family, and coworkers, with one important difference. Nearly everyone in your hometown who spoke of you spoke another name in conjunction with yours.”

He sets a tablet down on the bed in front of you and presses play on a video. The woman speaking looks vaguely familiar to you. You don’t know why until you hear her voice, and realize with a jolt that she’s your preschool teacher.

“Oh, she and that Shimura boy were always together. You couldn’t separate them,” she’s saying. “I never saw a pair of students as close as those two.”

So it was obvious from the beginning, what you and Tenko were to each other. Someone prompts the interviewee from off-screen. “What was he like?” your teacher repeats. “A little emotional, but the sweetest boy you’ve ever seen. It was terrible, what happened to him.”

She keeps talking, you think, but All Might swipes to another video. This one is from a neighbor on your same block. “I saw them walk home together from school every day. They lived across the street from each other.”

All Might swipes again. Your kindergarten teacher, now. “— worst case of puppy love I ever saw. Kids are all or nothing at that age, but things weren’t the best for either of them at home. They probably felt like it was them against the world. If what happened had happened to her instead of him, he’d have gone just as insane as she did.”

“We’ll return to that in a moment,” All Might says. He lifts the tablet out of your lap. “There are no official records of the fate that befell the Shimura family, and the memories of those who lived on the street are clouded. They do remember, however, how you reacted to what you found in the Shimuras’ home, and that allowed me to piece together a likely course of events. Everything points to Shimura Tenko’s quirk awakening unexpectedly, and the surprise combined with a child’s lack of control led to his family becoming casualties.”

He consults his folder. “The neighbors reported shouting from inside the house earlier that afternoon, and some stated that they could hear a child crying in the yard. Late-breaking quirks are known to activate in states of heightened emotion. It seemed likely to me that Tenko did not intend to kill his family members — and the reports from those who knew you both do not describe a child with an innate desire to harm others. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

You catch yourself nodding. “To me, this answers two of the questions that have been plaguing us with regard to a psychological profile of you,” All Might says. “How you first encountered Shigaraki, and why you would choose to side with him. And it bears out a theory that I have held for some time — that it is possible, in fact, necessary, to save Shigaraki Tomura.”

Your eyes well up before you can stop them. Your breathing hitches, and no matter how hard you dig your nails into your palms, it doesn’t help. You flip your left hand, sink your nails into the back of it, and pull hard, trying to ground yourself, but All Might snatches your hands away. “Please don’t hurt yourself,” he says anxiously. “You are not in trouble. You are among friends. I understand that this is likely the first time anyone has expressed the idea to you that Shigaraki can or should be saved —”

“Stop saying that!” Your voice cracks, shatters. “You don’t want to save him. You want to kill him, just like everyone else! I’m not going to help you hurt him! I don’t want anyone to hurt him ever again.”

Your heart rate is escalating. All Might is gesturing anxiously, trying to calm you down, but you talk over him, struggling to catch your breath. “You want to know why I made the bullets? That’s why! So the next time one of you tries, I can take away the only thing any of you care about! I’m not stupid. I know what you want to do! If you want to kill him, you’ll have to kill me, too!”

You regret the words the instant they leave your mouth. It’s a clue, the biggest one you’ve ever left, but All Might doesn’t react even slightly. He keeps your hands separated so you can’t scratch and speaks calmly. “Do you believe his current state is your fault because you couldn’t save him when you were children? If my research is correct, you tried harder than anyone else. While there’s no record of his disappearance, there’s a lengthy record of your efforts to find him in the form of police reports, school incident responses, and medical records. Your efforts didn’t cease until you were placed on a not insignificant dose of risperidone.”

That’s an antipsychotic. Your parents put you on an antipsychotic so you would stop looking for Tenko — and as if that wasn’t enough, they wiped your memory, too. Fury begins to bubble up within you. All Might keeps talking. “You were a child. It was not your job to rescue him. It was my job, and I failed him,” he says. Your chest goes tight. “I’m tired of failing him. I believe he can be saved, and so do you. Will you help me do it?”

“Why do you need me?” Your voice is hoarse. You can’t be fooled. You need to be careful. “I’m not a hero. I’m nobody.”

All Might shakes his head. “You know Shigaraki better than anyone else,” he says. He rises from his chair. “Get some rest, and think about what we’ve discussed. In spite of what some of my colleagues may have said, it’s not too late — for either of you.”

All Might is tricking you, or trying to trick you. You’re almost certain of it. There’s no reason why a hero would conclude that you could be saved, let alone that Tenko could, and there’s no way they’d ever ask you to help them save him. You’re a villain. There’s nothing redeemable about you at all in the eyes of heroes. You deserve to rot in Tartarus forever. Why is letting you die a step too far? Society’s made their decision about you; that’s why you’re here. You aren’t worth saving.

