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butterbabyflapjack · 2 months ago

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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.

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…

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.

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!

#brian moser x reader #brian moser x you #brian moser #dexter #reader insert #wild animals #slasher x reader #rudy cooper #ice truck killer

148 notes · View notes

staravyz · 3 months ago

Note

Hiii can we have Senku and a clingy partner but smart and strong

I love your stuff and hope you have a good day/night!

︖﹖ㅤㅤSenku w/a Clingy Partner 🤯

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ❕️ㅤclick4rules—4masterlist

ㅤㅤ🔭ㅤㅤ—ㅤ(dr stone) ishigami senku x gn!reader

ㅤ﹑tags ... fluff/headcanons/implied relationship and r-r-r-r-romance.../reader glaze/i love glazing reader

ㅤ౨ৎㅤ—ㅤa/n﹕AAYYAY MY FIRST REQUEST YIPPEE (>▂<) i went with headcanons if that's okay also reader was a sports player in the old world

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤpre petrification

holy moly were you a high achiever 🙏

medals and certificates, you exceeded in athletics and academics

your classmates often wondered what your secret was in maintaining such a stable sanity and life

the trick? senku's persistent ass who takes pleasure in using your talents and skills to complete side quests for his illegal science projects

you are not allowed to skip practice

he doesn't even come to any of your games smh

fetching this and that

buying this and that

coding this and that

it was just part of your routine at that point to always be running errands for him

senku was taught how to say please and thank you, he just... does it differently...........

senku isn't a romantic person in the slightest

he isn't one for physical touch at all, but if it's coming from you, he doesn't mind

unlike taiju's suffocating hugs, your embrace is comfortable and respectful.

for the sake of senku's sanity, reader will be an acts of service and quality time type of clingy rather than physical touch

always seen together, yet senku is so used to your company that it hasn't registered in his head how you're always nearby until someone else points it out

then begins the over-analyzation behind every minor interaction you two have ever had

he attempts to keep it subtle but senku isn't known for that lol

his intentions become clear at some point and that's when you'd have to explain that you simply enjoy being around him because interesting things always seem to happen to him

for such a random reason senku failed to consider, he was a little skeptical about your honesty regarding that

"you sure you weren't paid to assassinate me and you're just waiting for the right time to strike?"

"i'm sure."

after this hell of a revelation, senku gradually began reciprocating your actions more and more

it took a while for it to click for him

but one side quest turned to an unexpected date after the other... there were more reasons to be near each other besides projects and school.

senku definitely googled "how to treat my partner right" at least once just to make sure he wasn't messing anything up

relationships were the last thing on his mind, but putting the pros and cons on paper with you in mind, it wasn't so difficult to convince him anymore

he even caught himself planning a future with you

he shut it down pretty quick, but that doesn't mean he willingly forgot everything he was thinking about

future jobs, university, travelling, studies, all with you would make things ten billion times easier

overall, your clingy affection and presence may not be reciprocated by senku, but it will be appreciated.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤpost petrification

is petrification cold, or is it just the absence of your warmth?

anyway, your waking was guaranteed to be as soon as possible

for reasons other than senku being uncomfortable with the lack of your voice and presence, of course

never has he ever outright admitted to missing you

and he never will

whenever he has extra material left over, he makes small gifts for you. to avoid wasting resources, of course

your touchstarved ahh probably infected him too so now he's slightly more affectionate than he was before

it's fitting because he's probably referred to you as a contagious disease as a joke at one point

senku has zero interest in sports and games but he'll reinvent a volleyball or something for you to play with taiju

but if he needs you in the lab and you start going "one more game! one more game!" you're getting dragged by the ankles and he has no remorse.

for a multitalented person, your name is likely being called out every 5 seconds from every direction and that will definitely get overwhelming at some point.

senku deals with that for you by politely shutting everyone up by bringing back drama tv or whatever will keep the others away from annoying you

so that he can be the only person to bother you with requests, duh

you are the only exception

ㅤ౨ৎㅤ—ㅤa/n﹕guys i really should've joined badminton this year idk why i didn't i regret not joining 🥀

©️ staravyzㅤ(¬_¬") do not steal, translate, or repost.

#senku x reader #x reader #ishigami senku x reader #dr stone x reader

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aheathen-conceivably · 5 months ago

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The next day Zelda found Gio in the field at sunrise, just like she had most mornings for the last five years. He was in his work suspenders, his hat not yet needed to protect him from the harshness of the day, and his button down showing old stains that no amount of scrubbing could get clean.

He was staring at another newly wilted plant when he saw her, and she immediately regretted her choice to talk to him here. It had seemed appropriate when she was agonizing over it the night before - to talk to him where they had both found hope when all seemed lost, and the world felt just as likely to collapse in on itself as the air was to be taken over with tornadoes of dust.

Only it was harder than she expected it to be - telling him that she was leaving. That when the day got too hot she would no longer sing to herself to move the still air, or that now his rambling stories of New Orleans in the 1910s would have no audience other than the earless crops. It was harder than she expected to tell him that she was leaving him there to work the fields alone when they had been there together nearly every day for five years, laughing and struggling as they tried to pull life from unwilling red dirt.

But just like Antoine had said, he didn’t begrudge her for a moment. He had smiled and wished her the best of luck, and made her promise that if he forgot everything she had taught him she would find the very best farming manuals the library had to offer. He never let his loneliness make her feel guilty, or try to stop her when she walked away.

But God, he wanted to. For all the mistakes he had made in his life, he wasn’t an idiot. He had seen the signs in every wilted crop and fallen leaf. With every harvest that went by having two of them there seemed more and more superfluous; and he couldn’t blame her finding work elsewhere, especially not when it was something she was clearly so passionate about.

He only wished that this wasn’t what he was passionate about. Not farming, of course, but what it represented to him and the life he had imagined it would give him - the kind he had once heard his grandparents talk of in the countryside of Sicily. Working all day with your hands alongside someone you loved, seeing something grow to fruition, and just living comfortably without fear hanging over your head.

Was it so far fetched to dream of having your own land, a home that was yours like a bastion against the encroachments of the world? And if he could turn a profit for himself and his family in the process, well then all the better. That was what it meant to be an American, wasn’t it? And it was what he had spent every last penny of his savings trying to achieve.

Only now the crops were dying again.

And even worse, it seemed like they were all moving on from the base he had provided for them while he had been left here near bankruptcy. Each and every one of them was moving onto something newer and better, like fate had brought them out here with a plan that had forgotten to include him.

It was like the land itself had conspired against him; stolen and twisted beyond what it once was, it gave less and less every year despite the promises of plenty that had lured him out there with all the trappings of the American dream. Meanwhile the banks swarmed like buzzards, searching for the carcasses of dead farmers and broken dreams whose pockets they could peck clean like bones.

Now he was out of money and nearly out of time. The crops that were still blooming were the only shining beacon left of everything that he had hoped for when he left home. Behind them, lingering in their wilting leaves like a shadow, was the knowledge that he could end all of this with a single phone call. One groveling phone call - his tail tucked between his legs and his morals steamrolled under reality; then it would all be over. None of them would ever have to worry about hunger or struggle again. Only then, what was left of his soul would finally be gone. Father, I was wrong.

But he couldn’t. He had worked his whole life to avoid that, fought every naysayer and washed himself of the blood of his family in pursuit of this. What was left in the dying soil was hope. No more and no less. He just needed more time. He couldn't give up now. Otherwise it was all for nothing. The mockery, the loneliness, the lies. The struggle. And if it had grown once, what was stopping it from growing again?

Only a horrifying thought was beginning to take root in the back of his mind. That maybe, just maybe, he had bet it all on a lie.

Previous / Next

#1935 #sims 4 historical #ts4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #sims 4 decades challenge #sims 4 legacy #ts4 legacy #the darlingtons #sims 4 story #ts4 story #1930s #Zelda Darlington #Giorgio Mistretta

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merbear25 · 5 months ago

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Are your requests open again?! 😃

If so, may I please request headcanons for Sanji, Mihawk, and Shanks reacting to their girlfriend making them a gift basket like this?

Awww what a cute gift to give them! I hope you like it! 💜💜

CW: SFW, fem!reader, established relationship, fluff, headcanons

Gifting them a Valentine’s Day basket (Sanji, Mihawk, Shanks)

Sanji

How could his heart not skip a beat when being gifted anything by you. His darling girlfriend had him in mind while putting a basket together?

Didn’t matter what the contents were, frankly. Just knowing he was on your mind was enough to send his heart soaring that much higher for you.

He favored the skin care products, seeing as he wanted to keep himself looking and smelling good for his special woman.

Those candy bars were a nice addition, though he wouldn’t dare not share them with you. If you allowed him, he’d adore hand feeding you some of the chocolates.

Watching your delicate lips’ gentle movements at the tip of his fingers was something he could never tire of.

That freshly shaven face with the rosy scent of the aftershave you gave him left you no choice but to pepper him in soft kisses. There was no chance he’d leave you without sweet affections in return.

Chocolate covered kisses and warm embraces, he nearly forgot to give you your gift. He carefully removed it from its hiding place and watched in delight as your eyes lit up.

Mihawk

Despite his stare at the basket you gave him, it wasn’t one that carried judgement. He was difficult to read at times, something you were already well aware of.

His steady eyes then flickered to your waiting expression. A genuine, albeit monotoned, thank you carried over to you. Your sincere pleasure at his appreciation warmed him in ways only you were capable of.

Although the present was decked out in gaudy hearts to match the holiday, there was a certain charm to it.

Perhaps it was solely to do with the fact that you were the one to give it to him, but he came to like those little pink and red symbols.

The skin care and shaving set were very much appreciated. He took a bit of pride in maintaining his appearance, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love the extra attention he got from his girlfriend whenever he used products that smelled “manly” as you put it.

The chocolate was an unexpected enjoyment. He shared the boxed chocolates with you but would split the candy bars only if you asked.

Not having suspected you’d surprise him with a gift, he quickly threw together a bouquet. Even with it being a last minute gift, he put thought into the arrangement, leaving you feeling loved and adored just as you deserved.

Shanks

He was deeply touched by the fact you got him something. Neither of you had discussed getting a present for the other, but knowing you were thinking of him just as much as he was of you meant the world to him.

With the excitement sparkling in the air, he couldn’t wait. He ran to fetch the gift he’d gotten for you. Now it was his turn to witness the surprise on your face.

You could tell how much time he’d put into it: some of your favorite things were included, those which you only mentioned once to him in passing about the flavor or scent.

His face lit up once more at the sheer happiness beaming from you, and he couldn’t hold back from kissing your cheeks with soft adoration.

Seeing as you both had included snacks in your gifts, it would be a shame not to indulge in them together.

That night was spent cuddled up on the sofa, taking turns feeding each other between the soft cuddles and pecks on the lips.

He surprisingly liked the scent you’d picked out for him for the skin care products, often to the extent of using too much of it. There were a few times you had to remind him that it was too much of a good thing.

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chimielie · 18 days ago

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cw: Itoshi Sae x F!Reader. vaguely arthurian setting. period-typical sexism. written tipsily in airport.

