#The bones in loops hand are CREAKING right now

[annasofthe11thdimension]

Waltz

[everrinsly]

a/n; i'm sorry I've been so busy but here's something cute, it's a little long i think haha, but i hope you like! for all your girl dad boys who can't do hair, thank you for reading!! i am also working on the olympic momager series! i promise

bow ties with bunny ears and octopus arms. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

when your niece wants him to tie her hair like yours before her back-to-school shopping trip... but he can't seem to get it right.

♡ For all your favorites, who have trouble with girl hair.

more of your favorite boys!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌

The morning light is golden and filters through the soft hum of weekend life. It’s the kind of day that smells like laundry detergent and fabric softener with the windows cracked open just enough to let in a warm breeze and the distant sound of kids riding bikes down the street.

You’ve been puttering around the apartment, keeping busy while you wait—packing snacks, refilling water bottles, scrutinizing items on your niece’s back-to-school shopping list because why does she need four pairs of plastic scissors? 

You don’t hear much coming from your bedroom, only the occasional creak of the floor and the soft snap of a hairbrush being dropped again. And again.

You sigh and stretch your arms above your head, peeking down the hallway just as—

The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and the sound of your niece’s voice spills out in a frustrated whine.

“Noooo, not like that! You’re tying it like a shoelace!”

There’s a pause, then his flat voice, that same bone-dry tone he always uses when he’s pretending he’s not actually trying. “Princess, it is a shoelace. Just pink.”

Your niece lets out a small gasp. “It’s not!”

She turns around to face him with the most appalled expression a five-year-old can muster. “It’s a ribbon! For pretty hair! You can’t put it in your sneakers!”

He blinks down at her, utterly unmoved. “I could. If I wanted to.”

She gasps again, mouth wide, hands flying to her cheeks. “No! You’d ruin it!”

“Nah. I think I’d look cute.”

“No. You’d look weird.”

That finally earns a low, amused breath from him—barely a laugh, more of a nose exhale. 

“I just want it like Auntie’s!” she points, tiny arms gesturing wildly. “Hers is floaty. Yours is droopy.”

“Droopy is the new floaty.”

“You’re not even trying!”

“I’m trying enough.”

“Try more!”

You stifle a laugh and peek inside.

And instantly, your heart softens.

He sits on the edge of the bed, legs spread comfortably, your niece standing between them—pouty and impatient in her baby blue dress, the one he bought her for her birthday last year, now a little shorter but still her favorite because “Uncle picked it out.” 

He’s already brushed her hair out, surprisingly neat for his usual half-effort approach, and gathered the top half into a small ponytail with a clear elastic. He clumsily wrangles one of your pink ribbons around the elastic, long fingers trying to loop and tug it into something that resembles a proper tie. It slips once, twice, and he sighs deeply like he’s been low-key (high-key) struggling for the last ten minutes.

Your niece huffs dramatically, tapping her foot against the floor as if that might speed him up. “It’s not that hard,” she mumbles, clearly one breath away from snatching it and doing it herself.

“Then you do it,” he says flatly as he tries again. “I’ll sit on the bed and complain instead.”

She crosses her arms. “You’re the grown-up.”

“Debatable.”

He finally gets the ribbon looped and tugs it tight, fingers pausing as he examines the result with a painfully neutral expression.

And the bow is… well, it’s a bow. Technically. It exists. 

But one loop is way too big and the ends hang uneven, the knot looking suspiciously loose, like it might unravel if she so much as breathes wrong.

Your niece tilts her head, first to the left, then to the right, just feeling the weight of it. “It… it feels lopsided.”

“You’re lopsided.”

“Am not!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters, pulling gently at one end to fix it, which somehow only makes it worse.

She groans, stomping her socked foot gently against the floor. “It’s supposed to look pretty! Like Auntie’s!”

“She’s got more hair,” he replies lazily. “More hair means better bow structure.”

“No,” she insists, turning to squint at him accusingly. “That’s not it.”

He raises a brow. “It’s definitely it.”

She shakes her head. “Mama does bunny ears. Auntie does bunny ears. You’re not doing bunny ears. That’s why it’s lopsided!”

“I don’t speak rabbit.”

“Everyone speaks rabbit! You make two loops, like bunny ears, and then you cross them and pull!”

He stares blankly at her. “So, a shoelace. I was right.”

“It’s not! It’s a technique!” she says, hands flailing for emphasis.

His face doesn’t change, but the corner of his mouth twitches just a little. “Pretty sure I do this technique better than Mama and Auntie.”

“You don’t,” she deadpans. “Because you’re doing… like… octopus arms.”

“Octopus—? Well, aren’t you harsh on me today, huh, princess?”

He says it lightly, teasing, expecting her to puff up and giggle, maybe roll her eyes and call him weird again. But instead, she goes quiet.

Too quiet.

She’s still, fidgeting with the hem of her dress now, and when she turns to glance back at him, there’s a tight pull to her mouth. Her shoulders curve in, just barely, like she’s trying not to show it; but he sees it, the shine in her eyes before she turns and blinks it away.

She's not crying, but the tears are there, glassing over her lashes. Her lips are wobbly, and the pout on her face is trembling, real and honest—the kind of disappointment that doesn’t need words.

His heart drops clean out of his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer. “Baby.”

She sniffles once. “It’s not the same,” she mumbles. “It doesn’t look like Auntie’s. And I want it to be the same.”

He blinks slowly, watching as she tilts her head all the way back to look up at him upside-down, bottom lip jutting out.

And something in him just… breaks.

He’s quiet for a moment, then shifts his hands to cradle her tiny face gently in both palms. His fingers dwarf her cheeks, but they’re soft, so soft, and her pout falters a little under the weight of his steady gaze.

“Don’t cry, princess.”

“I’m not,” she whispers back, but her lip trembles, betraying her.

He leans in a little closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You're the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Bow or no bow. Got it?”

She nods, barely.

“And for the record…” he adds, brushing some of her bangs back, “I think yours looks better. Way better.”

“Really?” she asks, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Really, baby.”

She finally smiles, cheeks pink, and lets out a small, breathy giggle. “Because you tied it?”

He leans down and presses another kiss to the center of her forehead, lingering there for a second longer, his lips warm against her skin. “Yeah. Obviously.”

“But,” he adds, like it’s no big deal, “if you really want it fixed, I guess I can go get Auntie. She’s probably out there laughing at me right now.”

She shakes her head fast, clutching the hem of her dress with both hands. “No, it’s okay!”

“You sure?” he teases, already reaching for his phone. “She’s right outside, probably waiting to rescue you.”

But she stomps her socked foot again and spins on her heel, throwing her arms up around his neck. “Nooo, it’s okay because you did it!”

He goes still for half a beat, then his arms wrap around her, like muscle memory, like instinct, pulling her effortlessly into his lap. She fits there so easily, tucking her head beneath his chin.

And then, he smothers her in kisses: sloppy, noisy ones to both cheeks, one after the other, with exaggerated “mwah” sounds that have her giggling so hard she nearly topples out of his arms.

“That tickles!”

“Can’t hear you, sorry, I’m too busy kissing the cutest girl in the universe,” he says, punctuating each word with another kiss to her temple, her jaw, her cheek. “Most patient. Most stylish. Most perfect.”

You finally step in from the doorway, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt, heart practically swelling out of your chest. He glances up as you approach, one arm still wrapped securely around her tiny waist. 

Your niece turns in his lap the second she hears your footsteps, her whole face lighting up. “Hi, Auntie!” she chirps, arms reaching out, fingers wiggling in grabby little waves.

You melt instantly.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you coo, walking over and taking her outstretched hands in yours. He shifts slightly to make room, and you settle beside him on the edge of the bed, your knee bumping his.

She immediately leans into your side, wiggling close, cheeks flushed from all the attention. You reach up to touch the ribbon he tied in her hair. “This turned out so cute,” you say, smiling down at her.

“Because he did it,” she replies proudly, beaming like she won something.

You glance at him, then back at her. “Well then… think you could help me fix mine? I want it to look exactly like yours.”

Her gasp is dramatic, tiny hands flying to her chest. “Really?!”

“Really, sweets,” you nod.

She nearly wriggles out of his lap in her excitement, scrambling onto the bed behind you, carefully gathering your hair with her small fingers. You sit still, a little hunched forward to give her room to work, while her little hands tug and fluff and pat like a tiny hairstylist on a mission.

You feel the bed shift slightly beside you, and then he leans in, his hand brushing lightly against your arm before he presses the softest kiss to your cheek—barely there, but somehow it settles straight into your chest.

You blink, surprised, then glance sideways to see him way too smug for someone who’s supposedly indifferent.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you could’ve asked me. I tied her bow.”

You raise a brow, grinning. “Mm, yeah. I saw that.”

“And?”

“And…” you hum, turning slightly so he can see your smirk, “I think not.”

He gives you a slow blink. “Wow.”

“You’re talented,” you tease, “but I wanted bunny ears instead of octopus arms.”

From behind you, your niece squeals. “Seeee?!” she cries, dramatically throwing her hands in the air. “Even Auntie says you did octopus arms! And she didn’t even watch you!”

You bite your lip to hold back a laugh, peeking over your shoulder at her. 

“I felt it, Auntie,” she says, completely serious, tiny fingers still fussing with the loops of your bow. “He twisted it all weird, like… squiggly. Like an octopus with too many jobs.”

You giggle. “I know, baby. Can’t do bunny ears for life, can he?”

“Nope.”

He stares between the two of you, blank-faced.

“A whole room full of betrayal today,” he says flatly, leaning back on his hands. “Can’t believe my girls.”

You huff a quiet laugh, nudging your knee against his. “Yeah, well…” you murmur, voice gentler now, “your girls still love you.”

His eyes flick to you, and that soft pull at the corners of his mouth returns—a smirk this time. You can see it. The way that one line breaks through his composure. The way you always get to him, even when he pretends otherwise.

He turns toward your niece, who’s still behind you, carefully adjusting your bow like it’s a crown. His hand finds her back again, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of her dress.

“Do you, baby?” he asks, low and teasing, but there’s something tender underneath it, something real.