Except Midoriya Izuku saved you, didn’t he? And All Might took the time to learn about Tenko’s past through you, to see that he hasn’t always been the way he is now. Should you have spoken up more, explained how much of the boy you knew is still present within the person he is now? Maybe. As long as they aren’t trying to trick you. As long as it isn’t all a ploy by the heroes to learn as much as they can about Tenko. To make him easier for them to kill.

You don’t know what the right thing to do is. How is it that it was easier for you to choose to step into your role as Tenko’s sidekick than it is for you to try to save him? Was it because it was just you, because the only people you had to trust to do it were the same people you’ve always trusted — yourself, and your best friend?

But you’ve learned to trust other people, too. You trusted Kurogiri to protect Tenko along with you. You trusted Kazuo to tell you the truth, even when you didn’t want to hear it. You trusted Mitsuko and Ryuhei to help you, not to sell you out. You trusted the League, some of them more than others, into wanting some of the same things that you want. You even trusted a few members of the Meta Liberation Army, by the end. Trusting people hasn’t been a mistake. Yet.

Your heart is racing again. You can’t tell if it’s because something’s happening to Tenko or because your own anxiety is driving it onward, but you press your hand against your chest and try to take deep breaths. All Might left the call button on the bed. You can press it if something goes wrong. In the mean time, you need to calm down. And by the time someone else comes to talk to you, you need to have made a decision.

All Might comes to talk to you the next day, but he’s not alone. You don’t know who he brought, but they want to talk to you by themselves first, and All Might asks if that’s okay with you, like you have any kind of choice in the matter. You say yes. Of course you’re going to say yes. All Might leaves, and someone else slips in through the door. Someone you recognize. “Midoriya.”

Midoriya Izuku’s gaze is flat as he looks at you. “It’s Deku.”

“I’m not calling you useless,” you say.

“What I call myself is my business,” Midoriya says. “That’s my hero name. You’re a villain.”

“I still don’t call people useless,” you say. “Does using your real name feel like that much of an insult to you?”

Midoriya’s eyes flash, and in them, you see the echo of an anger you recognize, a moment before he forces it down. You recognize that, too. “You took away Kacchan’s quirk,” he says. “Why did you do that?”

“So he wouldn’t blast me in the face,” you say. Midoriya’s expression twists. “I was supposed to let him hurt me?”

“You were trying to take away Aizawa-sensei’s quirk, too. Why?” Midoriya asks. His voice pitches upwards, cracks, and you remember all at once — he’s just a kid. “You know what it’s like to be quirkless. How could you do that to someone?”

“Because I don’t think that being quirkless is the worst thing that can happen to someone,” you say. “It’s not even close to the worst thing that’s happened to me.”

Midoriya looks like he thinks you’re out of your mind. Like he can’t imagine why any quirkless person wouldn’t hate every second of their life. An impulse boils up within you, an impulse to twist the knife, but you crush it. You’re a villain, sure. You’re not that kind of villain. “Do you have other questions for me?”

“Why did you decide to be a villain?”

That one pulls you up short. “You can’t save people unless you understand them,” Midoriya says. He looks tired. Way too tired for a fifteen-year-old. His hands are laced with surgical scars. “I don’t understand Tenko. I’ve tried, and I can’t. But you do, so maybe if I understand you — and you understand him — maybe I can make him stop.”

Your stomach clenches, and it’s not just because you’ve heard someone else use Tenko’s real name. “You want to kill him.”

“No!” Midoriya visibly recoils from the idea. “I want this to stop. I want my friends to stop getting hurt. I want people to be able to go home, if there’s anything left of home. I just want this to be over fast, and killing Tenko won’t end it. Just like letting you die wouldn’t have.”

He looks at you, holds your gaze. “I want to make it stop, but there’s a right way to do it and a wrong way, and I want to do it the right way. So tell me why you became a villain.”

You want to tell him, but you also feel like this is above his grade level. Midoriya looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “I know you guys are in love. I heard it.”

That strikes you as weird. “What do you mean, you heard it?”

“In One For All.”

You sit there with that for a second. “Tell me about what happened after I fell. Then I’ll tell you why I’m a villain.”

After you fell, Midoriya caught you. As soon as you were on the ground, heroes took you away, hid you from Tenko. Not that Tenko had a chance to look for you. He was taking critical hit after critical hit while the heroes tried to overwhelm Super-Regeneration and kill him, and according to Midoriya, something was wrong with him. “It didn’t make sense,” he says. “Based on what he’s able to do now, he should have crushed us. But it was like he was fighting himself.”