Sae was the first born son of the Itoshi family, a long and honorable line that could be traced back to the ancient kings, who are all long forgotten now except for their might and magic. The Itoshi family had a long memory; though few others did, they remembered without knowing the time when their fathers walked with mages and elves as equals.

His more recent ancestors were better known in their times for bankrupting the ancient coffers, for their fondness of game and drink. The Itoshi name still held weight across the land, but he and his brother turned to war to restore their family's honor and legacy.

You had never thought much of the eldest Itoshi boy. Battle was an edge too distasteful for the likes of you, meant to remain a fragile rose that wilted in heat and burst in cold. The eldest princess, your sacred duty to your family was to marry an aristocrat who would certainly have soft hands without blood on them. Surrounded by court politics, you knew the unnamed, faceless man in your future was the kind of man who ordered other men to kill and never saw the carnage himself.

Still, Sae belonged to your father and it was impossible not to hear of his foreign exploits, done (in the most technical way) in your name. He was known for being particularly heartless on the battlefield, a touch too fond of his work, a master of siege. He was not a merciful opponent; he was sent to obliterate thanedoms and raze castles to their foundations. He had endless patience, said the gossiping lords and ladies, the latter group fluttering their fans and giggling with an implication you did not care for. Less amused, the former men insisted that he had no passion, no fury, only a cold flame that overtook nations. He was not legendary in his rage; rather, he needed no anger to do what a thousand men seeking revenge could not.

Hearing this, your skin prickled beneath your long sleeves. You were a girl burning beneath her skin. The garb of the consummate princess strangled you, expected both to play politics and to do it with the air that you had no idea of any of it.

On a jewel-studded night at the end of a long campaign that had lasted over the warm season, you forgot yourself and your place. In the mead-hall, a few goblets past your limit, you cut into the men's conversation, frustrated by the unnecessary length of the campaign when too few bodies had been at home to harvest what had been grown before it rotted off the branch.

"A better strategy could have cut the crusade by a month," you said, your lips turned down, your eyes sparking beneath your lowered brows.

The vassals around you laughed. Some found inspiration in that passionate spark for lewd comments and bawdy poems about the king's daughter who would be a pleasure to tame; others struck you from their marriageable eligibility lists.

"How could her husband care for such a sharp lady?" Said one of the courtly ladies to another, the glass beads hanging from her girdle clinking as she tittered behind her palm.

"I would raise my future lord higher than any of your houses," you said, looking directly at her, forgetting to avert your eyes from mockery as a princess, shy and demure, should. Your gaze was sharp indeed, her hand shaking beneath its weight and sending her goblet crashing to the stone floor, a thousand crystal pieces commemorating your mistake.

"You will do so by the purity of your blood,” your father’s voice rang above the laughter and lutesong. You inclined your head and fell silent, declining any more wine through the night. Order was restored, all power resting in the hands of the man who sired you. The musicians played till the early morning and a good time was had by most.

No one forgot that the glittering gaze of a snake peered out of your face anyway.

The next day, when your father summoned you to his hall—the page who fetched you inexplicably sweaty and pale—you assumed his mood had soured with fermentation and you would be made to repent publicly in a series of feminine labors to prove your docility.

Instead, you found Sae Itoshi, clad in mail and armor. His teal eyes, the cold gaze of a snake’s reminiscent of yours despite their unique coloration, peered from beneath his helmet, serene and beautiful even as he held a blade to your father’s throat. Around him, the kingsguard stood unmoving, men whose brothers and cousins had fought by Sae’s side.

The consummate princess, you sank into a pretty bow and begged for your father’s life. Sae looked at you, hard and cold, and he saw that no tears shone in your eyes.

“The hand of a woman too high for my dirtied bloodline,” he said, and before you could be disappointed by this lukewarm response, he stepped to you, his sword still at the ready. Your father remained unmoving, eyes darting frantically from traitorous knight to traitorous knight. Sae removed his helmet to speak directly into your ear, bending at the waist to do so. His face was more delicate than you might have assumed and yet the bones were strong and stood out under his skin.

“Or, to put it in terms only you can understand: a queen for a kingdom not yet won.”

#shorts!#blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #itoshi sae x reader #sae x reader #… huh. i cant think of any more tags

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ariascoven · 8 months ago

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⟡ LOST BUNNY PT.2

PAIRING : salem!agatha harkness x reader

CONTENT / WARNINGS : female reader. petnames (bunny, dear, darling). soft agatha. mentions of homophobia.

WORD COUNT : 4.3k

A/N : sorry for not posting for i-don't-know-how-long, i hate everything i write these days lmao this has been sitting on my drafts for ages until i decided to let it out of the cave. i mostly have the energy to make bots as they're waayyyy shorter than fics so i end up making a bunch, sorry

MY MASTERLIST | PART ONE | C.AI BOT

The sound of birds happily chirping filled your ears the moment you stepped outside of your small, humble little home while carrying your picnic basket. Your mother had asked you to go fetch some apples for the pie she planned on making. Somehow, she managed to get all the ingredients needed beforehand, but forgot the damned apples — for an apple pie. At least you knew where your forgetful nature came from.

As you wandered through the woods in silence, you couldn't help but remember your first and last encounter with Agatha Harkness. A hidden, secret part of you buried deep within your being hoped, perhaps even wished that you would bump into the witch again, but your dreams never became reality. During every mind clearing stroll you took at night, your eyes darted around anxiously, scanning the surroundings and trying to find the brunette with a smug grin on her face, her pretty face illuminated by the moonlight and stars above. If anyone saw you in that state, they would assume you were afraid of what lurked in the dark, when in reality you were looking for Salem’s most feared witch.

It was ridiculous, to say the least. Months had passed ever since the unexpected meeting occured, it was now summer and the snow you had stepped on in the company of the young witch had melted completely ages ago. But the feeling of her hands on your waist seemed to have burned onto your skin, making it impossible to forget the warmth of her touch. You could still feel her, hear her... hell, you could still smell her. You often tried to convince yourself that she had put a spell on you that day, and that you were not absolutely smitten. But you knew the truth, no matter how much you didn't want to admit it — you were utterly fucked. You had met her once and had a brief conversation that was infuriating, to say the least, and that was enough to make you fall. Well, she also gave you a coat.

It might be important to note that your plan to make up an excuse about the piece of clothing to tell your mother failed completely. You weren't able to come up with anything before you reached the worn out door of your house, where you were met with the familiar sight of an upset old lady that noticed her daughter was missing from the warmth of her bed hours ago and decided to wait for the rebellious creature and demand an explanation. You had no friends, so you couldn't say it was a gift from one. For obvious reasons, you couldn't say you had bought it yourself as your mother knew that in your condition, buying a great coat like the one you had on was nothing but an impossible, silly dream.

So you had no choice but tell her the truth you wished to keep hidden, all of it. You spent almost a whole hour sitting on a chair, your head downcast shamefully as your mother scolded you, her voice laced with nothing but pure disappointment and annoyance. “She's a witch, for God's sake! She killed her own mother and the rest of her coven! Why would you even look her way? And even more accept this so-called gift?” However, she allowed you to keep the coat, knowing it was warmer and better quality than your entire wardrobe combined. Filled with guilt and shame, you gave your dear old mother a kiss on the forehead and assured her you would keep your distance if you ever stumbled upon the witch again. What a lie.

Crouched down picking a few berries you had found, you hummed a random tune you had never heard before. The berries were not what your mother had asked of you, but you shrugged it off, allowed to easily fetch the apples afterwards. The basket was big enough to fit all without a problem, and extra fruit was never a problem — you were sure your mother would be excited to make something out of the berries, anyway. You let out a satisfied hum at the amount you had picked, ascending from the crouching position. When you turned around, a yelp escaped your lips the moment you saw her. “Agatha!” Your eyes were comically wide as you exclaimed, face growing warmer at the realization you weren't even able to try and hide your excitement.

“Hello, bunny. You seem pleased to see me.” God, the way you missed her voice was nothing but pathetic. You let out a huff and rolled your eyes in a failed attempt to seem unbothered, but unfortunately, you were not an actress. A smirk appeared on the brunette’s face when she took notice of the subtle pink dusting your cheeks. “Ah, there is no need to respond. Not with that adorable blush saying everything.” When you looked up at her, your bottom lip was curled up ever so slightly, forming an adorable pout that made Agatha feel unwanted things — the flutter in her stomach being one of them, for example.

She stepped closer to you until the tips of your boots were touching hers, hand reaching up to rub her thumb across your bottom lip in a gentle caress. Almost instinctively and definitely against your will, your mouth fell open at the touch. You wished you could pull away and keep your distance from her, there was nothing you wished more. But something about the young woman pulled you in like a moth to a flame — a dangerously enchanting flame that made you crave more of its touch, no matter how much it threatened to burn and swallow you whole.

“How did you find me?” Your question came out as a breathless sound and you cursed yourself mentally at the poor attempt to hide the undeniable shakiness in your voice. Your knuckles hurt from the way you were gripping the basket as you tried to mask how much you were trembling — and you weren't entirely sure why. Maybe from excitement. Maybe from anxiety. Maybe from a mix of both. You noticed the way Agatha’s gaze seemed to search for yours more and more insistently the longer you avoided eye contact. She opened her mouth to respond with what you expected to be another snarky remark of hers, but she faltered, mouth quickly closing.

However, she didn't take much time to compose herself, that wicked and familiar grin returning to her lips and sending shivers down your spine. Considering how surprisingly hot the weather was during the summer, Agatha’s fingers remained cold as she tilted your chin up — freezing, even. And exactly the way you remembered them to be. You lost count of how many times you had harshly rubbed your sponge against the places she had touched on your body during your long baths, trying everything and anything you possibly could to make the memories disappear from your mind. But you kept thinking back at it whenever the chance appeared and you were ashamed to admit, even to yourself, how much you wanted her.

Considering how hot it was during the summer, Agatha’s fingers remained surprisingly cold as she tilted your chin up — freezing, even. Exactly the way you remembered. You lost count of how many times you harshly rubbed your sponge on the places she had touched on your body during your baths, trying everything and anything you possibly could to make the memories disappear from your mind. But you kept thinking back at it whenever the chance appeared. Before bed, waking up, while taking strolls around the town but mostly, in the woods you had your first meeting at. You were ashamed to admit, even to yourself, how much you wanted her.

“What? You think I found you because I wanted to?” She replied, the mocking evident in the tone of her voice and her raised eyebrow. With the proximity between your faces, you could almost taste the sarcasm that dripped from her lips. “It was simply a funny coincidence, my dear.” Your eyes scanned her face for any signs of honesty and widened the moment she leaned closer, her nose touching yours. The only thing you were able to do was hold your breath and anticipate her next move.

There was no way she was going to kiss you, right? Although the answer was pretty much clear, you couldn't help the flicker of disappointment that flashed through your eyes when all she did was chuckle low in her throat and pull away, taking a few steps backwards to put some sort of distance between your bodies. It was funny, the way you wanted that distance so badly at first but now it brought a frown so big to your face that missing it wasn't even a possibility.