She grins, flashing all her little teeth. “I do!”

[rafessecret]

ward walking in on rafe (or the other way round) rewatching the video reader saved jacking off to it and having this sick moment of realisation that he’s not the only one pining after his daughter sparking subtle competition between the two over it, and reader is none the wiser (or is she)

⋆˚࿔ doll¡ reader && rafe cameron with ward cameron

JEALOUSY.

Ward wasn’t looking for anything. Just needed a file. A pen. Maybe a bit of silence after the long night, when the air still tasted like whisky and his bones ached from pacing. But when he pushed open the office door, it creaked just enough for the scene to hit him all at once—

Rafe.

In his chair. Legs spread wide, jeans shoved low on his hips. One hand fisted around his cock, the other gripping the edge of the desk like it anchored him. Head tilted back, lips parted, eyes glazed and glued to the monitor. Your moans filling the room—raw, needy, a little breathy at the end like when you’re right there, almost crying from how full you feel.

The video. The one you thought you deleted. The one Ward had saved. Had watched in the dark more times than he could count, shame curled around his spine like smoke as he jerked off to it night after night. You, mouth open and gasping, taking Rafe like you were made for it. But now it was Rafe watching. And touching himself.

Ward didn’t say a word. He just stood there, in the halo of shadow, frozen. Watching the slow pump of Rafe’s hand. The way his abs flexed each time your moan peaked. The twitch of his cock, glistening at the tip. And worst of all—the look on Rafe’s face. Obsession. Lust. Something that looked like… love.

It was the same look Ward had. The same one he wore every night when he watched you. And something sour—something ancient and male—burnt in his gut. A slow, curling fury that twisted into something darker. Possessive. He left without a sound. But it lingered. That image: Rafe, shameless and hungry, jerking off to his little girl. Their girl. And now? Now it was war. Not loud. Not obvious. But every breath since tasted like challenge. Like claim. Like vengeance. And you—soft and clueless—just kept smiling, all sticky lip gloss and sweet sighs, like you didn’t already know you’d split them both down the middle.

(Or maybe you did.)

The next video Rafe films is slower. More drawn out. Filthier.

You’re on your back, legs spread wide across his lap, riding him with that lazy, fucked-out rhythm he loves—like you’re floating, too far gone, just using his cock to chase your own orgasm. The camera catches everything. The wet squelch every time you sink down. The glossy sheen of slick coating your inner thighs. The bulge in your stomach every time you bottom out.

Rafe’s hands are barely guiding your hips now—more like holding on, thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above your ass. You’re moaning with every bounce, head tipped back, drool clinging to the corner of your mouth. Your tits jiggle with each thrust, nipples red and sore from where he bit them earlier.

❝Tell him whose cock you love more,❞ Rafe whispers, brushing sweat-slick hair from your face, voice thick with pride and lust. You’re crying again. Big, glossy tears clinging to your lashes. And you say it—his name—soft and slutty and reverent. ❝Rafe… Rafe… Rafe…❞ Breathless, pathetic. He loops that part in the final cut. Just you, wrecked and bouncing on his dick, chanting his name like it’s gospel.

Ward watches it. More than once. The look on Rafe’s face pisses him off—that smug, possessive glint in his eye like he’s already won. So, the next time Ward has you, he takes it out on you. He wraps his hand around your throat mid-moan, just as you’re clenching around him, nails scratching at the sheets.

Harder than usual. Your eyes go wide, mouth parting in a silent cry. He holds you there, just long enough to make your vision go fuzzy. You twitch beneath him, hips still lifting—needy, even as your brain gets hazy from the lack of oxygen. When he finally lets go, you gasp like you’ve never breathed before, your mouth all wet and lips swollen.

❝You like that?❞ he growls, low and gravel-rough, leaning in so close your noses brush. ❝Bet that pretty little boy wouldn’t dare choke you like this.❞ He fucks you hard that night—rougher, meaner. His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back as he pounds into you, spit and tears soaking the pillow beneath you. He leaves proof—dark bruises, finger-shaped prints painting your throat, your hips, your thighs. You’re wrecked by the end of it. Barely able to speak, cunt fluttering and dripping onto the sheets.

When Rafe sees the marks, his jaw tightens. But he doesn’t get angry. He competes. Next time he has you, he’s on his knees—dragging your panties down with his teeth, breath hot against your soaked folds. He doesn’t speak or tease; he just pushes your thighs open until your pussy’s wide, swollen, and glistening for him. You’re so wet it drips, slick gliding down the curve of your ass, and Rafe groans like it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Then his tongue is on you. Ruthless. Messy. Loud. He buries his face in your cunt and doesn’t come up for air. Slurps at you like he’s starving, nose bumping your clit, tongue licking into your fluttering hole, and when he starts to suck—hard, wet, insistent—you scream. Full-bodied, nails clawing his scalp, sobbing through the pleasure with your thighs trembling around his head. ❝Please,❞ you cry. ❝Fuck, Rafe—don’t stop. No, wait—too much—���

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. Pulls back just long enough to murmur, ❝Gotta remind you who eats you better, right?❞ before dragging his teeth down to your thigh, sucking hard enough to bruise. ❝Daddy’s going to see these.❞ Another hickey. Then another. All of them dark and angry, placed just shy of your pussy lips—so close that Ward won’t miss them next time he spreads you open.

And the camera catches all of it. The slick sounds of Rafe’s mouth, the glisten of your cunt as you tremble, the flutter of your hole every time his tongue slides over it. ❝Mine,❞ he growls, almost animalistic, eyes wild. ❝You’re so fucking’ mine.❞

He fucks you next in the upstairs shower, just before dinner.

It’s brutal—raw need and pure possessiveness. Your leg’s hiked high on the tile, body bent forward under the hot spray, steam curling around your skin as he pounds into you from behind. You cry out, fingers scrabbling at the fogged-up glass, face pressed against the cool tile as water pours down your back. ❝Rafe—❞ you whimper, voice shaking. ❝God, feels so—fuck!❞

His grip on your hips is bruising, knuckles white. You’re stuffed full, every thrust a wet slap, each one deeper than the last, his cock hitting that spot that makes your legs threaten to give. He finishes first. Buried to the hilt, jerking against you with a guttural moan as he cums deep. You feel it—hot and thick and endless, filling your cunt until it leaks out around him. But he doesn’t let you come.

Just pulls out with a hiss, watching his cum ooze down your thigh. Then he tugs your little dress back down over your ruined body, smoothing it over your sticky thighs like he’s proud of what he’s done. ❝Go say hi to Daddy.❞

You do. Heart racing, pussy sore, lips still swollen. Ward hugs you too long. His hands linger on your waist, his nose brushes your neck—and he smells it. Sex. Musk. Rafe. His jaw ticks, but he lets you go. Barely. Later, he finds your panties in the laundry—still soaked. Rafe’s cum still dripping down your thighs. He bends you over the dryer before you can say a word. His hand smacks your ass, hard. ❝You want to walk around smelling like him?❞ he snarls, already pushing his cock inside. ❝Fine. But you go to sleep leaking me.❞

He fucks you until your legs collapse beneath you. Until your cries echo off the cold metal, until you’re begging, babbling, fucked-out and dripping. And when he finally pulls out, he watches it leak down your thighs—his cum mixing with Rafe’s. He smirks. ❝Such a messy fuckin’ girl.❞ And you? None the wiser. Just happy. As long as you’re stuffed.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : thanks for the req, anon! not sure if this is exactly what you wanted but i hope it scratches the itch a little i struggled keeping this one even a tiny bit realistic lol and ward just… feels so creepy to write sometimes but anyway. enjoy the mess <3

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire @browniepop62 @urcoolgf @folksriddle

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

[vaginalvr]

Spencer Reid x Hotcher’s daughter

Sneaking around trying to not get caught, but get caught and hotchner just asks for them to use protection or something similar

cw: Consensual smut, secret relationship, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), penetrative sex (m/f), light teasing/praise, mild risk of getting caught, awkward “dad walks in” ending, Reader is an adult and Hotch only appears at the end

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

You were in your dad’s house. You were in your dad’s guest room, to be specific. And the man currently pressed between your thighs, kissing a trail from your navel to your hip bone, just happened to be one of his most trusted agents.

“Spence,” you whispered, trying to sound like you were warning him off. It came out more like a moan.

“I locked the door,” he murmured, his lips brushing over the lace of your panties. “And we’ve got at least twenty minutes before he gets back from his run.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair as he kissed lower, nudging the damp fabric aside.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this here…”

“I can’t believe I’ve waited this long to do this here.”

His tongue slid between your folds, and all further protest dissolved instantly.

Your head fell back against the pillows, soft gasps filling the quiet guest room as Spencer ate you out like a man obsessed. His mouth moved with slow, deliberate care, as though he were memorizing every twitch of your body, every breathless little sound that left your throat.

“Spencer—God—you’re so good at that…”

He hummed in satisfaction, sending vibrations through your core. Two fingers slipped inside you, curling gently as he sucked your clit into his mouth. Your thighs trembled around his head.

“I’m gonna come,” you warned, eyes squeezed shut.

“Then be quiet about it,” he murmured, grinning wickedly against your skin. “Don’t want Daddy finding out what his little girl’s doing, do we?”

You did come—hard—and you had to bite your own wrist to keep from screaming.

Spencer kissed his way back up your body, fingers still inside you as you came down. His lips were soft and slick when he kissed you again.

“You’re a menace,” you whispered, breathless.

He laughed into your neck. “You love it.”

You did.

You flipped him onto his back, straddling his hips with a grin.

“Your turn,” you said, reaching for the waistband of his pants.

Spencer let out a shaky breath as you pulled him free, his cock already heavy and flushed.

You reached over to the drawer where you knew you’d hidden a condom earlier, but his hand caught yours.

“I got it.” He pulled a foil packet from his wallet and tore it open. “I come prepared. I’ve been fantasizing about this all weekend.”

Once he was covered, you lined him up and sank down onto him, both of you groaning at the slow stretch.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he breathed, gripping your hips.