Your heart sinks. “We knew he’d gotten a bunch of quirks, and we knew one of them was probably All For One,” Midoriya continues. “I knew he wanted One For All, so I left the battlefield, hoping he’d chase me, and he did. When he tried to take it from me, we wound up in the world of One For All.”

“The world of One For All?”

“Where the vestiges of the past wielders live,” Midoriya says. You don’t know what to say to that. “Tenko was there, but it wasn’t just him. There was something else in there, like a shadow, and it was talking to him. Telling him you were dead and nothing mattered anymore.”

That breaks through the cloud of despair your failure’s left you suspended in. “I’m not dead.”

“I tried to say, but I can’t talk in that world yet,” Midoriya says. That makes as much sense to you as everything else Midoriya’s said so far, which is to say it doesn’t make any sense at all. “The shadow looked like it was Tenko’s, but it wasn’t him. It it kept trying to move without him. And then it moved him. Like he was a puppet or something. I was right there, but they weren’t fighting me anymore. They were fighting each other.”

Your chest goes tight, shortening your breath again. “Everybody had caught up to us by then,” Midoriya explains. “When I woke up, I knew it wasn’t Tenko fighting. I could see the shadow — Tomura. And I guess Tomura didn’t like how the fight was going, so he withdrew, and the rest of the army went with him. If he hadn’t —”

“It would have been the end of hero society,” All Might says from the door. “The end of Japan as we know it. We couldn’t defeat him. And since then —”

“We know which one of them is in control when a battle happens,” Midoriya breaks in. “You can tell when it’s Tomura because he’ll — hurt himself — while he’s fighting. We think it’s to stay in control of Tenko’s body, but we’re not sure. When it’s Tenko, he fights different. He destroyed the city where UA was, but we’d thought he was headed somewhere else, so the evacuations were still going on when they got there. The whole city fell apart from Decay, but none of the refugees died from it. He destroyed everything but them.”

“In short,” All Might says, “The alternate personality – Tomura – cares nothing for life. Tenko appears to.”

Of course he does. Tenko’s killed people — a lot of people — but he doesn’t kill indiscriminately. Thousands died in Deika City, but Tenko was defending himself, defending the League, defending you. The deaths of the Creature Rejection Clan were on Spinner’s behalf, the murder of Overhaul’s minion one piece of revenge for Magne. Tenko doesn’t take joy in killing people. Even when you played games as children, he just wanted to win. He never wanted the villain to die. All Might leaves the doorway and comes closer. “We need to know how the alternate self came to possess Tenko’s body. And if there’s any way to help Tenko regain control.”

“It’s really important,” Midoriya says earnestly. “If there’s anything that — um, are you crying?”

It’s kind of a dumb question. You’re absolutely crying — head in your hands, headache already building, struggling to breathe while your eyes stream and your nose runs. You know what’s happening here. “Tenko and Tomura are the same person,” you say. “The shadow is All For One.”

There’s a split second where Midoriya and All Might simply stare at you. Then they both start talking, talking over each other, trying to get you to explain. But there’s nothing to explain. It’s all so simple. You thought you’d saved Tenko by swapping out All For One, but it didn’t work. Some part of All For One escaped, or snuck through, or something — or maybe it’s your fault again, because All For One came back after you let yourself get captured and almost killed. Either way, you screwed up royally. You lost your best friend, again, and this time the only person who could have stopped it is the same person to blame. You.

It takes a while for you to calm down enough to speak, to remind yourself that it’s not over until both of you are dead, that as long as you’re both alive there’s a chance. Midoriya and All Might want to help Tenko. All Might seems to want to help you, too. You’re locked up here, unable to reach him, but the two of them could. And that means you need to tell them what they need to know to save your best friend.

It takes explaining. A lot of explaining. Neither of them are getting the details, but they pick up enough of the big picture to understand what you tried to do. Mostly. “All For One is still in prison. How could Tenko have been given the original quirk?”

“All For One has a copy, so the doctor could give the original to Tomura. They had extra copies of it, too. And a Nomu that could make copies of things,” you say. Midoriya scribbles something in a notebook. “I swapped the original for a copy.”

“Could the doctor have swapped it back for the original without your knowledge?” All Might asks. You shake your head. “How do you know?”

“I destroyed it.”

All Might coughs. “What?”

“You destroyed All For One,” Midoriya repeats. “How?”

“The quirk factor is in his hands. His palms. They had them on a slide. I tested them to make sure they weren’t copies and then I cut them up.” You’re not sure why they’re looking at you like that. They asked. “It was the only way I could think of.”