Your eyes followed her gaze as she glanced down and towards the basket your hands were clutching. Or rather, the fingers that were a deep shade of red, knuckles turning white from the sheer force you put into holding the small object out of nervousness without even realizing it. You hadn't even realized the way you could barely feel your hands due to the gesture. You let out a loud groan full of frustration, deciding it was a better idea to hang it onto your arm instead of gripping it. Agatha’s curious (or rather, nosy) eyes focused on the content inside of the basket. “Berries…” She muttered quietly, and you weren't sure if she meant for you to hear it.

“Yes, berries.” You repeated as you eyed her curiously, her gaze never faltering from the fruits. It should be illegal to say Agatha Harkness looked adorable, but she did. Her unusual demeanor and sparkling eyes made you tilt your head aside as if the simple gesture would help you solve the current mystery — why would an evil witch become so seemingly excited over some stupid berries? You clicked your tongue in thought before grabbing a few and putting your hand out. “Do you…?” You don't finish the sentence, instead looking at your palm then back at Agatha as you trailed off. There was a pause. Then, she nodded, snatching the fruits from your hands and shoving them down her mouth. Your eyes widened at her enthusiasm, but the surprise soon turned into amusement and you let out a small chuckle, shaking your head.

Agatha’s gaze moved back up towards you, and it was difficult to take her seriously with the way her eyebrows were furrowed and lips were stained red from the berries — like a child who is still learning how to eat properly. “What are you laughing at?” She almost growled. It was clear to see that the witch was trying to seem menacing and scary, as she always did. But unfortunately for her, it seems looking evil when your eyes are shining with happiness while your mouth is full is incredibly hard. You waved a dismissive hand and shook your head once more as your giggles died down, a sigh falling from your lips. She looked at you with suspicion, reaching up to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. Your face scrunched up slightly. “What?” She questioned, sounding rather annoyed.

“You just don't know how to not make a mess, huh?” You nagged with the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on your lips as you grabbed the checkered fabric your mother had given you to cover the fruit basket and that was long forgotten. You handed it to her — handed as in shoved it into her hand and gestured towards her mouth with a wave of your hand. “Clean that up, you are looking more like a toddler rather than a feared witch.” The sight of Agatha Harkness herself frowning pathetically was the most amusing thing you had ever seen in your life. You pushed away the thoughts of how cute she looked as you watched her clean her lips and cheeks grumpily. When she tried to give the piece of fabric back to you, you pushed it back against her chest. “Keep it. As a treat.” You joked, continuing your mission to find apples for your mother’s pie.

Agatha snickered and her lips curled up into an amused smirk at your comfortableness in teasing her, being ao used to people running away from her for simply being her. She stayed behind and watched as your figure continued the path, the dark shade of purple of her dress contrasting with the hint of red from the fabric you gave her, poking out of her pocket after she had folded it lazily and shoved it there. For Agatha’s immense displeasure, you were an incredibly fast walker, but she quickly caught up to you.

Her arms were behind her back and she whistled in feigned innocence, strolling just a few steps behind you. You rolled your eyes as you heard the melody, but a smile was playing on your lips. Your mother would kill you if she found out about this, about you hanging out with the woman you promised her to keep your distance from. You quickly pushed those thoughts away the moment you saw the apple trees ahead, full of life and covered in sweetness. As you stepped closer, a gasp fell from your lips at how beautifully red the fruits looked. “Ah, mother will love those!” You exclaimed happily, mostly to yourself, an arm stretching to grab the apples that were in a level where you could reach.

Harkness grabbed one of the juicy fruits as well, bringing it to her nose and inhaling the marvelous scent with an approving hum. “These look delicious. You said your mother will love them?” She raised an eyebrow with curiosity-filled eyes, leaning back against the tree nonchalantly and taking a bite out of the apple she held in her hand. You hummed and nodded in agreement, side eyeing her for just a split second as you continued to fill the basket. “Well, do you think your mother would be so kind as to spare me some apples?” She said playfully, batting her eyelashes in a dramatic manner. You scoffed.

“Well, my mother made me promise I would never talk to you again. Want to take a guess?” You didn't look at her as you spoke, but you could practically see the frown on her face with the way she let out a long, annoyed hum. “Don't take it personally, she would make me promise to stay away from any witch ever.” You tried to sugarcoat it, even though you knew she probably didn't care at all. There was a pause.

Without a word, she stared at you with suspicious interest, those icy blue orbs roaming over your figure as she studied you with narrowed eyes, seemingly trying to find the final piece of a puzzle she longed to solve. “Mind telling me why you are breaking the promise you made to your dear mother, then?” The question came out quietly, as if it was a secret that no one other than you two were allowed to hear. Your movements faltered, hand freezing just as your fingers had wrapped around the last apple that was on your reaching level. You cleared your throat, finally snatching the fruit and shoving it inside the picnic basket.

“I guess,” you began, the almost whispered words leaving your lips slowly as you contemplated what you should say. “Your company doesn't bother me. Much.” You looked her way as you put emphasis on the last part, which elicited a chuckle from her. The brunette observed as you moved next to her and leaned against the tree before sliding down until you were sitting on the grass. You placed the basket on your lap and stretched out your legs with a long and loud groan.

After a moment, Agatha repeated your movement and plopped down onto the ground while holding her skirt securely. Your gaze fell upon the fabric you had given her poking out of the pocket of her dress and then moved up back to her face. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw her already staring at you, her palm supporting her chin as her elbow rested on top of her knees, which were pulled against her chest. Your mind wandered back to your first encounter, in which she had said she wasn't an ordinary girl, nor like you. But seeing her like this, so calm and quiet, she really did look like just an ordinary 18 year old girl.

A hand dived inside the basket and grabbed a few more berries before handing them to Agatha, who gratefully accepted the offer. An unexpectedly comfortable silence washed over the two of you as the witch ate calmly — this time, taking her time to savor the sweet taste. The gentle breeze made her hair sway subtly, and you thought the sight was breathtaking. Fists clenched around the fabric of your skirt as you tried to hold back from the sudden urge to just… touch her. Make sure she was real, that she really was there with you. Since you never saw the young woman after your first encounter, your mind had became a mess of thoughts as you wondered if what happened in the woods actually did happen or was just a fever dream — a fever dream that felt a bit too real.

“Why so many apples, anyway?” The sound of her voice breaking the soothing silence forced you to come back to reality and turn to face her, confusion splattered across your features. She gestured to the basket with a nod of her head, noticing the way you looked lost in thought as she handed you the last berry she had in her hand. “So many apples. Are you baking something?” She didn't miss the way you took and ate the fruit in agonizingly slow movements, as if you were doing anything to not answer the question. She didn't blame you, she was used to it — and she didn't miss the hint of regret that flashed through your eyes when you mentioned your mother earlier. People had always warned you, saying that you should be careful when giving any information to witches, no matter how unimportant it might be. But before she could open her mouth to say you didn't need to give her an answer, you finally spoke up.

“My mother is.” You answered simply, the sound of your voice coming out as a quiet, almost shameful confession as you leaned your head back against the tree and looked up at the leaves hanging from the branches above. “I'm a disaster.” She raised a brow at your statement, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she waited for you to give more details. You looked at her and let out a small giggle. “I'm not exaggerating — I wish I was, but I'm literally banned from the kitchen at home.” The loud laughter that escaped the witch’s lips as she threw her head back forced a smile out of you, the sound making something flutter inside you.

“You— oh, goodness! Are you serious?” She panted out between giggles and laughed even more after you nodded in confirmation, her hand moving to clutch her side as she felt the threat of a cramp forming. “I'm gonna get a side cramp!”

There was only one word to describe your state as you watched the scene unfolding in front of you, and that word was fascinated. Was it weird to be obsessed with someone's laugh? Maybe it was, maybe you were weird, after all. But you simply couldn't help it, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners as the cutest sound left her lips. The so-called evil witch, Agatha Harkness, rather a monster than a woman, a girl, even, that had no feelings nor a heart, laughing so beautifully. You lost count of how many beats your heart skipped, pink lips parting in pure awe. God, you wished you could paint her at that moment, eyes scanning over her features in an attempt to memorize it. She seemed to notice your behavior, her laughter dying down as her face twisted into an intrigued expression. You felt a blush dusting your cheeks at being caught, a shy smile appearing on your face before you looked away, gaze focusing on the ground instead.

She tilted her head to the side then scooted closer to you, so close you could feel her leg resting comfortably against yours. You felt your cheeks heat up at the simple touch, and you mentally cursed yourself for being so easily affected by the woman — although a part of you knew anyone would be if they were in your shoes. Her face leaned closer to yours as she searched for your eyes, and when they met hers, she smiled. It made your heart skip several beats. It wasn't her usual smug grin or teasing smirk, no. It was a genuine and beautiful smile, and you were sure you could die happily at that moment, with the sight in front of you as the last thing you saw before the curtains closed. “You're so shy all of a sudden. Was it something I did, darling?”

Darling. God, the sweet names she called you made you crave her even more. You wondered if she only called you those things, or if she did it with everyone, ignoring the way you hated the simple thought of the second option being correct. “It's just—” you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, stopping yourself from speaking any further. More silence. Your body was set on fire when the familiar coldness of her fingers lingered against your skin as she brushed a lost strand of hair behind your ear, and you noticed the way she seemed to touch you for a bit longer than considered necessary. You cleared your throat, feeling a lump forming. “Your laugh.” You said simply, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

She let out an amused, soft chuckle. “Didn't expect to hear me laugh, hm?” She asked teasingly, her hand now resting on your shoulder.

“Didn't expect to like the sound of it this much.” Crap. Your eyes widened as soon as the unwanted words left your mouth against your will.

Agatha looked stunned, perfectly shaped eyebrows shooting up in pure surprise. It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever told her in ages — perhaps, even in her entire life. You couldn't believe your eyes as you took notice of the light, almost unnoticeable shade of pink that appeared on Agatha’s cheeks. The hand on your shoulder slid down your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps on its wake. It settled next to your own hand that rested on top of the basket laying on your lap. Your whole body tingled when her pinky brushed against yours in a teasing touch. You finally had the courage to look up at Agatha again, butterflies forming on your stomach at the way your gazes met and the small, maybe shy smile that she sent your way. Your hand was shaking with nervousness, but that wasn't enough to stop you from linking your pinky with hers.

A small gasp escaped from Agatha’s lips at the gentle gesture, gaze darting down to your entwined fingers. The moment your head came to rest on her shoulder was the moment the witch realized that you would be the death of her — but she would never complain, laying her head against yours. You stayed like that for what seemed to be an eternity, simply relishing in each other’s company and touch, the comfortable silence from earlier making an appearance once again. “To be fair with you, I didn't expect to enjoy your company as much, either.” She finally broke the silence, voice sounding so soft it was hard to believe it came from Agatha Harkness herself. Your mind was racing and heart thumping against your chest so fast you really thought you would have a heart attack for a split moment.