You started to move, rolling your hips in a lazy rhythm that had both of you panting in no time. Spencer’s eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and wide and filled with something you didn’t dare name aloud. His hands slid under your shirt to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples through the lace of your bra.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned.

“Death by pussy. There are worse ways to go.”

He let out a strangled laugh, then thrust up harder, nearly knocking the wind from your lungs.

“God, you’re so—fuck—tight, baby—”

Your lips found his again as you moved together, the bed creaking faintly under your rhythm.

You were both right on the edge when the unmistakable sound of the front door opening echoed down the hall.

You froze.

Spencer’s eyes widened in horror. “No. No, no, no—he wasn’t supposed to be back yet—”

“Get dressed!” you hissed, jumping off of him and scrambling to find your underwear.

You had just yanked your shirt back over your head when someone knocked on the door—followed by a very familiar voice.

“Y/N?”

You looked at Spencer, who was now standing awkwardly beside the bed, shirt untucked, hair a mess, his belt hanging halfway from one loop.

There was no time. You reached for the doorknob with a sigh and opened it just enough to reveal your dad standing there, brow furrowed, sweat still clinging to his temples from his run.

His eyes scanned over your face, then shifted slightly to look past your shoulder.

And there was Spencer. Standing like a deer in headlights, very clearly disheveled, and very clearly not just dropping by to say hello.

The silence stretched for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, Hotch exhaled through his nose, slowly and deliberately. Then:

“…Please just tell me you used protection.”

You blinked.

Spencer blinked.

“…Yes, sir,” he said stiffly, pulling himself to stand straighter like he was at roll call.

Hotch stared at him for a long moment. Then his eyes flicked back to you.

“You’re both adults. I’m not thrilled, but I’m not an idiot. If this is serious—”

“It is,” you both said at the same time.

Hotch shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Okay. That’s enough. I’m going to go take a shower. When I come back down, I’d appreciate it if you were both fully dressed and not having sex in my house.”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer said again, voice an octave higher than usual.

Hotch turned and walked away without another word.

You slowly closed the door, pressing your back to it, your cheeks burning.

Spencer exhaled beside you.

“…I think that went better than expected.”

You turned to him, deadpan. “He asked us if we used protection while you were still inside me.”

Spencer winced. “Yeah. But he didn’t shoot me. That’s something.”

[runforthehillsbestie]

Sympathy For The Devil

Part 3 - the hand that feeds you

Pairing - Thomas Hewitt x Female reader

Read the story context and warnings here

You spend most of the next day cuffed to the porch railing, watching Luda Mae work in the garden in the back and later when the sun is high, bring out sheets and clothing to wash. The man Luda Mae and the Sheriff call "Uncle Monty" sits in his wheelchair in the corner alternating between reading old newspapers, smoking, and taking naps with his small mop of a dog on his lap. You watch him through the corner of your eye, wondering what happened to his legs, both of which are amputated just above the knee.

Sheriff Hoyt--or "Charlie" as Luda Mae insists on calling him--hovers around making a nuisance of himself until she snaps and tells him to go patrol the roads, or do whatever it is that a Sheriff does.

The sun is setting now, and there are no more screams coming from the basement. You almost feel sorry for the nameless man, but better him than you and if that makes you a horrid, selfish person, you can live with it. Sheriff Hoyt makes a reappearance while Luda Mae is cooking dinner, tasting the contents of the pots and pans and giving his opinion on what spices to use.

The air is filled with the savory scent of butter, rosemary, and frying meat, and you're acutely aware of the fact that you haven't had anything to eat in over a day. You've been seated at the kitchen table with your handcuff attached to the arm of the chair you're sitting on. It not that tight, but the skin of your wrist is irritated from the friction anyway. Luda Mae has given you a shirt to patch up. You're horrible at it and you've pricked yourself more times than you care to count, but at least it gives you something to do, a way to belong. Luda Mae begins to set the table. She leans over you to have a look at your progress, her hair tickling against your forehead.

"That could use some work," she says. "I'll teach you sometime."

Sheriff Hoyt unclips the handcuff and pats your cheek. "Consider it a privilege, girl. You've been good enough. Keep it up and you just might stay!"

Everyone gets seated except Uncle Monty, who just rolls his wheelchair up to the table. You can't help but notice there's one extra spot at the foot of the table, clearly set for Thomas. Sheriff Hoyt reaches for the pot of steaming stew and Luda Mae clicks her tongue.

"You say Thanks now, Charlie. The Lord always comes first."

Sheriff Hoyt sighs and stands, hooking his thumbs into the belt loop of his pants. "Thank you Lord, for this beautiful bounty right here. Thank you for blessin' us with plenty and always looking out for us humble folk. Amen."

He sits down, then looks past you. "Come sit, boy," he says. "There's a place for you right here."

Tommy steps out of the shadowy doorway, floorboards creaking under his weight. His apron is crusted with coppery stains and you get the sense that the shirt he's wearing under it used to be white once. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that are marred with scars and a couple of burn marks. He hesitates, gripping the back of the chair.

"Let's eat," Sheriff Hoyt says.

You're the first to dig your spoon in, uncaring that the food is almost too hot. Instead of sitting, Tommy just leans over the chair and puts his face in his bowl like an animal. The beans melt in your mouth. You take a bite of the meat; it's got a slightly unusual texture to it but tastes good enough. At least it's fresh. You saw Luda Mae dropping the chunks of still-bleeding meat in the pot.

Sheriff Hoyt is smirking at you. "Is that good?" He asks.

You nod silently and realize they're all looking at you in a strange, approving way. Even Tommy, who is watching you as he licks stew off his fingers. In the silence that's been brought on, the dog gnawing on something is like the crack of a gunshot. You glance at the mat in the corner where the dog is chewing on not a bone, but a human finger. Your stomach flips upside down, and you hastily push your bowl away despite the hungry protests of your stomach. The stew tastes fine. Delicious, even. But that finger... The butcher-like setup of Tommy's basement and all those pieces of dripping meat dropping into the pan and sizzling... The puzzle pieces falls into place in your mind.

"It's human meat, isn't it?" You gasp. "We're eating that man. You killed him and then you chopped him up and..." You clamp your hand over your mouth.

Sheriff Hoyt slaps his hand on the table. "We eat what God provides. It's just nature."

You shake your head and stumble out of your chair. What if they're fattening you up? What if you're next? Your eyes dart warily from one face to another. They're all cannibals.

"Come now, dear," Luda Mae says softly. "Won't you finish your food? Just a few more bites?"

"I can't. I won't!" You hiss.

The dog begins to bark. Uncle Monty sneaks a piece of meat out of the pot and tosses it to the dog. Tommy picks up your bowl and extends it to you. You slap it to the floor and stew splatters all over the floorboards. The dog scrabbles to snarf it up.

Sheriff Hoyt's eyebrows gather into a thunderous knot on his forehead. "I've had enough of your attitude," he says. "Think you're so goddamn better than the rest of us, eh?"

"You're eating people," you retort. "Human beings, your own kind! That's messed up."

"You know what's messed up? Wasting food. Insulting Tommy's hard work. This boy did his part in putting food on the table, and here you are spittin' in the face of it," Sheriff Hoyt growls. "You oughtta be ashamed! Nah, you oughtta be punished."

"Charlie--" Luda Mae protests.

"Not a word out of you, woman!" He barks. "I'll set her right. Teach her to say thank you instead of throwing a bitch fit."

The Sheriff stomps up to you and grabs you by the hair. You scream in pain and fear but he pays it no mind, forcing you to stagger after him as he drags you along.

"Tommy, come on down when you're done with your dinner," he says over his shoulder. "This filly needs some breakin' in."

You thrash and fight and try your hardest to get free. You don't want to go back to that dingy, wet basement. Sheriff Hoyt sticks a knife in your face and you freeze.

"You'd better get real good right now, or this blade might just slip right into this soft flesh of yours," he says, tracing the sharp tip over dress, tapping the cool edge against the points of your nipples as they react to the stimulation.

You're sure he can see the hatred in your eyes.

He only laughs and shoves you. "Well? Get that pretty ass of yours down there."

You turn and trudge down the stairs, urged on by the sharp blade prodding into your back. The knives on the walls have a new meaning. You're seeing the purpose of this room with fresh eyes and it's making you sick. The man Tommy butchered is mostly gone. All that remains is a leg hanging from a beam, dripping syrupy blood into a bucket. Sheriff Hoyt drags a rickety chair into the center of the room where the floor is dry.

"Sit," he says. "Don't make me say it twice." You obey and try to school your breathing, clutching your hands in your lap. You've fucked up and now you're going to pay the price.

Sheriff Hoyt scratches his stubbly neck and stands there, feasting his eyes on you. What is he waiting for? There's a thump of footsteps on the stairs and your heart leaps into your throat as Tommy steps into the room, his gaze darting between your seated form and the Sheriff.

"Let's begin with the punishment," Sheriff Hoyt announces, grinning. "Tommy, put your pants down."

Oh fuck no, he isn't going to go there, you think to yourself, but it's soon clear that yes, he is.

Tommy fidgets, rubbing his fingers on his apron and ducking his head.

"Big guy like you, and you're pansy-ing around over a girl? Get over there!" Sheriff Hoyt scoffs.

Tommy steps in front of you. His hands hesitate for a moment before he unties the apron from around his stout belly, pulling it over his head and setting it on a table off to the side. He unlaces his pants, his eyes flashing above the mask as he stares down at you. You look away with a blush as the material rustles and drops, leaving him in nothing but the shirt.

"Ah-ah, look at him, girl," Sheriff Hoyt drawls.

You turn your head. Tommy's cock is thick and big even though it's only half hard, rooted in a bed of curls and lolling lazily against his hairy, muscular thigh.

"You've been rude to my boy here, refusing the meat he labored to carve up all nice just for you. Now you're gonna apologize," Sheriff Hoyt says.

He waves the knife he's still holding and spits on the floor. "If you even dream of using your teeth, I'll pull every single one of 'em out, you hear me? You'd be eating porridge and mash for the rest of your life."

You nod quickly.