All Might nods briskly, but he still looks supremely creeped out. “Since you made the switch, and you were present during the entire process, what is your best guess as to what happened?”

“I think –” You can’t burst into tears again. You dig your nails into the back of your hand. “The imprint of Sensei’s personality was still there. It couldn’t take over unless Tomura let his guard down. Now it won’t go away, but it doesn’t have full control over him. Tomura is still there.”

“What if we cancel his quirks?” Midoriya asks. “That would get rid of All For One, and we’d win.”

“It won’t be so easy. Remember, his speed and strength were sharply increased even when Eraserhead canceled his quirks,” All Might cautions. “We’d be better off if we could simply target All For One. You said it’s in his hands?”

“If we can’t land a good hit on him, there’s no way we’d be able to cut both his hands off,” Midoriya says. You feel like you’re going to be sick. "Besides, he’s got that regeneration quirk now. If we cut them off they could grow back just like they were.”

“He had the quirk for several weeks before the attack,” All Might says, “and the takeover occurred at a moment when Tenko was vulnerable. What would it take for him to regain control on his own?”

You think you have an answer. You don’t want to say it. It’ll sound really self-serving, and you don’t need to, not when Midoriya’s in the process of getting there on his own. “We’ve noticed that Tenko’s more likely to be in control when members of the League are present. Which might be why All For One’s been sending them away when he’s not. As of the attack in Yokohama the only member of the League who’s still with Tenko is Spinner. All the others have been sent elsewhere, or — um —”

He glances at you, guilty and uncomfortable, and somehow you know what he’s trying not to say. “Was someone hurt?”

“Giran was killed,” All Might says. He looks like he feels bad. You feel worse. “By Endeavor, in the battle for Kyoto. Compress was badly injured during an ambush of Shiketsu High. It’s unclear if he’ll survive.”

You swallow hard. “What about Toga?”

“The PLF fighters we’ve captured indicated that Toga’s gone underground. We’re not sure why, or where she is currently. If we could contact her —”

“Twice has gone missing, too,” Midoriya interrupts. “Nobody’s seen him since the battle at your headquarters.”

“And Dabi?”

“We don’t know,” All Might says. “All For One may have sent him on a mission, or may have had him killed. He hasn’t been seen since Kyoto.”

The League is scattered, or dead. All For One wants Tomura to feel hopeless, to feel alone. Tomura can’t fight back against him because All For One’s taking away the things he fought for. If you can give him a reason to fight back again — “I think we have to,” Midoriya is saying to All Might. All Might nods. Then they both look at you. “What do you think?”

You think you missed something. “What?”

“If the problem is that All For One is taking away Tenko’s friends, we need to give them back,” Midoriya says. “And since you’re his oldest friend — and the only we have who isn’t, like, dying — we need to give him you.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, lodging there painfully. He can’t mean it. He can’t be thinking of letting you go. “Hiding you was an error,” All Might says. “If our theory is correct, your perceived loss cemented All For One’s control. If we are able to return you to Tenko’s side, and if you are able to help Tenko reassert control, then perhaps we can bring this to an end.”

“You mean — negotiate?” You want more than anything for them to let you go, but you can’t lie to them. “Even if he’s himself, there’s no guarantee he’ll do that.”

“No, but there is a chance. Which is more than we’ll have from All For One.”

You can’t argue with that. “It shouldn’t just be her,” Midoriya says quietly. “He needs all his friends. As many of them as we can get.”

Your heart is beginning to race. You recognize the feeling of your body speeding up to try to match Tenko’s needs and force yourself to take deep breaths, to lie still. The less energy you burn yourself, the more you’ll have to send. You wonder where he is. What’s happening to him. If he’s injured because of a fight with the heroes or if it’s because of something All For One has done to try to maintain control of him. He’s alone there. All For One’s gotten rid of everyone except Spinner — Spinner, who you were able to warn months ago that something might go wrong with the quirk transfer. Spinner, who definitely knows Tomura well enough to know when Tomura’s not in control. The plans All Might and Midoriya are making are a vague buzz in your ear. You need to let them know that it’s Spinner they have to get a message to, Spinner who will help them get you back to Tenko. You open your mouth to speak, but your chest feels tight, and spots fill your vision. Before you can say a word of warning, everything goes black.

<- Chapter 26

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[unoislazy]

Masterlist

Oldest to newest

(The only things out of order are the Headcanons which can all be found at the same spot, specifically for BES)

If I did it correctly you should be able to click the underlined places and they’ll send you right to the story!

Special Information

Request Information

Y'all will never believe what I forgot to add

RDR 2

How To Aim

Arthur Morgan x Reader

One Part

Th actual fic that started it all

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HTTYD

Question? What Question?