That's when you remembered why you had even left your house that day — apples, pie, your mother who awaited you at home. You hesitated before breaking the contact and ascending from the ground, dusting off the skirt of your dress. Agatha frowned at the lost touch and repeated the movements with a hint of annoyance. The sun was starting to set and your lips pursed into a firm line upon realization you would get a scolding when you got back home. “It's getting late, Agatha. I should really go now. Mother would be furious if I took any longer.” The pang of sadness and disappointment at the words leaving your own lips stung like hell. Realizing Agatha wasn't going to say anything in response, just staring at you with an unreadable expression on her face, you stepped closer to her and pressed a soft, lingering kiss on the soft skin of her cheek.

You turned on your heels and started walking away, fighting the urge to glance back over your shoulder, knowing that looking at her would make you turn back around. What if it took even longer to see the witch again than the first time did? What if your mother found out? Not only would you feel her anger for breaking your promise, she would be even angrier at the way you were so affectionate with another woman. You had mentioned your attraction towards women to her briefly once, but quickly learned to never do it again and pretend it was just a mistake, something your confused mind made you believe was real. But it never went away, and it never would. But you hid yourself with bitterness, being the good example of a daughter you always had been. The sound of the familiar voice snapped you away from your thoughts, body whipping around to face the young woman.

“Shall I see you again?” Her voice was uncharacteristically quiet as she questioned and took a small, hesitating step forward, which did nothing to the still significant distance between the two of you. You couldn't help the bright smile that formed on your face, nodding enthusiastically in response. She smiled back, a hint of something that looked like relief playing across her features. The realization made you feel special, worthy.

“Tomorrow, same place and time?” Agatha’s heart raced at your words and she nodded slowly, trying the best she could to hide her happiness. Never in her life did she expect to be smitten by a woman she met twice. But, oh, she was. Unbeknownst to you, during your time away, Agatha also couldn't stop thinking about you. Her mind wandered back to your first encounter more times than she could count, and knowing she would see you again filled her with an unfamiliar sense of happiness. She couldn't wait to see you again, waving goodbye even as you turned your back to her.

#written for aria’s coven ♡#agatha harkness x reader #marvel x reader #kathryn hahn x reader #marvel #agatha all along #wandavision #agatha harkness #wlw fanfic #female reader #salem agatha harkness

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minus-plus-zer0 · 10 months ago

Text

Stuck Inside From the Rain

♡ Genre: Fluff ♡ Pairing: Bakugou x Reader ♡ Tags: Aged up (This was supposed to be short u-u)

You couldn't go home, not in this weather.

You had only planned to drop off a video game you borrowed from Bakugou, but the rain had hit so suddenly that there was no way you were going anywhere now.

What's worse, it was getting pretty dark out. At least Bakugou had a nice couch to sleep on...

"Oi!" Bakugou called out from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready!"

Bakugou had fetched some extra ingredients so he could make food for the both of you. You both sat down at his dinner table, with your grilled chicken and peppers in front of you.

"Thank you so, so much for doing this, bestie!" you said. "I think this is the first time we've eaten together in your new home."

"That's not my fault. I invited you over last week. But you were busy with Kirishima..."

You scoffed at how he chewed his food angrily. "He's just a friend, Bakugou. I actually totally forgot about that until now. Are you jealous?"

"Why would I be jealous of some guy with shitty hair?! He's got nothing on me!"

"Then don't bring him up?"

"Don't go blowing me off for Kirishima and then I won't bring him up! How about that?"

"I'll be sure to give you all the attention you want this time, okay?"

Bakugou looked frustrated, but a bit pleased. "You better."

True to your words, you ranted and raved to Bakugou about the food, as always. Bakugou knew that if there was one way to get you to focus on him, it was through his cooking. He looked cocky as you basically monologued to him about your 5-star Yelp review of his food. He offered you the rest to take home as leftovers, because unlike that traitorous rat Kirishima, he found himself to be a considerate and compassionate soul who would never let you starve.

You wanted to help with the dishes, but Bakugou wouldn't let you lift a finger to do chores. The guy was treating you like a guest he personally invited, but you felt a little bit like a burden who invaded his evening out of nowhere (even though you knew he wanted you here).

The night grew colder as it went on, and you could tell even Bakugou was starting to get affected. You attached yourself to his side to warm him up, holding onto him because you knew he hated the cold. He let himself get a little lost in that moment, which was easy to do since nobody was here except for you.

"You're such a koala," he said. "How long are you gonna steal my arm for?"

"Bakugou, if you keep complaining I'm gonna let go."

"Fine, fine! Just walk a little faster with me, I need to get something from the living room."

Bakugou wanted to watch a movie with you, but first he fetched an extra blanket, hoping to drape it over the two of you while you sat on the couch.

"You didn't get your own blanket?" you asked.

"This was all I had! Don't hog the stuff, alright?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be a burden. I'm just cold..."

"You're not a burden. Just get over here so we can share it. Properly."

He drags the blanket around both of your shoulders, bringing you two hip-to-hip.

"It's like we're kids again, huh?" you laughed. "If you had extra pillows, I would've made us a pillow fort."

"I'm too big for that and you know it. It'd just fall over."

"You're no fun. Did anyone ever tell you that you act like such a grandpa?"

"You've probably told me that at least 5 times now, yeah."

You two watched a movie together, some old action flick from long ago. You rested your head on Bakugou's shoulder, and over time he ended up curling one of his arms around you. You're engrossed in the movie, you thought it wouldn't be your style but the movements are mesmerizing! However, Bakugou's glancing over at you repeatedly, gauging your reaction.

As the movie continued, the night grows even colder, and you're retreating into Bakugou's chest for any semblance of warmth. It's easy to do since his Quirk keeps his body working like an oven. Bakugou's tensing up now, stiff and janky in his movements.

You yawned for the 15th time this hour. "Bakugou... I'm sleeeeepy..."

Your heart rate slowed and your eyes felt heavy, and you almost dozed off to sleep with the sound of the rain rushing down outside. Bakugou looked distressed, knowing that you two might fall asleep together for the first time. But you didn't want him distressed, you wanted him happy, because he was your Bakugou, even if it wasn't official yet...

In your sleepy state, you gave him a tiny kiss him on the cheek and then curled up to sleep against him. You heard him swearing up a storm under his breath, and he really went through the entire curse word dictionary as if you couldn't hear him at all.

Then, he kissed you on the forehead right back.

"Night, dummy," he said, his voice very quiet.

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ceridescent · 2 years ago

Text

carribean summer heat — m., wanda

wanda maximoff x female!reader

summary: it's a lovely sight to see wanda maximoff sweating and blushing due to the tropical heat. sometimes it's tricky, because one moment she looks like a baby, and the next, well...you could ask the particular group of people who...but you suppose not. it's impossible they could have seen the hot flush on her cheeks as she handled you then and there, out in the open.

warning/s: top!wanda, bottom!f!reader, dom/sub dynamics, thigh riding, dirty talk, semi-public, mommy kink, use of strap-on, creampie, & teasing.

word count: 4, 300

author’s note: hiiiiii hiiii hiiii i'm so happy i finally have some content to post on my rotting account. ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶ (i did have multiple drafts but i forgot tumblr existed 'cause i had off notifs the whole time since may.) it was a giddy, high school girl crush feeling of me to write this filthy fic. (/▽＼*)｡o○♡ i hope everyone's having a wonderful Hot Girl summer!! or a Hot Slutty summer, whichever you prefer. o(>ω<;)o

18+ only. men and minors do NOT interact.

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the sun rays barely strike your tanning skin, serving only as an illumination toward the breathtaking view of the caribbean sea as you situate on the patio.

three ivory-colored recliner beach chairs are included in the rental villa, wherein you occupy one whilst the woman who flew a helicopter in saint-barthélemy island, makes piña coladas in the kitchen. a few hours ago you woke up earlier than her, and it was a relieving feeling, of hearing the rise and fall of her breath. a pink blush coated her entire face, unused to the tropical weather. hair stuck on the oval of her face, grinning at how baby-ish she looked. you didn’t bother rousing her though, as you were both selfish for being the sole witness of the rising sun behind the full glass window of the villa, and considerate to allow her more time to rest.

not long after though, she woke up moaning your name, rubbing a whole limb on the empty space you left behind.

“you left me,” wanda whined, her eyes glazed and her red lips pouty.

“they gave us fresh coconuts,” you purred, showing her the fruit. helping her sit up on the white mattress, you plant a chaste kiss on her cheekbone. this feels like a true vacation, you thought to yourself, appreciating the beach elements surrounding the entire villa, and the hard-to-miss view of the sea outside. although, the other thing that left you breathless was wanda’s bare breasts, the only clothing clinging onto her body was the thong she changed into right after she showered last night.

you rested the open edge of the coconut in between her lips, “here,” tipping it upward so she could drink the coconut juice. wanda’s eyes fluttered close, a long and pronounced moan gracing your ears. she covered your hands with her own to hold the fruit, gulping the liquid into her parched mouth. she sighed as she finished, looking at you with a twinkle in her eyes.

she suggested, “we can eat the insides for breakfast, honey,” bending low toward the bedside to fetch her matching bra. you blushed at the recollection of last night. “i’m sure they have some honey in the kitchen somewhere…” you added, watching the tips of her peaks disappear into view.

wanda teased, “you like what you see?”, lightly slapping your face in the process in a playful manner. you tried to forget how her plump breasts felt in your hands as you suckled her dry, returning into the present moment of the beautiful day.

“i would like to eat,” you diverted the topic back into the fruit in your hands, which wasn’t successful as wanda raised an amused brow, pursing her lips together to fight back a smile. you pointed to the coconut to counter her silent reproach, giving her a light blush. “get your head outta gutter, ma’am,” you said and retreated to the kitchen before she could come up with a witty remark, which you’d most likely shut her up with a kiss.

wanda hums the tune from maroon 5’s sunday morning as she exits the indoor, clutching a wooden tray filled with food and replenishments. a board of charcuterie sits in the middle of the two piña coladas. you gasp at the precise detailing, “i’m not done,” blinking your eyes in anticipation, revealing a coconut with a straw strapped to the side. wanda caresses your hair, gives you a kiss on the forehead as you look up at her adoringly. “help yourself, angel,” she said before pecking your cheek. you mewl and melt at her service, appreciating the beautiful woman even more.

the drinks are astounding, satisfying your thirst for something cool in this caribbean summer heat, as well as your insufferable stomach—literal paradise—blinding your attention away from the oval-rimmed eyeglasses, but most especially, her gorgeousness in a bikini. “is that-“

wanda maximoff grins like a cheshire cat, “yes, angel, it’s the one you picked for me!” sometimes wanda does it, she sends you a fitting room pic of her in bikinis—and if you were blessed enough—lingeries—needing a different perspective of what looks flattering on her.

this particular bikini that clings onto her glistening skin is a green tie-front bandeau matched with a thin-string bikini bottom that leaves little to no imagination; highlighting the fullness of her hips down her voluminous thigh. her exposed tight stomach that has a small bruise on the side of her belly button, the heavy cups of her chest. you love how wanda never fails to wear something as if she was born with it and that it never leaves her skin.

you don’t realize until later that your mouth hangs open watching wanda cozy herself onto the beach chair next to you, laying it all out for the sea to see.