"Then get to work. Let's see how sorry you really are."

You look up at Tommy. He lifts his hand and strokes your hair. You hesitantly take the edge of his shirt to tug him closer to your chair.

The Sheriff barks, "Remember, no teeth. You get him hard now."

You take Tommy's shaft in your trembling hand and stroke it. It quickly grows harder and gets shiny and red at the tip. The scent of him, overpowering and male, clouds your senses. Tommy is still playing with your hair, his fingers running over your scalp almost soothingly. You open your mouth before the Sheriff can yell at you and in a flash, Tommy presses his fingers into your mouth. You splutter at the mysterious gamey taste on them. Who knows where his hands hands have been? Well, you have a pretty good guess.

You pull away in favor of pressing your lips to the leaking head of his cock instead. Tommy lets out a small, croaked sound at the feeling of your soft lips wrapping around his cockhead, sliding it into your mouth. He's uncomfortably big, of course he is. His precum is thick and salty on your tongue.

The Sheriff nods. "Good. You take him nice and slow, just like that."

Tommy makes little gruff "uh" sounds of pleasure, tugging on your hair.

"Don't be afraid to be rough with it, Tommy. This girl here needs to feel sorry. You can move just like the dogs and cows do when they mate. It'll feel better."

Shut up, you think to yourself.

Maybe you accidentally mumbled that aloud because the Sheriff reaches out and twists your nipple through your dress. You jump in pain, curses on your tongue, but Tommy grabs the back of your head and pushes his hips forward, sliding deep into your mouth. You can tell the moment it clicks because his eyes light up. His next thrust is brutal, mindless of how much you can manage as he crams his cock down your throat with a deep groan of satisfaction.

You gag and try to pull back but he's got your head in a vice grip with both hands, pushing and pulling like your head is seperate from your body, fucking into your mouth. His stocky belly brushes against your forehead each time he yanks you in, his pubic hair tickling against your nose as he forces you forward. Your eyes fill with tears and you can only drool helplessly, clutching his hips to try and stay upright, to have something solid to ground yourself with. You dig your nails into his skin but he doesn't seem to notice, groaning as his cock throbs and swells in your mouth.

Through the corner of your eye you can see Sheriff Hoyt is busy himself. He has his cock out, and it's laughably small in comparison to Tommy's. He spits into his hand and continues to jack off to the sight of you getting used you like a toy.

"Let up a little, Tommy," Sheriff Hoyt says. "Let her breathe some. You don't want her dying on you, do ya?"

Tommy pulls out of your mouth and you cough and gasp for air, falling out of the chair and trying to crawl away.

"I don't know about you, Tommy, but that don't seem like very sincere apology behavior to me," Sheriff Hoyt tuts. "See she's trying to get away."

Tommy's shadow falls over you and you yelp as he grabs your ankle. He flips you over like you weigh nothing and you shriek as he straddles you. His weight on your chest makes it nearly impossible to breathe, snatching thin breaths as you stop struggling and stare up at him. His hair hangs in his face and rests in greasy strands against his heaving shoulders. His bare thighs are covered in hair, almost furry as they press on either side of you. His balls are like a brand on your chest, heavy and hot even through your dress.

He grabs his shaft and crudely jabs the head of his cock against your lips. You growl at him with your teeth firmly locked together. He stretches up, blindly reaching for something on the table. You shriek when he brings a sharp glistening blade down, drawing a tiny, stinging cut on your cheek. You recognize the brightly colored plastic handle. It's your fucking razor blade.

"Atta boy," the Sheriff praises, fisting his cock with a final groan as he dribbles cum all over over his hand. "You learn fast, you clever little shit."

Tommy taps his cock against your lips again and with the blade so close, you have no option but to open your mouth, tucking your teeth behind your lips in bitter resignation. You place your palms on his thick thighs, trying to make some room, but he smothers you with his body and cock, his musk seeping into your nostrils. His cock slides into your mouth with a lewd, slick sound. He doesn't even bother holding his shaft. He puts both hands on the floor beside your head and humps his hips, eyes locked on where his cock disappears into your mouth over and over. His balls smack against your chin as he rocks, pausing now and then to let you suck in some air before he fills your mouth again.

How nice of him.

You're starting to gag once again. Thankfully there's too little in your stomach for you to throw anything up, but the nausea you feel when he triggers your gag reflex causes your eyes to sting and weep freely. Your whole body goes tense when you feel a grubby hand probing under your dress. That has to be Sheriff Hoyt. You whine around the cock in your mouth but you're pinned and helpless as Sheriff Hoyt fishes around.

"You're all wet down here! Just how much of this is blood, huh?"

You growl low in your throat in response. Tommy presses the cool blade just under your eye in warning and you force yourself to relax your jaw again. Sheriff Hoyt pets you between the legs, his fingers gathering all the slickness there and taking it up to rub your clit until your hip start twitching involuntarily. There's no way you're about to cum like this, assaulted from both ends. It's humiliating, especially with that bastard touching you.

But the intermittent oxygen deprivation is getting to you, making you go lightheaded. The pressure deep inside you builds and despite yourself you're squirming, craving just a little more. It would be fair if you also got an orgasm out of this, wouldn't it? However, just as you feel yourself reaching a peak, Sheriff Hoyt stops.

"That's part of your punishment, now," he says, wiping his hand on your dress.

You would have killed him if you had the chance, but Tommy isn't letting up the pace. He hooks a thumb at the corner of your already-filled mouth, jamming it between your molars to keep you from closing your mouth. He sits his cock deep in your mouth and shudders. You moan at the first jet of warm cum into your mouth and your traitorous clit throbs desperately on the second.

You choke on the next couple of spurts, struggling to swallow. Cum leaks out of the side of your mouth and dribbles into your hair. Tommy pulls back, letting the last spurt decorate your lips and chin. He heaves himself off of you and grabs his pants and apron, putting them on. Sheriff Hoyt whistles as he looks at you wrecked and panting on the floor.

"Ain't that a beautiful sight," he says. "You keep her down here, tonight. Punish her again if you think she needs it."

Your blood boils over as you sit, trembling. You fucking pig, you want to shout at the retreating Sheriff, but your throat is so sore that you don't even bother. Tommy brings you a chipped mug filled with water. He holds it out cautiously, like he's anticipating that you'll just smack it away.

You don't. You accept the mug and take a grateful sip of the cool water.

Part 4 - hunting season

@dastardly-imbecile and @dabisnympho asked to be tagged! <3

@runforthehillsbestie

[specsthesecond]

Witch Troubles #3

It's a fairly common practice among witches to form pacts with demons.

The witch gains a stronger connection to magic and in exchange the demon gains easier access to the mortal realm.

You've debated this decision for awhile and you finally think you're ready to forge your own pact. Worst case scenario is the demon refuses your offer, which would be embarrassing but not the end of the world.

You shut the door of your room, close the black out curtains and light a few candles. Squinting at the diagram of the summoning circle in your grimoir you try to replicate it perfectly on the old wooden floorboards in white chalk. When it's done you dust off your hands and place the candles in the right places around the circle along with a good amount of enchanted salt around the circumference for your protection. You stand up and take a breath before reciting the ancient words in your book while channeling all your energy into the circle.

The flames burn higher, so hot you have to shrink back a little. It takes all your effort and concentration to keep the chant going without misspeaking or burning the house down. A giant fire now billows in the centre of the circle, something large rises from the middle. You finish the spell and the flames gradually flicker away to reveal exactly the entity you were trying to summon. The little candles around the circle are the only source of light now, barely illuminating your guest. Smoke smoulders off its skin as it rises to full height and stares right at you with it's flaming eyes.

The demon, male it seems, stands in the middle of the summoning circle as tall as your book shelf and just about as wide. True to the drawings and diagrams in your texts he stands on two thick furry goat-like legs. The soft looking tuft at the end of his long thin tail swishes against the old floorboards as they creak under his weight. The rest of his body is charcoal black but otherwise fairly human save for the large goat-like skull that is his head. Beautiful horns, much too majestic for a demon, sprout from the white bone and curl into a thick loop on either side of his skull.

In short; he's the definition of tall, dark and handsome.

Two flaming pits behind the eye holes in the skull serve as eyes, they burn red and hot like the flames of hell as he glares down at you. You assume it's a glare, it's hard to tell.

You clap your grimoir shut, unable to look away from the demon yet. He seems the same, quietly observing you.

"Good evening, I'm sure you know why I've summoned you."

You say as calmly as possible. The demon looks you up and down and hums lowly, sceptical.

He grunts and crosses his arms over his chest. You have to use all your self control not to look down at the incredibly distracting package he's carrying between his legs as it bobs with the movement. Obviously you were prepared for him to be naked, demons don't wear clothes but actually having to practice that self-control is another thing entirely.

You're snapped out of your thoughts when the demon speaks, low and gravely like you expected.

"Witches used to dance for us around fires, bathe in the blood of sacrifices, throw orgies. This is all I get for my pact proposal?"

That's not what you expected. You were expecting some doubt sure but he sounds... offended? He's complaining?

"I don't need to do any of that to show you my worth. You can already sense my magic capabilities, I can show you- ."

He growls again. When he speaks his jaw bone doesn't move, the voice sounds like it reverberates around the skull on its way out.

"Its about devotion, witch. You show me your devotion and I'll give mine in return. No one cares for presentation anymore."

Who needs presentation? Sure, devotion is important in a pact but he's being ridiculous. You look around the room for a moment before saying flatly,

"My apologies but I will not be sacrificing anything or throwing any orgies and I cannot dance."

The demon scoffs and adjusts his crossed arms, thick biceps flexing as he does.

"All witches dance. Your ancestors where very good at it."

You scoff, telling him about your magic capabilities definitely isn't going to work. Why'd you have to get a difficult demon? Why couldn't you get a normal power-hungry one?

"Are you truly that compelled by naked dancing women?"

You attempt to needle him in hopes of avoiding what you know is inevitable. He doesn't respond, just stands there expectantly.

Some demons may agree to pacts based only on the power of the witch but others don't care for power and value the devotion of the act much more. You were very much hoping for the former but you're going to have to deal with what you got.