Hiccup x Reader

Part 1

Word Count: 1.2k

Summary: Hiccup accidentally lets it slip that his father is expecting him to ask someone a question. Who could that someone be… and what’s the question?

Part 2

Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: You and Hiccup go out to figure out where that smokes coming from. You decide to return back to Berk to tell Stoick what you saw. However, Stoick had other plans in mind.

Somethings Off About That Boy

Hiccup x Reader

Part 1

Word Count: 1k

Summary: Hiccup has always been weird but lately he’s been acting… weirder than usual. What could he be hiding? Maybe you should try to find out on your own. Who knows, maybe he’s just going to the woods to make weird outfits.

Hiccup Haddock Headcanons

Word Count:459

Hiccup x reader headcanons : just general ones, no specific focus.

What Can Never Be

Hiccup Haddock x Reader

One Part

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: You and Hiccup fight together during the battle against Drago Bludvist, what could go wrong?

Warning: a bit of angst

Trapped With You

Hiccup x Reader

One Part

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: if you’re prone to second hand embarrassment this one’s gonna be a doozy

A Dragon Trappers Fate

Eret son of Eret x Reader

Part 1

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: You’re forced to tag along on the quest to find Hiccup after he went off, determined to find Drago. While you there you happen to stumble across a certain dragon trapper. You feel… weird when you look at him. Why?

Part 2

Word Count: 1.7k Words

Summary: you thought you’d only have to see Eret once and never again, that way that weird feeling you got when you looked at him would disappear. Well, turns out you need him again so you an find out where Drago Bludvist is located. No one better to interrogate than a dragon trapper.

Just Talk To Me!

Hiccup x Reader

One Part

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: You and Eret have gotten pretty close due to your constant fighting practice. Of course, a certain chief isn’t too happy about it but he has a bit of trouble trying to tell you this.

The Outsider

Hiccup Haddock x Reader

(Shocker I Know)

Part 1

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: You wound up on the shores of Berk after something… had happened to you. Thankfully someone had found you and reported your presence to the Chief.

Part 2

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Blue Eye Samurai

Spar With Me

Mizu x Reader

Part one

Word Count: 2.7k

Part Two

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: Not much sparring actually happens this time. But you still somehow wind up in an embarrassing position.

Disclaimers: light language, has not been proofread, shorter and way more embarrassing than the last chapter

Part Three

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: after dealing with a situation in town, Mizu helps you calm down a bit.

Disclaimer; a small bit of violence

Healing Takes Time

Injured! Mizu x Reader

One Part

Word Count: 4.9k

Summary: you’re just a simple healer minding your business, avoiding a fight that had broken out along your street when suddenly an extremely wounded strange man ends up at your door.

Disclaimers; very soft angst, nothing too bad.

Part Two

Jealousy Looks Good On You

Mizu x Jealous!Reader

One Part

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: You and Mizu have been close friends for quite some time. You truly enjoyed each others company, that was until Taigen showed up.

Disclaimers; light language, has not been proofread, I am currently delirious from packing and moving all day but I had to write this out to feed the starved mizu lovers. A fair amount may not make sense at this point in time. My apologies ❤️

'Til The Caged Bird Sings

Mizu x Mixed! Fem! Reader

Part One

Part Two

Word Count: 3.9k

Content Warning: Contains violence and mentions of SA

Part Three

Cw: A bit bloody, mentions of SA

Headcannons

Mizu Dating Headcanons

Mizu Fluff Headcanons

Jealous Mizu Headcanons

BES Characters and pets

BES College Au

NSFW Mizu Headcanons

Fucking Brat

Mizu X reader

Part One

Disclaimer: light cursing obvious

Heated but no NSFW

Your Touch

Mizu x Reader

One Part

I lied, here's

Part Two

Fem! Reader

a bit heated, but doesn't go all the way

I Am No Coward

Mizu x Fem! Reader

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Art

Mizu Drawings 1

Mizu Drawings 2

Mizu Drawings 3

Mizu Drawings 4

Mizu Drawings 5

Mizu Doodle (w/ Progress picture)

Mizu Drawings 6

Mizu Drawings 7

Mizu Drawings 8

Mizu Drawings 9

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ARCANE

Promises

Vi x Reader

Part One

Childhood Friends to Lovers

Part Two

Childhood Friends to Lovers...

Part Three

Childhood Friends to...?

Part Four

Friends?

Changes

Vi X Reader

Vi needs a hug

School Time Crush

Vi x Fem!reader

Vi is a dork

For Me?

Vi x Piltover! Reader

You did this for me?