“oh,” you choke on your own spit, sight glued onto her cleavage. and if temptation could get any worse, sweat trickles down on the valley of it, getting envious (and more) of how close it is to where you want to be. stammering “you look-l-look-so look so marvelous, w-wan,” you gulp down your insistent saliva and grab the cool piña colada, biting hard on the straw as you sip in the flavor to replace the volcano on your tongue, before saying another that would jeopardize this peaceful, sunny day. (although it isn’t bad if it heads toward that direction.)

“you’re sucking so hard on it, princess,” wanda chuckles, “is it that tasty?” facing you now, leaning her weight against her right arm. her cleavage sag toward gravity, you fear it might actually fall off. short-circuiting for a moment, registering her question, her intention, and her innuendo. trying to calculate and rethink your response as you now, gently, sip the straw, sensing the coolness of your throat and skin, staring at the vast sea.

you turn your gaze on her nose, so wanda would think that you are brave enough to have a staredown with her striking olive green eyes. then you take another hard sip, hollowing your cheeks in the process, at the same time moaning loudly, rolling your eyes back. “oh yes,” you sigh, “it tastes so good, wan! would you like some?”

she grins like a proud mother, “yeah,” reaching for the other glass but you swat her hand away. “nuh-uh,” you spurn, shaking your index finger whilst you stand up from the chair. you take three slow, deliberate steps sipping on the cocktail, not breaking eye contact with her. wanda watches every move in a relaxed position, however, her eyes carry primacy and eagerness—she’s like a hawk with it.

you bat your eyes at her as you lower yourself down, dipping one knee on the beach chair in the open space of her glistening legs, at the same time resting the piña colada on the wooden tray. wanda scoots facing you, realizing what is up your sleeve. a shiver runs down your spine when she holds your love handles, positioning you in place. you swear to not have done anything but sit, like a moan, when she plops you down against her lap, her grip on your knees reluctant as if she’s trying not to clench on you too hard.

wanda’s specs tumble out of place for a second ‘cause you clip the loose strands of blonde hair behind her ear, taking your time. she whines, “i’m getting so thirsty!” jerking your body up and down, making your legs quiver, the friction of your cores heating your bundle of nerves.

sticking an index finger against her complaining lips only to pinch her jawbone to force an opening, without saying a word, you connect your mouth with hers, slowly pushing out the piña colada into her “parched” throat.

wanda flutters her eyes close and hums at the sensation, gulping it down, caressing your back in the process. sluggish and soft, fingertips against your shoulder blades. upward your hair, combing through them. and finally, your neck, massaging your nape in circular motions.

when you pull away you return a soft smile, giddy and grateful, reaching for the glass to give her some more. wanda’s wandering hands begin to become playful, toying with your bikini strap, stretching the fabric just to let it strike your skin. you hiss, slapping her hands away, yet she reprimands you with a smack on the ass. you sigh in relief for not having anything in your mouth.

more perspiration covers her milk skin, moaning at the liquid tantalizing her throat, and you who cannot help but bounce against her, the heat crawling through your body caused by not only the tropical heat of the island.

“princess, wanda whines, pushing your hips hard to stop you from bouncing like a bitch in heat, “what is it?” acting as if she doesn’t know what you’re asking for. “do you want to ride my thigh?”

or maybe she does.

nodding eagerly, you slide your hands over wanda’s arms to intertwine fingers, descending to land on her thigh. “don’t let me go,”

wanda shakes her head, relaxed, rubbing her thumb over, “how am i going to play with your nipples then, honey?”

that particular sentence made you grind hard on her, your pussy throbbing in anticipation. it’s all up to you though, so you begin to feel her voluptuous thigh at home between your legs, at home to be used by your needy pussy. “let me play with them, yeah?”

you allow wanda to let go of your hands, although it doesn’t stay dangling and out of place. she puts them around her waist, “there. so you have something to hold on to,” gathering your hair around her grip. “get on it, little girl. give me a great view.”

you do as told.

somehow, you always need wanda’s approval and permission before doing something that includes her, because it’s different with her. you utterly have faith that she would keep you safe, because most exciting things are dangerous. you become your truest, unapologetic self with her, dependent and clueless. wanda adores it, serving you, treating you like a princess.

hoarsely, “there we go, nice and slow for now, huh?” wanda stares at your whole frame, your legs automatically spreading wider, draping over the chair. she bites her lip, dragging her fingers over your thighs, as you increase your pace. you squeal, pressing your clad pussy against her thigh, “that’s what i’m talking about, baby. make yourself feel good for me,” whilst wanda encourages you with hunger.

you whimper, watching her watch you. blood rushes into your cheeks, bowing down to relieve the tension of being under wanda’s gaze, still unused to the pierce of her green eyes. you only look back when she begins fiddling with your top straps, teasing you with her next move.

you believe you know what’s about to happen and yet she lets them go, cupping your tits with her hands, kneading them into her calloused palms. you topple over at the pleasure, and she holds you up with your breasts, almost crushing them. the action causes you to let out a high-pitched whimper, casually rubbing yourself to take off the insufferable itch in your clit.

“oh god,” you sob when wanda pries the cups open without taking the top off, only setting them aside, as if she’s washing off sand from a seashell with her slender hands. “oh, oh!” feverishly you buck your hips, and “wanda!” a scream follows as she steps on her heel, her thigh going on a slope.

“that’s my pretty girl,” wanda husks, “keep moaning for me,” encouraging you. a simultaneous long moan erupts from both of you as she pinches your peaks, rolling them in between her fingers. a hungry grunt vibrates through her before diving into your tit, sucking it full with her mouth. your hand goes straight through her blonde hair, gripping it through the scalp, and then her shoulder where you find better leverage.

“that’s it-“ wanda huffs, “g-good, good, my good girl,” lost in the pleasure of sucking your chest. “yeah baby come for me-“

wanda guides your hips, setting a quick, solid rhythm. she pulses her heel up and down, and then it hits you,

“come for me, pretty girl. come for mommy-“

screaming and thrashing on top of her.

you crash against her chest, quivering all over, moan after moan tumbling out of your mouth, your hips still moving but at their own accord, with wanda’s hands resting on your buttcheeks. wanda hums when you quiet down, the vibration reaching your nipples, grazing you with a scream, cum dripping out of you. “dirty,” you mewl, referring to your soaked and sticky bikini bottom

wanda groans, “all mine,” palming your pussy through it, shoving her lips onto yours. you happily obliged, probing your tongue in her mouth, which she gladly accepted. massaging them together, suckling, and then nipping her lower lip, brushing your noses together.

“mhm!” you squeal as you pull away, giving wanda a radiant smile. she pinches your cheeks and pecks your nose. “okay then!” she claps her hands together, an eager woman with a plan. she kisses the side of your neck just below your ear. she pulls you away from her, settling you down in between her legs.

she gets up, get cozy, princess, mommy’s just gonna take something inside, okay?”

“mommy,” you whine, “can i come with?”

“no no, princess. it’s a surprise for you, okay? i’ll be back before you know it!” and then she’s gone.

you probably should have added “please” then she would’ve surely brought you in with her. but you do entertain yourself with the little time alone: rearranging glasses back in place, disregarding your wet bottom because wanda would take it off as usual, and finish the cocktail. you also spooned a bit of the coconut’s inside.

a loud chatter pulls you away from your little bubble, a group of people jet skiing echoing through the space. multiple arms wave in your direction, a booming “HELLO” as you wave back, blush coating your cheeks. you push your legs tight together. realizing the openness of the patio, you make a double take behind the place wanda has disappeared off, knowing that there’s more to come out of after your stunt, and most especially that you have brought her dominant side out here.

you drink wanda’s piña colada to pacify your nerves.

wanda isn’t scary, per se, she just gets super duper mega hot and towering—sometimes to the point of la petite mort—but this time the possibility of somebody else kayaking their way into your location makes you palpitate.

kayaking, the deliberate effort of rowing through this calm ocean—the agonizing trail of the canoes—it is something worse than a damn jet ski. this is driving you crazy!

“i’m sorry for the long wait, my darling. mommy couldn’t find it for a while ‘cause she’s thinking about you…”

you take a huge gulp, refusing to look at what's behind you. a hand ghosts on top of the beach chair. “it’s okay, wanda, i like the view here…”

“i know, princess. but it’ll look nicer if you see what mommy packed for you!”

this is her cue to come forward, blocking the peaceful view of the sea, showing her thick strap. you roll your eyes back, trembling all over, making her chuckle at the expected reaction, taking your hand to stroke her cock.

“i love the sound of your whimpers, baby. shows how much effect i have on you,” wanda husks, her desire of giving it to you palpable, because she dirty talks her way into your pussy as she does so. you gasp, “it’s big,” gripping the tip, feeling the faux veins coating the shaft. “you can take it, princess. i know it.”

“i don’t think so…” you dissent, shaking your head, at the same time anticipating it. but surely you can’t take it in you, it’ll hurt so bad. wanda shakes her head and palms your drenched clothed pussy before setting it aside.

she puts a finger in without warning, making you arch your back, a cry “mommy!” leaving your shocked mouth.

“now you’re calling me mommy,” she gives you a disapproving look, but urges you on smiling at the motion of you sucking her middle finger in fully without resistance. “i knew you’d be so wet, so i didn’t bring any lube.”

wanda takes her finger out and puts it in her mouth, moaning at the sweet taste of your cum. “mmm, i might just have to eat you out instead. would you want that, my princess?”

you nod your head rather aggressively, your face contorted in desperation. anything not to take her monster dick. however, wanda must’ve noticed your not-so-subtle calculation because she changes her mind, shaking her head, trying to hide her cheshire smirk.

“no,” she hum, “i think my tongue can wait for this sweet pussy. ‘cause then what’s gonna keep my baby girl’s boobs occupied?”

a squeal leaves your mouth as wanda drags your legs to the edge until it’s draping off the chair. you stick your legs together in the wind, your cum glistening on your pussy. wanda traces the slick that coats your inner thigh, just to get a rise out of you. she bites her lip in anticipation as she lubes her cock with your pussy juice, rubbing the tip over your clit.

“fuck,” she moans, “listen to it,” slapping it the toy against your pussy. “mommy,” you could only respond, already over the whole teasing fit. “please!”

“please what, princess?”

“plea-pl-“

she chuckles. wanda groans as she lines her cock in your opening, “use your words, darling. makes it easier for us,” waiting for you to vocalize.

you fling your hand forward to intertwine them with hers. “please fuck me, mommy. pleaseplease fill meplease!”

wanda whimpers.