After a few moments of staring at eachother you finally crack and bend down to make quick work of your shoes and socks. You dropped your skirt around your ankles, take a deep breath and slide your panties down your legs. You see the demon shift his weight in your peripheral but you don't look at him as you unbutton your blouse and unclip your bra. You leave your black pointy hat on your head, assuming that's part of the appeal.

You only look back at him when you're completely naked, standing Infront of him and crossing your arms over your tits, mirroring his own stance.

He seems amused at that, You can see the little flames in his skull move up and down in a way that indicates he's soaking in your nude body.

"Unfortunately, dancing naked around a fire was not passed down to me like the magic was."

"A pity."

You scowl and the demon huffs smoke through the holes in his skull, chuckling.

"You're a witch, magic exists in your very veins. Use it. Caress your body. Sway your hips. Feel the power in your body and worship it as you would a god."

He says it like it's incredibly obvious and you actually feel inclined to listen to him. You close your eyes and try to "feel the power" whatever that means. You uncross your arms and place them on your thighs, slowly moving them up your waist and back down again.

Your skin feels especially sensitive being completely bare in front of such a powerful being, who is also naked. Just the light touch of your hand makes your skin prickle as you move your fingers slowly across yourself.

You start to arch and sway, hands moving up your thighs, across your stomach, along your neck. You free yourself, offering your body to this demon. The demon growls lowly and says in a deeper tone than before,

"The point of the pact is the connection. You summoned me, This is your pact to forge so show me your devotion."

His fiery eyes follow your every move, every sway of your hips and bounce of your tits.

You carefully run your hands from your waist up to your tits, briefly feeling the soft fat before moving up your shoulders. You stretch your arms high, now putting your tits on full display for your demon guest, the attention and cool air makes your nipples harden.

You turn around, your back facing the demon and he huffs irritably at being denied the sight of your perfect tits. His grievances are smothered when you bend down and run your hands up the back of your legs all the way to your ass, gripping the fat just enough to make it jiggle for him.

You can feel the room getting hotter, you can see his cock getting harder and you can feel the wetness In-between your legs as you dance.

You give one last tantalising hip sway before slowly dropping to your knees in front of him, on the edge of the salt circle. You look up at him while sliding your hands up your thighs, from here you have a perfect view of his half hard cock, looking so thick and heavy the sight has you nearly panting like a dog.

You rest your hands behind you, now presenting your entire body to him, tits perked and pussy drooling, devilishly tempting.

"Does that satisfy."

You say gazing up at him sultry gaze flicking down to his cock, you swear you saw it twitch.

"You know exactly what would satisfy me."

His voice is deeper than before, more gutteral and it makes you squirm. You might have been embarrassed about being so open about his effect on you if it wasn't for his obvious arousal for you. You're honestly just glad this is going well so far.

You lean forward, shuffle closer to the salt barrier and stick your tongue out, mouth open and waiting, silently begging for him.

The demon's hand goes to hold his cock immediately and he steps towards the barrier holding his cock out, but before he can place the tip on your hot tongue, you pull back slightly with a sick grin on your face.

The demon tries to grab your face but you retreat further, past the salt circle and therefore out of reach. You look up at his collosal frame with a smug smirk as he growls in irritation and the candle flames flicker violently.

"Don't forget, this is a mutual pact, demon. You don't call the shots... I want to be on top."

"What makes you thin-“

"I'm on top or you can go back home."

He grumbles something unintelligible, shaking his head in disbelief. One hand goes back to his cock idly stroking the thick member as he nods his head, accepting the terms.

You stand and steel yourself before wiping away a portion of the salt line with your foot, breaking the circle. You reach out for his hand and he accepts it with the hand not stroking his dick, stepping out of the circle and into your bedroom. His hands are immediately on your skin, thick fingers running along your waist and down to your hip. His skin is so warm, like the blood running through his veins is boiling hot giving the surface skin a pleasant warmth.

He stares down at you in suspense waiting for your go ahead.

You bring your hands up his chest and around his broad shoulders, and pull him down to your height only to push him down your body until his skull face is right Infront of your pussy. You let him get a good sniff of your smell before pushing him down to the ground with your foot, standing above him looking very tryumphant.

He doesn't have much time to marvel at your figure above him because before he knows it you're sitting on his dick, pussy pressing right against his cock, he bucks on instinct, the wet warmth of your pussy against the heat of his cock makes him let out a gutteral moan.

You slowly rock your hips back and forth the length of his cock, an impressive length but one you could manage. Neither of you can stand the foreplay any longer, his hands grip your waist at the same time you finally slide his cock into your waiting cunt.

You both groan at the feeling as you pop the mushroom head into your cunt and you slide your pussy down to the hilt, feeling every vein of his hot cock against your walls. You're so slick and needy the fat cock slides in with surprisingly little resistance. That makes him chuckle, which you cut off with a deliberate thrust of your hips.

You plant your feet on either side of his waist, moving all the way up back to the tip and then plunging back down again taking him as deep as he'll go. You bounce and hump on this demons fat cock, tits bouncing in tandem, pretty face in the throws of pleasure. It's a sight to see and he loves every minute of it, clutching your hips but letting you control the pace.

The fur covering his legs is soft and warm against your ass as you ride your new pact mate. Your hands rest on his strong chest as you lose yourself even more in the intense pleasure. Panting and groaning, as you approach your high, your thrusts get more frantic as if you're trying to get him even deeper into your cunt. Your eyes are locked onto the way his pretty cock disappears Into to your cunt, the fur at the hilt becoming wet with your slick.

"Ah~ cum inside, cum inside, cum inside me!"

Your frantic pleas are heard when he wraps one arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his chest, his other hand firmly on your ass pushing into you as deep as possible. You finally cum around the throbbing cock clenching your walls deliciously, pressed into his chest. He cums seconds after you, shooting abnormally hot cum deep inside you. Your body stills as you cum down, his strong arms move you body against him in shallow thrusts as he bucks up into you, riding out his high.

You limply lie on his massive chest catching your breath as you come down, ignoring the drool you left on his pec. You realise he's eerily quiet and look up only to find he's staring at your face in a manner you think is expecant? Only then do you actually realise that his dick hasn't gone down at all. You can't help but laugh, pussy involuntarily clenching making the demon clutch your hips tighter.

"Is this all for me or is it just a demon thing?"

He huffs out camp fire smelling smoke from his skull and leans up into a seated position. The change in position makes his cock adjust and you moan softly at the feeling while grasping his large biceps.

"You've got jokes."

He looks down at you, you try to read his expression but it's really hard when his hands are massaging your hips so nicely and his cock is touching new spots inside you making your head all fuzzy. He smoothly lifts your thighs and flips you both over so that you're laying on your back and he's hovering above you.

It's such a glorious sight. This massive sexy otherworldly creature staring down at you with such lust. You can't stop yourself from pulling him in closer by the back of his neck and mumbling,

"Do demons kiss?"

The demon huffs again and opens his jaw showing his razor sharp teeth, from the darkness behind the skull comes three appendages, long and wet. Those are his tongues, and you moan a little when you realise that. He leans closer and the prehensile tongues worm their way to your mouth where you greet them, mouth ready and open. All three appendages slip into your mouth to explore and rub against your tongue, it's so messy and gross it makes you clench around his cock.

He grunts and thrusts into you, thrusting his tongues deeper into your mouth making you gag. You stick your head in his open maw, pulling him in closer by his thick horns. You take the tongues with vigor and suck on them like you would a cock. He seems to like this quite a bit as he grabs both your legs and pulls your knees up to your ears, bending you in half and presenting your dripping pussy to him. He starts thrusting his cock much deeper in your pussy than before while thrusting his tongues down your throat simultaneously.

The pleasure is so intense as he gradually speeds up, working up to a brutal pace. He fucks you into the floor, so deep, so good. It's so animalistic it makes you go feral. He tongue fucks your throat with fever, his dangerous maw wide open. Knowing that he could tear your flesh easily if he just closed his jaws around your head turns you on an unthinkable amount as you take his tongues deeper down your already full throat.

You want him deeper in your throat even as you choke and gag. You want him deeper in your pussy even as he pounds you raw and hard, reaching so deep he kisses your cervix. Your brain is mush and your thighs burn, you scratch and claw his back for some kind of grounding as you quickly reach your peak again.

Your screams are muffled and gargled but the sound of your wet pussy slapping and squelching around his cock as you cum echos throughout the room. He growls and snarls into your mouth when he gets close, tilting his head back in absolute bliss.

He wraps his arms under your thighs and around your back to lift you up and squeeze you against his hot body. He pounds you even harder now with gravity on his side, forcing you down on his cock as he thrusts up in time.

His tongues leaves your mouth suddenly as he cums hard, groaning loudly as he fucks his seed deeper into your already soaked cunt. With your mouth free you groan like an snimal, tongue out, tears streaking down your face, spit running down your neck. You soak up the feeling of being folded in half and filled to the fucking brim by this demonic beast.

Your moans mix in the hot air between you. His cum is so thick and hot inside you, filling you up once again. You're so full you can't contain it all as it pours out of you and onto the floor. He gives a few slow, deep thrusts, milking his cock with your tight pussy as you lay limply in his hold.

You sit on the floor for a few minutes holding each other close and catching your breath. He nuzzles his head into your sweaty neck and moves your body into a more relaxed position so that he's hugging around your waist and your legs rest around his torso. You feel each other for a moment, his cock still plugging up your messy cunt. Hes quiet, like he's thinking about something. You're not sure you can even speak but if you could you don't really know what you would say.

He leans back to look at your face, you realise you probably look an absolute mess, tear streaked face with spit all over your mouth and chin. He looks into your eyes like he's looking for something specific and you look back into his two small flames. He slightly nods and then holds you close to his chest once more, enveloping you with his body.

Suddenly your body gets hot, he gets hot. His hold is like a hot vice and you struggle against it on instinct but he just holds you tighter. You almost scream when you feel a red hot flash in every artery and vein in your body. The heat is gone just as quickly as it came and you sigh in relief before looking up at him in shock when you suddenly realise what he just did.