“that’s my good girl.”

she enters you slowly, encouraging you to take deep breaths as she spreads your hole, tearing you open to get used to the size. your brows knit together at the sharp pain, mewling at the sensation. wanda peppers kisses all over your neck and jaw, distracting you from the initial process, “hey, hey, baby. it’s okay, mommy’s here–mommy will take care of you.”

your “thank you” gets swallowed by her lips, capturing yours in a languid tango, firm and warm in the tropical heat. your eyes flutter close alike battling sleep as, fighting the urge to just stay open because if you stare long enough at wanda’s eyelashes, you would be able to count them, but you settle with feeling it caressing your cheekbone. she breathes you in with each inhale, her hands coming to your cheeks to get a hold of you even more. you let out a keen for the numerous times she bites your lip, sliding her tongue in when you moan at the first thrust.

you break the kiss, “mommy,” giving her a pleading look. “please.”

she presents you a peck and nods her head, “oh yes,” beginning a pace. “is that okay, princess? does it hurt?”

“little only now, mommy. i like it,” you reply, taking her tongue in yours again.

“yeah?” she pulls away from the kiss, “you like mommy grinding down on you?” pushing in her length harder, her pace controlled. you hear the beach chair thud against the movement. your tits bounce at the same time, whimpering, tugging her hand, “faster please-“

“no, no. mommy’s gonna take her time, my love. i need to feel every inch of you before we get back. fuck! i’ve never fucked you in a bikini! it’s been in my bucket list for months now and i could finally-!”

wanda finds her pace, a grunt leaving her, pumping deeper into you, “-do this!” a cry leaving your swelling lips as your back arches in the process, her cock stuffing you full. “thank you, feels so good,” you slur, eyes rolling back, seeing the blue of cloudy skies. you think you begin to drool.

wanda makes an incoherent statement, her lower lip bitten to hold back her moans. a bucket of sweat forms on her forehead, little bubbles that slide down through her forehead and blushing face. her hair tangles in knots like a wet mop, clinging against her back.

her hands slither through your body, tracing patterns on your stomach, playing with your belly button. “you’re welcome,” she sighs, “anything for my favorite lady,” whispering over your ear, her hot puffs making your spine quiver. she nibbles your earlobe.

and your neck, sinking her teeth into flesh, planting a bruise, gripping your waist tight to pull you forward to meet her pounding. “ah fuck, wanda!” you yelp, as she stretches your pussy hole open and full. bucking her hips with no abandon, chasing that high that belongs in between your legs, her primal urge to please you—to hear you scream her name in your favorite vacation spot—to make you come apart only for her to build you back up.

“oh baby, uh,” wanda keens, clipping her hair out of the way of seeing you fucked out, “play with your tits, y/n. come on, please! show me your pretty bits,”

a high-pitched moan sounds out of you from wanda’s desperation, mimicking her movement a sex ago, setting your cups to the side. your fingers shake as you pinch and roll your nipples, your moans getting higher and prolonged the more you tug at them. your whole body spasms, thrashing under wanda who makes it her life’s mission to make you come around her cock.

you hear her chuckle close to your ear, licking a column of your neck, peppering kisses down onto your chest, replacing your fingers with her lips and tongue.

“so hard, so ha-“

“harder!” you sob, jackhammering your hips to meet hers, every snap ending with the sound of your juices thwacking around wanda’s big dick.

“hey, hey, princess look,” wanda slaps your face lightly to catch your attention, at the brink of tapping out, your brain unable to cope up with the situation anymore. you push your hoods open—screaming at the shock—the sight of wanda’s bare breasts bouncing up and down, looking so supple and fresh.

“mommy,” you whine, “i wanna suck you,”

how you managed to let that out you don’t know.

wanda whimpers, “oh baby,” purring as she downs her pace, “here princess,” taking one tit and holding in front of your mouth, “suck mommy good yeah?”

you only nod your head, speaking less to more. your mouth envelops in the hard peaks of the older woman, flicking it with your tongue before you actually suck it. wanda lets out a shaky breath, “y-yeah princess. be a good girl for mommy-“ driving her cock in your wet cunt in one swift thrust, frantic to hear you once more.

“y/n!” wanda writhes, the only leverage she has over you is her hands clenching your sides, “fuck fuckfuck me- mommy’s so close princess-!” screaming along with you.

“mommy, mommy,” you slur, attempting to wrap your legs around her waist but it’s too imposible with the energy you have. although wanda takes notice, helping you, wrapping one leg around her, whilst the other takes your hand the way you intended to in the first place. “yes, princess. mommy’s clo–come with me, please? come with me m’kay?”

repetitive words tumble out of wanda’s lips with the way her mind untangles as well, lost in the pleasure of having you fucked brainless. her tit falls off your mouth when you fling your head back, nearing into your climax. one more thrust—

a familiar loud chatter enters your hearing, pointing toward your direction, wanda noticing the same thing as she pauses for a beat, and before shame could creep into your head, she jolts her hips recklessly, fucking you with a few visitors.

“fuck yeah? we got an audience, baby. better give them our best sho-“

wanda chokes out a sob the same time as you, convulsing and trembling together at the climax. multiple expletives grunts out of her filthy mouth, complementing your sputtering.

wanda screams the same time as you do, crashing together. multiple expletives come out of her filthy mouth, complementing your whiny sounds.

“m-mommy!” you whine, drool dripping out of your mouth, “please–“ wanda grinning down at you, the loud chatter that once was powerful now weak and non-existent. “yes princess?” she purrs, washing the orgasm out of you. “i think you made them shut up, baby,” she chuckles breathlessly, her face red and wet. “but…we’re not done yet.”

you whine, exhaustion already painted all over you. “nope,” wanda pops the p and fixes your disheveled hair. you look so fucked out, not even a workout excuse is going to hide that.

“i just…” wanda takes her time to come up with something, a sugarcoated truth, maybe? or a white lie?

“…i wanna put all my cum inside you,” she lets out quietly, batting her eyes at you.

you cry with your legs spread open and shaking, ropes of cum filling your pussy hole. wanda giggles and moves her cock in a sensual pace, making sure nothing goes to waste.

“i’m so full mommy!”

“so full of my cum! how does it feel being filled with cum, huh, princess?”

you can barely open your eyes at this point, but wanda insists, slapping your face lightly to catch your short attention span. “you like it?”

“yes, mommy. makes me wanna suck you,” you whimper as wanda moans. “i’ll fuck my cum in you some more and then i’ll get to fuck your face?”

“yes, you offer breathlessly, drifting off. she takes your chin so you could face her, “no, no,” giving you a demanding look, “yes what?”

she puts her thumb in your mouth and you automatically suck. “yes, mommy.”

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff smut #wanda x reader #marvel smut #wlw smut

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missyonmission · 11 months ago

Text

NSFW - no minors - smut with plot - Part 2

Plot: Your older brother's best friend was a pain in the ass, always seeking the opportunity to mock and tease you. You hated his guts or at least you were pretty sure you did. How can one person be so annoying and simultaneously so utterly attractive? It wasn't fair...

Currently he was sprawled out on the couch at your family's house, ready to spend the night and hang out with your older brother. Now what could go wrong if your brother left the two of you alone to get some last minute beer and snacks?

Warnings: brother's best friend!Gojo - virgin!Reader - thigh riding - getting interrupted - oral (m) - talk about feelings and crying - talk about protection - unprotected sex - cowgirl - missionary - implied multiple rounds - aftercare - awkward morning after with Suguru

Word count: 5.931

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Satoru cursed under his breath when he heard the sound of keys at the front door, mentally strangling his friend for having the worst timing. "Damn it, he's early." He muttered, hastily zipping up his pants and adjusting his shirt to cover his still present bulge, trying to hide the evidence of what you two had been doing.

He grabs you by your hips and lifts you off his lap, setting you down beside him on the couch and casually throwing an arm across the backrest. "Relax, sweetcheeks. Just act natural, okay?”

You too, straighten out as much as possible, throwing a blanket over to him to help him cover his obvious problem right before Suguru walks through the door.

Suguru looks at the both of you suspiciously, before letting out a huff. "You haven't killed each other yet? I'm impressed.", was all he said before placing the shopping bags full of snacks on the coffee table.

Satoru chuckled at his friend's remark and gave a crooked smile. "You doubted me, really? I'm a well-behaved houseguest, remember?" On the outside he tried to act nonchalant but his mind was still on you and the unfinished business between you two. He threw a sidelong glance at you, subtly admiring your appearance and trying to fight the urge to pull you back onto his lap.

“Yeah, of course you are, Satoru.” You say sarcastically with a roll of your eyes. You were impressed with yourself at how stable your voice sounded, not giving away any evidence of the arousal still dripping down your legs. Satoru just chuckled at your sarcastic remark and returned the eye roll with a smirk. He made a mental note to tease you later about how well you were masking your desires.

You turn your attention back to your brother while looking through the grocery bags. “Did you bring my favorite? I swear to God Suguru if you forgot my strawberry lollipops again, I will…” Meanwhile Satoru watched as you started going through the grocery bags, his eyes discreetly traveling down to your legs and noticing the way you squirmed ever so slightly.

“Is it true the weirdo will stay here for the night?” You try to silently communicate with Satoru, hoping he would catch onto your subtle invite to continue where the two of you left off. He nodded subtly in your direction, immediately understanding your hidden message.

He turned back to your brother as well. "Yeah, I'll be crashing here tonight. Got a problem with that, Suguru?” Suguru just raised an eyebrow at our behavior before dismissively waving his hand and walking over to the kitchen aisle to fetch some glasses for the drinks. “When did I ever have a problem with that? And even if, you wouldn't listen anyway…”

You huff out in fake annoyance, still trying not to make your brother suspicious about your behavior. “Whatever. Just make sure to stay away from me as far as possible, Satoru.” He had to fight the urge to roll his eyes at your statement, but instead, he smirked in amusement. He had to admit, you were doing a remarkably good job at acting nonchalant.

It was kind of fun. Sneaking around all secretly with him and you decided to tease him just a bit more when you found the bags of your favorite treat. You had to see how far you could take it before the mighty Gojo Satoru would lose his mind. So you take a strawberry lollipop out of the bag, opening it up and plopping it into your mouth. Sucking and licking the sweet candy while holding eye contact with him the whole time and smiling innocently. “Hhm~ Perfect. Such a sweet tasty treat. My favorite. Thanks, Suguru.”

Satoru's smirk faltered slightly when you started sucking and licking that lollipop, the innocent look on your face driving him wild. Gripping the corner of the couch, trying to maintain his composure and feeling a pang of jealousy towards that piece of candy, wishing it was him that you were sucking and licking so eagerly. "Yeah yeah, we all know how much you love candy.”

“Says the one with a sweet tooth himself.” You say teasingly, leaning closer to him, your faces only centimeters apart and you're sure he can smell the sweet breath of strawberry candy from your mouth.

You stand up from the couch, swinging your hips ever so slightly. “I’m going to take a shower. See ya!” You stop at the staircase, looking back over your shoulder and making sure Suguru isn't watching before throwing a wink at him.

He just watched you intently as you stood up and walked towards the staircase, his eyes following your every move. He couldn't help but notice the extra sway in your hips and the way you glanced back at him with that seductive wink. His heart rate picked up and his mind started racing with thoughts of what he wanted to do to you in that shower.