He accepted the pact proposal.

You let out a breathless laugh and lean up to place wet kisses all over his skull head.

He growls low and irritable like a cat.

"That's not necessary."

He grumbles like he's annoyed but doesn't move away from you as you give a few more kisses along his jaw. His tail swishes idly behind him.

"Well neither was fucking me. Twice."

You tease him while reaching for your discarded hat and plopping it back on your head. You shakily stand up on wobbly legs, he holds his hands out to your hips to stabilise you. Cum drips out of your cunt and his gaze is drawn to where it oozes down your thighs.

"Not that I'm complaining."

You balance yourself with your hands on his shoulders and clear your throat, trying to seem a little put together as he stares up at you. You very casually lift your leg to rest it on his shoulder, presenting your puffy, dripping cunt to him.

"Are you the fuck and leave type or do you stay for the cleanup? "

The demon chuckles and opens his maw again, wet tongues slipping out and reaching for you, licking up your cum covered thighs and up to the source of the mess.

You're both going to make very good use of this pact.

[decaying-opossum]

moment’s silence

| cult leader remmick x reader |

| part 2/4 | |word count: 1851|

•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•

when they woke, it was to soft light slanting through the curtain cracks and birdsong too ordinary for how wrong they felt inside.

the bed sheets were tangled beneath them, the pillow damp with sweat. for a few precious seconds, they told themself it had been another dream. a filthy, vivid dream spun too tight with want and guilt. a ghost story of a man with dark eyes and darker intentions, slipping between their bones like smoke.

but the ache was real. the hollow throb low in their belly was real, and when they stumbled barefoot into the living room, it all came crashing back.

the couch was a mess; throw blanket halfway on the floor, cushions sunken like someone had knelt in them for hours. one of the decorative pillows bore a faint but unmistakable stain. a dark, damp patch where a man had rested his head, drooled prayers into their skin.

the air still held a faint trace of him, cedar and old hymnals and something too wild to be named.

he was gone. of course he was. he always left before sunrise. but the promise he’d made in the dark still clung to the walls like soot.

he’d be back.

they wrapped themself in a blanket and spent the better part of the day like that, arms trembling not from cold but from something deeper, something raw and shaken loose. they cleaned the couch mechanically, scrubbing harder than necessary, like they could erase not just the evidence but the memory too.

but the moment they sat, the moment their body settled back into that same groove, it all came flooding in again. his voice, his breath. the way he’d clung to them like they were salvation. and worse, how they’d clung back.

they showered. twice. but it didn’t wash off.

nothing ever would.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

they didn’t leave the house that day. couldn’t. every sound outside made their breath catch, every rustle in the trees, every creak of old wood. they half-expected him to be there again, leaning against the porch railing, easy and patient, with a jar of peach preserves and that same damn tilt of his head.

but he didn’t come.

not that day.

instead, the mail arrived.

the postman, wide-set and quiet, gave them a nod and a glance that lingered too long. his fingers shook when he handed over the envelope.

“from up the hill,” he muttered, barely audible, before turning and walking back down the gravel drive without another word.

inside the envelope, a note. looped handwriting on thick, yellowed paper. smelled faintly of sage and smoke.

“you feel it now, don’t you? that little ache. the knowing. you’re not lost anymore. just being called home. don’t be afraid, sugar. that hunger? that’s just your soul remembering what it’s for”

no name signed, but none was needed.

they shoved the note into the kitchen drawer with shaking hands, slammed it shut like that would keep the words from settling under their skin.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

he came again the next night.

didn’t knock.

just sat in the rocking chair like always, but this time he brought something else, a bundle, wrapped in cloth. left it on the porch steps when they didn’t come out.

only went to retrieve it once the sky lightened with dawn. inside; a jar of peach preserves. just like he promised. still warm from the canning process.

it rained that afternoon, a slow and steady drizzle that coated the fields in silver and made the woods look deeper, darker. like something could slip between the trunks and not be seen again until it wanted to be.

the ache hadn’t left. it moved with them now.

it lived in the curve of their neck where his breath had lingered. it lived behind their ribs, where the hollow buzzed like a tuning fork, waiting for the right hands to strike it again.

they tried to stay busy. repainting cabinet doors, scrubbing old grout, anything to keep their hands from shaking and their mind from fantasizing on its own.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

that night, the rocking chair didn’t creak. that night, there was singing. low, male,drawn out, like a funeral hymn with the wrong rhythm.

it wasn’t close. not at first. it started somewhere up in the trees. carried down on the rain.

by midnight, it was just outside.

their heart thundered. they didn’t move. didn’t even breathe right, afraid the smallest sound might invite him closer.

but then, like always, he didn’t force. he waited. patient in the way that made them feel rushed.

the song stopped.

a minute later, the creak of the porch boards. slow. steady. a weight settling.

then quiet.

the kind of quiet that gets inside your ears and hums like teeth grinding. they pulled the blanket tighter around their shoulders and stared at the door until dawn.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

by mid morning they were in town, eyes tired and bagged as they looked through the hardware store shelves for locks for their door

the man at the hardware counter looked at them like he recognized something in their eyes, fear, maybe.

“you fixin’ somethin’ at that old farmstead?” he asked, voice mild, but his fingers twitched where they hovered above the register “the one up near the ridgeline?”

they nodded. didn’t say much. he sucked a breath through his teeth. didn’t look at them when he added “folks ‘round here don’t go past the tree line much, y’know. boundaries out there…they ain’t just fences and property lines”

they didn’t respond. just handed him the locks, cash folded neat “y’oughta leave that place be” he muttered “whatever you’re fixin’, it ain’t the house that needs savin’” they left without thanking him, tossing their change in the bag as they left.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

that night, the dream wasn’t a dream.

they were in bed, locked in, every bolt and chain and latch secured. they double-checked. triple-checked.

but still, sometime between one breath and the next, he was there.

not breaking in. just being. like mold in the walls. like a word whispered too many times until it lives in the bones.

they were on their back. he knelt beside the bed again, eyes wide and almost…mournful “you’re afraid of me now” he said, not angry. not accusing. they didn’t answer.

he reached out, fingers hovering above their chest, not quite touching. “i hate that. i do. i’ve tried so hard not to scare you. just wanted to be close, to be near”

his hand dropped, resting on his own thigh instead.

“i prayed on it” he whispered “asked if i was askin’ too much. if wantin’ you this way was wrong” he leaned closer, his breath warm and pine-sweet “but i keep gettin’ the same answer. that ache in your belly? the one that don’t go away? that’s us. that’s the bond. you called me, darlin’. maybe not with words, but your soul cried out, and i listened”

they wanted to scream, wanted to sob, but their voice stayed buried beneath the weight of his presence.

remmick’s smile flickered, then faded entirely.

“i was gentle ‘cause i thought you needed time, thought i could wait. but i see it now” he leaned in until his lips nearly brushed theirs “you don’t need gentle, you need truth”

he kissed them, slow and bruising and full of claiming, not passion. not lust. claiming.

and something answered inside them. something buried deep and scared and ancient.

when he pulled away, he was breathing hard, eyes wide like he’d seen a vision “you felt it,” he said, wonderstruck “didn’t you?”

they didn’t remember falling asleep. just the feel of his mouth and that heat inside them answering, answering, even when they didn’t want it to. even when they swore they’d lock the doors, burn the linens, run for the hills if they had to.

but by morning, they woke with that taste still in their mouth. salt. sap. smoke. iron. and the sound of the door softly latching shut behind him.

the locks were still in place.

they checked.

again.

and again.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

they didn’t go to town that day.

didn’t shower.

didn’t eat.

they sat at the kitchen table, staring at the empty chair across from them, waiting for it to creak under invisible weight, waiting for the sound of breath that wasn’t theirs.

it never came.

but the silence was worse. the note in the drawer pulsed like a heartbeat. they could feel it, somehow, through the wood. like it wanted out. like it had more to say.

they left the house around dusk. just to breathe air that hadn’t filtered through him. just to try. the rain had cleared. the road was wet and steaming, the trees glistening like they’d been dipped in oil. everything shone too sharp. too awake.

they walked to the old fence line at the edge of the property. the spot where the woods got thick and the light went strange.

that’s where they found the second bundle. smaller than the last but wrapped in the same cloth. tied with twine that smelled like singed herbs.

inside; a set of old rosary beads. blackened with time. a single feather, coppery red. and a scrap of mirror, edges dulled, but not enough.

etched in the back; “Your reflection lies”

they dropped it. left it there in the dirt and walked back fast, fast enough to feel the hitch in their chest, the pounding of blood that didn’t feel like just theirs anymore.

the sky was black when they reached the house. but the porch light was already on. they hadn’t left it that way.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

that night they dreamed in fire.

not burning. not pain.

but flame. moving like breath, like voice. filling the rooms of the house, licking the wallpaper, singing in the walls. it hummed the way he hummed, off-key and holy yet wrong.

in the center of it all, he stood with his palms open, eyes dark and wide as a midnight church. he smiled like it hurt “you’re catching now” he said, voice reverent “starting to burn just like me.”

they woke choking on smoke that wasn’t there. skin slick. throat raw. the room cold as a crypt, but their body flushed.

the rocking chair creaked once and stopped.

they didn’t go look. couldn’t.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

a week passed.

he didn’t come again. not in body, not in song, but the ache didn’t leave.

worse now, somehow. like it had teeth. like it was gnawing its way inward, trying to reach the place he’d touched, the place he’d spoken to in the dark.

they started dreaming in twos.

double images, double voices. themselves and not themselves. a version that leaned in when he spoke, that smiled when he whispered “you called me, and i came”

they stopped trusting mirrors. the reflection lingered a second too long. they covered them all. sheets. towels. duct tape if they had to.

but the ache only got louder. so did the voice.

not his voice. the other one. the one that lived in their blood now. the one that sounded like their own.

•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•

[ms-snape]

Snape propose reader right after end of the war. She is like.: You are alive ? But she say yes anyway.

Title: You're Alive

Warning: Kinda depressed reader....