He waited for you to disappear upstairs before throwing a casual "later" in Suguru's direction. Then he stood up and casually walked toward the staircase as well, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Suguru could only roll his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose before muttering a few curses under his breath. He couldn't believe the two of us were this obvious, he thought he taught Satoru better than that. Flopping himself down onto the couch, he unpacked the beer, wanting to drown out the noises he would definitely be hearing in a few minutes.

In the meantime you stood in front of your wardrobe trying to pick out a sexy but subtle outfit for you. You needed something that would leave Satoru mouth watering but not extreme enough to make your brother snap at you. Standing in front of your closet and contemplating, you almost didn't notice the bedroom door swinging open. But when you did, a smirk found its way onto your face and you let out a chuckle. “And a few moments ago you teased me for being eager. Now look at you, Mister Gojo Satoru.”

When you turned around to look at him, your smile slightly faltered. Just maybe you took it a little bit too far. He was chuckling to himself at your comment, closing the door behind him, locking it in place before stalking over to you. “Satoru, I didn't- What are you-” You couldn't even finish your sentence before he practically pounced onto you, his lips on yours in an instant. The kiss hungry and asking for more.

He groaned as he savored the taste of your lips, his hands gripping at your waist to pull you flush against him. He nibbled at your lower lip, tongue darting out to taste the sweetness from that damn lollipop. You throw your arms around his neck, your mouth parting obediently when his tongue demands entrance against your lips. You couldn't help yourself, you were so needy for his attention.

“Satoru~” You mumble out between hot kisses. “Bed. Now, please.” You whine into his mouth, desperately wanting to take this further, to continue where the two of you have left off.

He chuckled huskily against your mouth, loving the way you whined and begged for him. It was music to his ears. He picked you up, his hands firm on your thighs as he carried you over to the bed and laid you down gently onto the sheets. Looking down at you, he took in your flushed cheeks and parted lips. His hands roaming across your body, under your shirt and up to your chest. "You want me that bad, huh, sweetcheeks? So needy…”

“You're teasing again.” You whine out impatiently with your lips in a cute little pout and your hands are tucking at his shirt already, wanting it out of the way.

He only chuckled at your pouty expression, finding it irresistibly cute, leaning down and nipping at your bottom lip, he whispered huskily into your ear. "Impatient little thing, aren't you?" He straightened up and pulled his shirt off over his head, revealing his toned chest and muscular arms. "Can't keep your hands off me, huh? Well, go ahead sweetcheeks. Touch all you want.”

You would have made a snarky comment about his cocky attitude but you were completely in trance the moment his shirt was carelessly discarded onto the floor. Your eyes fixated on his bare skin, the way his muscular abs rippled with every move and the way his toned chest rose and fell with every breath. Your hands landing on the skin just above his pants and traveling up in featherlight touches, resting right against the skin where his heart was beating loudly in his chest. Looking up directly into his beautiful blue orbs and realizing he was already staring back at you. Not being able to hold back the feelings currently stirring inside of you, tears were welling up in your eyes just at the way he looked so beautiful right now.

You couldn't really describe the feeling or why you were so overwhelmed by it but in this moment you felt so safe and secure with him, like you were his, like this was how it was supposed to be. Like you were born to be with him.

He just watched silently as your eyes traveled down his shirtless torso, your touch sending shivers through his body. He could see the admiration and desire in your gaze, and it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. When your eyes meet his, he is struck by the mixture of emotions in your own. The tears beginning to form in your eyes stirred something deep inside him. He reached forward and gently brushed a stray lock of hair away from your face. "Hey, don't cry, sweetcheeks." He whispered softly, his voice filled with tenderness. "Are you okay?”

“I-I'm sorry.” You sniffle, trying to compose yourself and not make a fool out of you. “I don't know what came over me…” You start to gently push him off of you, sitting up slightly and tucking your knees under your chin. He frowned when you tried to push him away, feeling a pang of sadness at the thought of losing the intimate moment you had been sharing.

You weren't looking at him but at the space in between the two of you, calling out his name softly. “Satoru? Can I ask you a question? And please take me seriously here…” You didn't wanted to ruin the mood and you knew he didn't like getting all emotional, talking about feelings and such but you needed to talk about this before moving any further.

He could see the vulnerability in your eyes and knew that this wasn't something he could just brush off with a dismissive joke. "Of course, you can ask me anything. What's on your mind, sweetcheeks?”

“I'm yours, right? After this night, I mean? After we do…this?” You knew Satoru was a ladies man. Always fooling around and having every woman swoon over him. Up until now you have never seen him being in a serious relationship or even twice with the same girl but tonight was about your virginity and the fact that you were willing to give it up to him. “I am yours and you are mine after this, right?” You meet his eyes again, your voice shaky and lips trembling slightly as tears start to well up again. Trying to wipe them away with the back of your hand and getting frustrated at the fact you were so vulnerable in front of him. You needed him, more than you thought you ever would and you didn't know what to do if he broke your heart in two after tonight.

He could see the vulnerability and fear in your teary eyes, and it tugged at his heartstrings. He had never seen you like this before, so raw and open, but he couldn't deny that it was endearing. He gently reached out and took your trembling hand in his, holding it firmly. "Yes. After tonight, I'm yours. And you're mine." He pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you in a protective embrace. "You don't have to worry about anything, sweetcheeks. I'm not going anywhere. I'm all yours."

Sitting in his lap made you relax a bit, the sincerity of his words calming you down immensely. Your arms around his shoulders were holding him close to you and your face was buried in his neck, inhaling his scent. He just holds you close, his hands still soothingly rubbing your back as he lets you soak in the comfort of his embrace. He could feel your body trembling slightly as you nestled into his neck, and he gently pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

The whole situation reminded you of the purpose you two had landed in your bed in the first place and also makes you extremely aware about the wetness in your panties and the bulge in his pants beneath you.

The vulnerability of the confession is still lingering in the air. Love and adoration was added to the carnal desire and need for one another. “Then, then claim me.” You let out in a shaky breath, followed by your hips grinding down into his lap, just like he had shown you before. Your arms reaching up and taking off your own shirt.

When you spoke those words a low growl rumbled in his throat, his arms tightening around you. His eyes roamed over your naked torso, taking in every inch of exposed skin with hunger. "Mine" He breathed, his voice raspy with desire.

“Only yours." You echo back at him in a whisper. Your hands finding purchase on his belt buckle, opening up his pants and looking at him with a mixture of love and lust. You move off his lap and immediately notice the confusion in his eyes, making you giggle before taking off your skirt, leaving you standing in front of him in nothing but your panties.

Sitting down on your knees in front of him, looking up with big, innocent eyes. He watched you intently as you sat at his feet, his breath catching at the sight of your bare body. You looked so beautiful, so eager to please him, and he couldn't help but be captivated by you. “I need you to guide me through this, Satoru. Need you to teach me what makes you feel good, please. How to do this right…”

He reached out and gently caressed your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "Of course, sweetcheeks. I'll guide you through everything." He shifted forward on the bed, his legs bracketing you as he looked down at you with a smile. "Come here.”

You lean your face closer into his lap. Your trembling hands tenderly reach out to take him out of his underwear. Your eyes widening slightly at his size and you had to gulp down some air, suddenly feeling very intimidated. But you need him to be proud of you and bite back your concern, willing to learn and trusting him to help you through this. With a last look into his eyes for reassurance, your tongue darts out to lick his tip gently.

The feeling of your tongue on him sent a jolt of pleasure through his body and he let out a strangled groan. He watched with a mixture of awe and need as you gently touched him, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Resisting the urge to buck his hips forward and wanting to give you time to explore and get used to the feeling. "That's it, sweetcheeks. You're doing so good for me.”

When you taste him on your tongue for the first time, you couldn't help the moan that escaped your throat and when he groaned out at the pleasure, you feel a sense of pride. You're gaining more and more confidence and decide to take him further into you. The unfamiliar feeling makes your eyes sting with tears. You liked this. Liked his taste, his sounds, the way you could make him feel good and you kind of wish he wouldn't hold himself back anymore.

He could see the tears welling up in your eyes, and part of him wanted to stop you, to make sure you weren't pushing yourself too far. But the sight of you, so eager and willing to please him, was too much to resist. His fingers find their way into your hair, gently guiding your motions. "Relax your throat, sweetcheeks. Breathe through your nose." He said huskily, his voice filled with both desire and concern.

You hum around him, trying to follow his advice instantly. You didn't know that the vibrations would have such a strong affect on him and you feel his body shiver from pleasure above you. He lets out a guttural moan. "God, you're so good at this." He said, his fingers tightening slightly in your hair. He could feel himself getting close already after all the pent up desire from earlier, the pleasure building up quickly and he fought to control himself. He didn't want to finish too quickly and make a fool out of himself. "Sweetcheeks, you need to slow down.”

You looked up at him through teary eyes, slowing down your movement, your tongue still swirling around him, not willing to let go of his taste and the heavy feeling of him against your tongue. Your face showed confusion, wondering if you did something wrong or if you interpreted this all wrong and he didn't like what you were doing.

He groaned as you slowed down, his grip in your hair relaxing. "No, no, you're doing so good, sweetcheeks." He reassured you, his gaze on you filled with need and admiration. He knew he couldn't let himself go just yet, he wanted to make sure this was enjoyable for you too. But it was becoming harder and harder to hold back and so he took the safe route. "Pull off, sweetcheeks. Come here.”

You pull off of him with a lewd plopping sound, your lips pouting slightly and he couldn't help but chuckle, finding you irresistibly cute. He reached out and gently cupped your face in his hands, his thumb tracing over your bottom lip which was still glistening with saliva. "Don't worry, sweetcheeks. I'll take care of you. Just trust me." He said, his voice low and soothing.

He pulled you up and closer, making you straddle his lap in front of him, with one leg on either side of his hips. "Lean forward and hold onto my shoulders.”

When you follow his instructions and lean forward, you unknowingly hold your bare chest right in front of his face. He felt his breath hitch at the sight of you so close to his face. Your skin was so smooth and beautiful, untouched and innocent. Just like you. As if you were a work of art made just for him. Your tiny hands clutch onto his broad shoulders for stability and you eagerly wait for his next instructions.

“I trust you, Satoru.” Your words are softly spoken and full of love, locking eyes with his and blinking up at him. His hands find your hips, gently guiding you to straddle him more tightly. He could feel your weight on him, your body pressed flush against his. "Now, slowly lower yourself down onto me. Take your time." He whispered in your ear, his voice low and gentle.

But you don't follow, instead your brows furrow in a moment of uncertainty. “Condom…” You whisper out. “Don't we need a condom?” Satoru froze for a moment, realizing the important aspect he had unintentionally overlooked. He cursed himself inwardly for becoming so lost in the moment. He looked at you, his expression serious as he nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry, sweetcheeks. Sometimes I forget myself. I'll find one, just give me a moment."

When he made a move to stand up, intending to look around for a condom, you quickly grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Wait! I-I think it's alright. I mean if we don't use one... I-I want to feel you. Like, all of you but I wasn't sure. I just wanted to ask in case you-” You ramble on in embarrassment, not finishing your last sentence and letting out a frustrated huff of air at your own nervousness in the moment. Looking into his eyes, hoping that he will understand what you want to say and that you are okay with not using protection for tonight.