Words Count: 1700+

A/N: Girllll, your requests are literally my favorites to write

Masterlist

---

It had been months since the war ended, but for Y/n, peace never truly came. While the rest of the wizarding world began to piece itself back together, she was trapped in a ceaseless cycle of grief and loss. Her days became repetitive, like a cruel loop, each one identical to the last, and every morning, when she forced herself out of bed, felt like another small act of survival. There was nothing left for her but the weight of an unspoken goodbye, a farewell she had never had the chance to utter.

Severus was dead.

The words echoed endlessly in her mind, like the tolling of a death bell. When she had first heard the news, it hadn’t felt real. It had come from Minerva, her voice soft and laden with sympathy, eyes full of sorrow as she delivered the news. Y/n had stood there, numb and silent, as Minerva explained what had happened in the Shrieking Shack. Severus had died alone, his body found hours later among the debris and bodies scattered across the battlefield.

He was gone.

For days after, Y/n had simply wandered through life like a ghost, unsure of where to place her grief. She barely remembered the days following his death—the endless condolences, the quiet murmurs of pity. The world continued to move around her, but it had lost its meaning. There were times she thought the grief might swallow her whole, that the crushing weight of it would pull her down into a pit she would never be able to climb out of.

She stopped seeing friends. Stopped talking to the people who reached out. What was the point? They couldn’t give her back what she had lost. She spent most of her time alone, secluded in her small cottage, where the silence was only broken by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. The space she had once loved now felt like a tomb—its quietness amplifying the hollow ache inside her.

Her only solace came in the routine. Each morning, she rose before dawn, despite the ever-present exhaustion that clung to her bones. She would make herself a cup of tea that she rarely drank, then head out to the greenhouses. The plants there didn’t judge her, didn’t expect anything from her. They simply grew, day by day, providing her with something to nurture, something to keep her hands busy.

Tending to the plants had become a way to distract herself from the constant ache. In the quiet of the greenhouses, she would lose herself in the familiar rituals—watering, pruning, checking for pests. She would kneel in the dirt, feeling the earth between her fingers, grounding herself in the life that persisted around her. It was the only thing that seemed real anymore.

She remembered how Severus had once stood at the edge of the greenhouses, his dark eyes watching her as she worked. His expression had been unreadable, but she had known, even then, that he found some strange comfort in seeing her amidst the greenery, her hands busy with life. He never said as much, but she could always sense the unspoken bond between them, the way he softened just slightly in her presence.

But now… there was nothing. Just the emptiness where he used to be.

As the weeks passed, the numbness gave way to something darker—anger. How could he have left her? How could he have gone off to fight in the war and not come back? It wasn’t fair. She hated him for it, hated him for being so brave and selfless, for choosing to sacrifice himself when she had needed him most.

And yet, even in her anger, she missed him with a ferocity that bordered on madness. The memories of him consumed her—his quiet, sarcastic remarks, the way his lips twitched ever so slightly when he found something amusing. She would catch herself sometimes, expecting him to walk through the door, to hear the familiar creak of the floorboards under his boots, only to be met with silence.

The nights were the worst. Alone in her cold bed, she would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment they had spent together. She longed for the warmth of his body beside her, for the steady rhythm of his breathing in the dark. But those moments were gone now, like a dream she could never return to.

As time wore on, the others began to accept Severus’ death as an unfortunate but necessary casualty of war. They moved on. They rebuilt their lives. But Y/n couldn’t move forward. She was stuck in the past, trapped by the memory of what had been and the unbearable weight of what never would be.

It was a stormy evening when the impossible happened.

The rain had started in the late afternoon, a slow drizzle that steadily grew into a downpour. Y/n had finished her work in the greenhouses early, her head pounding from a persistent headache. She trudged through the rain, not bothering to cast a spell to shield herself from the wet. What did it matter? Nothing really mattered anymore.

As she approached her cottage, something caught her eye—a figure standing near the front door, half-hidden in the shadows.

For a moment, she froze, her heart stuttering painfully in her chest. She squinted through the rain, trying to make out who it could be. Her mind immediately leapt to the worst possibility—had something else happened? Was someone here to deliver more bad news?

But as she stepped closer, she saw the unmistakable silhouette of a tall man, his dark robes billowing slightly in the wind.

Her breath hitched.

No. It couldn’t be.

“Severus?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the rain pounding against the ground.

The figure turned, and in that moment, her world shattered and reassembled itself all at once.

It was him.

Severus Snape stood before her, alive and whole, his dark eyes staring at her with an unreadable expression.

She felt as if the ground had been pulled out from beneath her, her knees nearly buckling under the weight of the shock. She had spent months mourning him, months believing that he was gone forever. And yet here he was, standing in the rain like some ghost returned from the dead.

“You’re alive,” she breathed, her voice trembling with disbelief.

He nodded, his face pale and gaunt, but unmistakably real. “I am.”

For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her hands shaking violently. This was real. He was real. But how? Why hadn’t he come to her sooner?

“I—I thought you were dead,” she managed to choke out, her voice breaking. “I… I thought you were gone.”

Severus’ expression softened slightly, a rare crack in his usual stoic demeanor. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “I didn’t mean for you to think that.”

Y/n shook her head, her emotions a chaotic storm inside her. She didn’t know whether to scream at him or collapse into his arms. Anger and relief warred within her, and she wasn’t sure which one would win.

“I waited for you,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I waited… for so long.”

Severus stepped closer, his dark eyes never leaving hers. He reached out, hesitant at first, then cupped her face in his hands. His touch was warm, solid, and the reality of it sent a shiver down her spine.

“I’m here now,” he said softly.

Tears welled up in her eyes, the dam breaking after months of holding everything inside. She had been so strong, so determined not to let the grief consume her, but now, with him standing before her, the weight of it all was too much to bear.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Severus’ thumb brushed away the tears that slipped down her cheeks. “You didn’t.”

They stood like that for a long moment, the rain pouring down around them, soaking them both to the bone. But neither of them seemed to notice. The world had shrunk to just the two of them, the space between them charged with the weight of all that had been lost and found again.

And then, as if spurred by some unseen force, Severus reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, simple ring. Y/n’s breath caught in her throat as he held it up, his dark eyes flickering with something she hadn’t seen in him for a long time—hope.

“I should have asked you this a long time ago,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But… will you marry me?”

For a moment, Y/n couldn’t breathe. The question hung in the air between them, heavy and full of meaning. She stared at him, her mind racing, trying to process everything that had just happened. He was alive. He was asking her to marry him. It felt surreal, like a dream she was afraid she might wake up from at any moment.

She didn’t answer right away.

Severus’ expression shifted, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He lowered the ring slightly, his grip tightening around it. “You don’t have to say yes,” he said quickly, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I understand if—”

“No,” Y/n interrupted, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. “No, I just… I need a moment.”

He watched her, his dark eyes searching hers for any sign of rejection. But Y/n wasn’t rejecting him—far from it. She was just trying to wrap her mind around the fact that the man she had mourned for months was standing here, asking her to spend the rest of her life with him.

And finally, after what felt like an eternity, she nodded, a small, teary smile breaking through her grief.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Severus’ face softened, and without another word, he slipped the ring onto her finger. It was simple, elegant—just like him. And as he pulled her into his arms, Y/n let herself collapse into him, her tears mixing with the rain as they clung to each other like lifelines.

For the first time in months, Y/n felt something other than grief.

She felt hope.

[butmakeitgayblog]

meet me in moonlight, under the old willow tree

First Kiss

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I admit, after you left, I felt… inclined to hurry the process along. I do want to give you time to work within your ranks, because I trust you, and I know how capable you are. But also I—” Lexa falters again. Gives the barest shake of her head, her eyes staying glued to the hands held within her own as she visibly forces herself to speak. “Selfishly, I want this conflict finished as soon as possible.”

Clarke can't help the tremble that laces her smile because she knows. She knows. And it's nothing to lean into Lexa in the moment. To press in against the soft hollow of her cheek and dip closer to kiss the corner of Lexa's mouth. To feel Lexa turn into the touch just enough for Clarke to brush the adorable tip of her nose. 

She wonders sometimes, in the quiet of such moments, if Lexa really understands exactly how precious she is. Just how beautiful and gentle, beneath the death and the loss and the weight of her blood soaked crown.

Lexa sighs into Clarke's touch, her breath a warm relief to the cold air that spurs Clarke's hands to grip tighter. 

Her nose bumps against Clarke's again, seeking more, as Lexa whispers,

“Polis is lonelier without you.”

It's hard for Clarke to keep it together when yet another piece of her heart turns to shrapnel, jagged and deathly in its destruction. It makes old wounds sting like new as she adds the confession to the mountain of sins she cannot fix for them, for anyone, by sheer will alone. Because she would. So many pieces of her scream in duty-bound rebellion with how much she needs Lexa to know that she would do anything to erase the pain of her absence - to wash away the nights spent apart and spare them both. 

She would, if only she could.

Clarke hugs her. There's really nothing else for it. There's nothing that feels as right in that moment more than surging closer, stretching her arms to loop around Lexa's neck and pull her in. 

“I'm here now,” Clarke says, and seals her paltry offering with a kiss to the column of Lexa's throat.

She ignores her captive's flustered start at the tenderness and tucks into Lexa. Any worry for how she clings more than she means to is left for another day as her arms tighten at the burst of that familiar scent that is entirely Lexa; all forest greenery mixed with the clean scent of her sweat against skin that carries lingering notes of some floral sweetened soap. 

The coil of muscle softens into a mass of Commander-shaped jelly when Lexa sags against her, knees seeming to buckle with how fiercely she folds into the hug. Her arms cinch around Clarke's waist so tightly it nearly lifts her onto the tips of her toes; hip bones pressing to hip bones, ribs crushed to ribs. 

They hold each other in the creaking silence of the hut so long Clarke's feet pool in pins and pricks, offering little else more than sniffles buried into coat sleeves and armor and the syncing of juddered heartbeats. The buckles of Lexa's coat dig into Clarke's stomach and the pommel of her sword knocks rough against her hip, but she can't bring herself to care. Not when she's this close. Not when every press of Clarke's lips to Lexa's throat is mirrored against her own, tender in its supplication. 