He listens to your rushed words, his expression softening at your shyness and nervousness. The fact that you wanted to feel him, all of him, without any barriers between you, set his heart racing and his desire for you only grew stronger. He cupped your face in his hand, gently rubbing his thumb over your cheek. His eyes lock onto yours, his gaze filled with need but also tenderness. "Are you sure, sweetcheeks? You're not just saying that because you think that's what I want, right?”

“What? No! No, of course not. I'm actually on the pill so it's alright. I just wanted to make sure, because this is my first time and I don't know... I heard it can be… messy?” You were so embarrassed but couldn't stop yourself from rambling on further, probably making a real fool out of you. “But guys do like it raw, right? My friends say that guys prefer to do it without protection…?” You get more and more quiet at the end of your sentence, too embarrassed to actually speak such things out loud. “You would like it, right?”

He couldn't hold back a smirk at your rambling. You looked so cute when you were nervous and embarrassed, it only made him want to ruin you even more. He chuckled softly, gently stopping you from continuing with a soothing touch to your face. "Sweetcheeks, please breathe." He teased gently, but his eyes were filled with desire and love. "Yes, I do like it raw. I love the feeling of your body, of being as close to you as possible. And as for the mess, don't worry. I'll take care of it after.”

“Then, I don't want you to use it. Want to feel you raw.” Your eyes blink up at him, the desperate desire clearly evident. You were still seated in his lap, your hand finding purchase on his chest before sliding down to his abdomen, taking his length cautiously into your hand and pumping him slowly for a few times. “Can we continue please?”

He lets out a deep breath when you touch him, his eyes closing briefly at the sensation of your gentle hand wrapping around him. When you asked to continue, his eyes opened again, locking onto yours with unwavering intensity. He placed one hand on your hip, his grip firm and possessive. His other hand wrapped around your wrist, guiding your movements as you touched him. "Yes, we can continue. I'm all yours, sweetcheeks.”

Hearing the words falling from his lips, you take one last deep breath and decide to be brave. Taking the initiative, your lips find his own in a messy kiss. One of your hands still wrapped around him, the other coming to the back of his neck, softly grazing the strands of white hair.

You adjust your position on his lap, hovering above his length for a moment before slowly sinking down onto him. You break the kiss immediately when you feel him stretch past your tight entrance, your face scrunching up in pain and your mouth dropping open in a silent moan. The feeling was unfamiliar.

His eyes open as soon as you retreat from the intensity of the kiss, watching your face intently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your hip as he feels your body stretch around him. He saw the pain etched onto your features, his expression softening with concern although he couldn't hide the pleasure he was feeling. "Shhh, relax, sweetcheeks. Take all the time you need. The pain will pass soon. Just breathe.”

“'s big Satoru~ Hurts…” You let out a whimper, your eyes brimming with tears when your body tried to accommodate him and to the new feeling. You really try to relax, breathe in and out, finding comfort in his touch. Still, you were barely halfway inside. All the while his concerned eyes watch your every move. He could feel the struggle you were going through, and he wanted to ease your pain in any way possible. His grip on your hip tightened slightly as he felt you clenching around him.

"I know, sweetcheeks. I know it hurts, but you're doing so well. Just focus on your breathing." He ran his hand up and down your back, trying to soothe you as he felt your body resist his intrusion. "Try to relax for me, sweetcheeks. You're taking me so well.” His words encourage you immensely and you start to relax. You bury your face in his neck, inhaling his scent and unintentionally clench around him.

When the pain lessens, you sink down all the way letting out a breath you didn't even knew you were holding and after a few more seconds your hips instinctively begin drawing light circles for friction, the pain now completely gone and replaced with the need for more.

He could feel your body adjusting to him, his breath hitching as he felt your walls spasm and clench around him. Your face buried in his neck sends shivers down his spine, and he could feel your breath on his skin. When you sink down fully, a low groan escapes him, his eyes closing at the feeling of you wrapped so tightly around him. When you begin moving your hips in those small, teasing circles, his grip on your waist tightens reflexively. "God, sweetcheeks. You feel so good.”

You kiss alongside his jaw up to his lips. His groans are muffled as soon as your lips meet his in a deep, slow and passionate kiss. “Feels so good Satoru~.” The movement of your hips getting a little bolder. “Need you to take control. Don't know what to do next. Want you to make me feel good.” You mumble between kisses.

He savors the feeling of your body against his, your sweet scent filling his senses and driving him wild with desire. He breaks the kiss, his eyes locking onto yours, his gaze dark and filled with lust. "Gladly, sweetcheeks. Lay back for me." He gently pushes you back onto the bed, following you down and settling himself between your legs.

When he's laying you down onto the bed and hovering above you, you can't help the look of admiration and love that fills your eyes, your hand instinctively reaching out to gently caress his face. You open your legs up wider to make it easier for him to move in between. You never knew you would ever think this way, seeing how annoying you usually thought Gojo Satoru was, but you trust him completely to take control and make you feel good.

He leans into your touch, his eyes closing at the feeling of your fingertips against his skin. When you open yourself up for him, his breath hitches and his eyes roam over your body, taking in every inch of your skin and committing it to memory. "You're so beautiful, sweetcheeks." He whispers, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on your hip. "I'm going to make you feel so good, I promise." And with that, he's filling you up again, the stretch eliciting a moan from your lips and begins to move, his hips slowly rocking against yours.

Your hands fly up to your mouth trying to cover up the sounds, not wanting to alert your brother. If Suguru found you, his sister and his best friend in this compromising position, you two would be in huge trouble. “Fuck…” You whisper out, back arching and eyes rolling into the back of your head because of the pleasure.

Satoru can't help but chuckle softly at your attempt to quiet yourself, your efforts to hide your moans only spur him on to make you louder, to make you forget about the world outside. He leans down, his body covering yours completely, pinning you to the bed as he continues to move inside of you. His lips find their way to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there, leaving behind a trail of love bites. "Don't hold back, sweetcheeks. Let me hear you moan for me.”

You want to glare at him for being so irresponsible, for not caring if your brother found out or not but with how good he was making you feel, it was basically impossible. The words are dying on your tongue when another moan leaves your mouth. Your body is clenching around him hard, as if to not let go of him.

He groans at the sensation, of your body clenching around him, the feeling so good it nearly makes him lose his grip on control, that was already wearing thin. He bites down on your neck, not hard enough to mark you, but hard enough to make you gasp loudly. "God, sweetcheeks, you gotta relax a bit. Otherwise I won't be able to hold back for long."

He lifts his head from your neck, his eyes studying your face. Your expression was a mix of pleasure and desperation, and damn if it wasn't the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. “'s so deep. Please don't stop.” You were letting out the most needy and desperate sounds. Spurring him on and making him pick up his pace, the movement becomes harder and more purposeful as the two of you lose yourself in the pleasure.

He listens to your pleas, his heart racing and his breath coming in ragged gasps at the sound of your voice. The way you're reacting to him, the way you're begging for more and more is driving him insane. "Such a needy little thing." He murmurs in your ear. "So desperate for me, aren't you sweetcheeks? Wanting me to keep going, make you feel good?”

He leans back onto his heels, lifting your hips up a bit to change the angle as his pace quickens, losing himself in the moment. You try to tell him how good he's making you feel but your brain feels mushy from the pleasure and all that's coming out of your mouth are incoherent sentences and moans of his name.

Your moans and the way you're whimpering his name is driving him wild. He can barely think straight, the only thing on his mind is bringing you as much pleasure as possible. He leans down, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his pants and grunts filling your ear. "You're taking me so well, sweetcheeks. So good for me." He whispers, his voice rough and strained.

"Can you do something for me, sweetcheeks?”

“Everything. 'd do anything for you.” The words tumble out of your mouth and your head shakes yes in a frantic measure, hands grasping desperately at the sheets above your head. In this state of mind you would have done everything for him, without question, as long as he continued to make you feel this way.

He feels a thrill go through him at the sight of you completely lost in pleasure and desire, your words making his heart swell with possessive pride. He slows down his movements, grinding into you slowly and purposefully. His lips find their way to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Reach down between us and touch yourself for me." He whispers, his voice raspy and demanding. He's leaning up again and lets his eyes rake over your body and admires every little detail about you. The way your chest moves with each thrust, the way your soft tummy shows just the slightest outline of his length moving inside of you and all the way down to where your puffy lips stretch so beautifully around him.

You travel one of your hands down his abdomen until it reaches the point where the two of you are connected. Your fingers rubbing slow circles on your sensitive clit, the pleasure increasing and you can feel yourself close to the edge.

All the while Satoru watches you intently as you move your hand down, his breath getting ragged as he feels you clenching around him as soon as you're touching yourself. Seeing you pleasure yourself like that pushes him closer to the edge, his self-control thinning. He lets out a low, guttural groan, his eyes dark and clouded with desire. "God, sweetcheeks. You look so beautiful like this.” His hips jerk forward involuntarily, causing him to accidentally hit that sensitive spot inside of you.

You let out a gasp when he hit that special spot inside, reaching your peak in overwhelming pleasure. Throwing your thighs instinctively around his hips, to pull him impossibly closer. Not wanting him to pull out for even a split second, desperately trying to hold onto the feeling of being completely and utterly full.

He groans loudly as your thighs clamp down around him, bringing his hips flush against yours as you shudder and spasm around him. He can barely hold himself together, the feeling of you clenching around him so tightly nearly overwhelming. He's pressing his forehead against yours, his breath coming in harsh gasps as he fights against the need to come undone. "Sweetcheeks… Sweetcheeks, I need to pull out." He says between ragged breaths, his voice strained with the effort to hold himself back.

“Hmm~ no. Don't want you to. Inside, please. Need to feel you inside.” Your eyes are tearing up, both from the pleasure and the thought of his body leaving yours. Your lips are trembling and your voice breaks slightly when you whine out for him, hands clutching his shoulders tightly.

He swallows hard at the sound of your breathless plea, his body shaking with the need to give in to your request. The thought of pulling out, of denying you what you want, is almost physically painful. His whole body is strained and on the edge of snapping. "Sweetcheeks, I don't know if I can-" Cutting himself off as the words get stuck in his throat. He groans, his eyes closing as he struggles against the overwhelming desire to give in to your plea.

“Satoru~” You call out his name in a whisper, one of your hands finding his jaw, to make him look into your eyes. “I'm sure. Just let go for me, please.” If your mind wouldn't have been so clouded from pleasure, you would have been impressed with how steady your voice comes out. The emotions in your eyes give him the last reassurance that he needed. That you want him.

He looks into your eyes, and he sees everything he needs to see. The trust, the desire, the love that shines in your eyes is enough to break what little restraint he has left. He can no longer deny you, no longer deny himself the pleasure of being so intimately connected with you. He lets out a shaky breath, his hands grasping your hips tightly. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his voice rough as he whispers against your skin.

"God, I love you.”

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