The hands that hold her feel restless against her back. Constant in their moving, gentle in their caress. They rub languid circuits from her shoulders to the tops of her hips, as though Lexa can't quite control the need to touch her as much as humanly possible, and it's only when Clarke opens her eyes just to see that face again, that she loosens her hold and slowly, so slowly, inches herself away. 

Lexa doesn't let her go far. Keeps Clarke right where she wants her with a dig of fingertips against leather and spine, temple resting against temple and cheek against kohl smudged cheek, as she fills all the spaces Clarke has missed her touch. Heat traces over her skin in Lexa's shaky exhale as the snuggle-inclined warlord nuzzles closer, drifting the plumpness of her lips along Clarke's chin, across her mouth, until Clarke doesn't know where one breath ends and another begins. Eyes sparkle under the hang of lashy, hooded eyes when Lexa sways further into her.

“May I?” 

The vulnerability of it stings with just how small she sounds - as though she still doubts this. As though Lexa has no idea that the memory of her mouth, and her taste, and the sweet bite of her teeth were the only things that has kept Clarke sane in her misery for all of these weeks. 

Clarke's mouth tugs into a smile at the question. Even more as their lips brush when she speaks. 

“Please.”

The word is barely out before Lexa is the one surging forward in a tidal wave of emotion, taking Clarke's mouth in a kiss so blisteringly gentle it makes her rock on the heels of her feet. Her lips mold to Clarke's on a sharp inhale, one that liquifies into a sigh of relief; it's the same relief that ripples through Clarke's chest like an electric bloom of confetti. 

Clarke chases her mouth. Bends and reshapes herself to the mold of Lexa's body every time she dares to pull back even an inch for a gasp of air. It's too dizzying being this close to her. Reclaiming her. Letting their lips slant together in more configurations than she can keep count, each one letting Clarke relearn the taste and feel of her. 

She tries and fails to let Lexa set the tempo. Entirely too enamored with reacquainting herself with how soft and luscious those lips are for it to be anything but a lost cause. How could she be expected to control it when Lexa makes this sound. This sound, so feminine and so devastatingly fucking light. Not a whimper or a moan, but something in between, and it only makes Clarke need to hear it more as she cups Lexa's cheeks, keeping her close, keeping her steady, as she changes the angle to dive back in. 

The first brush of tongue makes Lexa whimper, and Clarke feels the tremble of Lexa's lips on the next breath she takes - feels the way it makes her hands turn greedy. She mumbles a curse around the lush bottom lip caught between her teeth when palms slip down, smooth over her ass and grab her. Their hips bump with restless intent and Clarke is barely able to pull her attention away from the languid sweeps of Lexa's mouth long enough to feel the nudge of a knee against hers. She stumbles just enough to let them fall open. Just enough for a muscled thigh to press in tight, answering the rocking of her hips that Clarke hadn't even noticed through the fog of Lexa's kiss. 

But then the world feels empty and life loses all meaning and she's not even being dramatic because the taste of those intoxicating lips is wrenched away without warning. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[meidnightrain]

COLORS

featuring boothill. no particular tw. not proofread or edited. took some inspiration from his lightcone + character story.

———

he whirs to life, and his system gears up for another day. he is synthetic, his torso a bleak and lifeless gray. he is hollow; the metal creaks like the rusty door hinge. it’s a haunting sound; it would have inflicted pain like the creaking of joints if BOOTHILL were not numb. 

the bed creaks under the weight of his body—more metal than flesh—which makes the mattress sag. you’re not stirred by his movement; you’ve long memorised him. his raspy laugh, the comforting sound of the whirring fan in his cyborg body, and the clinking of his steel appendages. 

the sunlight filters through the curtains, and your sleeping figure is dripping like a saturated sunrise that spills all over you, reminiscent of an overflowing sink. it paints you with colours he has never seen on the spectrum before. he stays silent on the dark side of the room; the light does not touch him, and he is grey. 

he is ripped at every edge, a drawing of dust and shadow on stark white paper that tears through the pages. he is the smudged black ink of a portrait that ruins the piece—the wrong stroke of a paintbrush in a sea of pastels. you are warm with life; changing and flourishing with the seasons. he is cold with stillness; he does not change, nor can he mimic the soft beating in the crevice of your chest. 

“you up?” your voice breaks the silence of the room, once filled with your snores and the soft sound that comes with the spinning player on his hard disk. it’s a sweet sound, a melody that clashes with the cacophony of clinking that is him. 

“aeons, forgot how cold your hand is.” the slurred words roll off your tongue sleepily. he retracts his palm from your face on instinct. hesitation is what he feels when he wants to touch you; you are fragile. he does not want to shatter you like porcelain in his steel grip. you were a vision in the morning when the light came through, the only sacred religion he would put his faith in.

you see right through him, through all the winding gears and sparking wires that make him who he is, so you pull him close to you. he feels your breath, which peppers light kisses on his cheek, the way your palm caresses his face. you are warm like the sun, which brings heat and life, but BOOTHILL is cold like the moon. 

he was human once. slowly, he can’t remember what it’s like to feel you in his arms; the sensation of physical touch on every fibre of his mechanical body. and so he loses his humanity bit by bit. does the rough words that tumble out of his mouth, the curses really compensate for that missing part of him; coping with his own loss. he is growing numb to your touch, and so he kisses you so fervently to feel you that you gasp for air.

for that moment, everything was blue. his pills, his hands with oil pulsing beneath his skin, feeling your skin against what remains of his. his jeans that hung loosely to his waist, hooking your fingers through the belt loops to pull him closer for a kiss. and you were covered in the colours pulled apart at the seams—a beautiful shade of blue like the seas of lushanka.

but colours fade over time; they spill all over him like melting paint, washed away by the waters of the flood. and now everything is grey. his long hair that you stroke your fingers through. the smoke from the tip of his gun. his dreams, once vibrant with a kaleidoscope of hues, now dull. now he's so devoid of colour that he doesn't know what it means. the the only shade that stains his hands is a vibrant red, of love and fire, of spilled wine on grey titanium. when he touches you, a lilac sky of bruises marks your skin where his fingers left indents into your arm.

he longs to rip his heart out on the pavement, break every bone in his body, and spill blood like paint in your place. his heart is synthetic; the metal encasing his body like the exoskeleton of a swarm sting in place of bones. and BOOTHILL can do nothing but watch the colour of his world bleed to black and white.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

© MEIDNIGHTRAIN 2025. NO REPOSTING, PLAGIARISM ALLOWED

[foxtrology]

it ain't me babe (prologue)

joel miller x reader

series

ao3 link

warnings: no y/n, age gap, female reader.

─────

Jackson, Wyoming — two months before Salt Lake City

Jackson slept beneath a blanket of snow, all hush and hush, the kind of silence that weighed heavy on the shoulders. The kind that made the wind sound louder, meaner. Chimney smoke rose from the rooftops, curling into the dark like ghosts with nowhere left to haunt. The gates were locked for the night, patrols had made their slow loops around the perimeter, rifles in hand, flashlights flickering. But in a place like this, survival didn’t stop when the sun went down.

It just got quieter.

Quieter didn’t mean safer.

Down near the stables, she walked with her hands buried deep in the pockets of her flannel, boots crunching over old ice patches. She didn’t take the main road. She never did. Too many eyes, too many “how’s your dad doing?”s and “still working the stables all by yourself?”s and she wasn’t in the mood.

She rarely was.

Willie padded alongside her, fur fluffed out against the cold. That dog was glued to her hip, ever since the day she found him half frozen in the remnants of a burnt out convenience store. Just skin, bone, and eyes too big for his skull. He’d growled at her once, weak and shaking, but let her pick him up anyway.

Now, he didn’t leave her side.

Not for patrols, not for chores, not for anything.

She lived with her dad in a small house a few blocks from the stables—ex-military officer, intense as hell but quieter now, like the war inside him had finally dulled to an ache. People in town knew who he was.

They respected him.

Trusted him.

Knew damn well the only reason he was even here was because of his daughter, the girl he taught to shoot before she lost her first tooth. The girl who now ran the stables by herself like it was nothing, like owning two dozen horses in a post apocalyptic commune was just another Tuesday.

She wasn’t wearing gloves tonight, even though her fingers were already red. Habit. She liked to feel things. Like the knife at her side, the one she kept holstered on her thigh no matter how many times someone from patrol told her it was “a little much.” Her dad had taught her that too—trust no one. And if you do trust them, be ready to kill them anyway.

That was when she heard the creak.

Faint. Soft. But wrong.

Willie stopped in his tracks. A low rumble in his throat.

Her body tensed. She pressed a hand to his coat. “Heel.” He froze, ears forward, waiting.

Good boy.

The stable doors weren’t latched all the way.

No one left her doors unlatched. She owned those horses.

Every one of them had a name, a history, a birthdate if she was lucky enough to know it.

They were her everything. In a world that ended, they kept her tethered to something real. So if someone was fucking around in her barn after hours, they better be ready to die for it.

She crept forward. Steps silent, practiced. One hand on her knife. Other pushing the door open just enough to slide in.

That’s when she saw him.

Back turned, dark coat, shoulders hunched as he fiddled with the reins of a bay mare near the last stall. He didn’t even hear her come in. Didn't hear her until she was right there—until the cold steel pressed flush against his neck.

“Move and I’ll open your goddamn throat,” she said, calm as ice.

The man froze. Slowly raised his hands.

And then he turned his head just enough for her to see his face.

Not familiar.

Not really.

But almost. People had been talking, whispering when they dropped off horses after patrol. Something about Tommy’s brother showing up.

Someone dangerous.

Someone quiet.

Someone who looked exactly like this.

“Put it down,” he said, low and gritted, like he was warning her. Not scared. Just...done. “Ain’t takin’ nothin’. Just needed a ride.”

Her grip didn’t falter.

“This is my stable,” she hissed. “My horses. My property. You don’t walk into my barn like it’s a fucking vending machine.”

“I didn’t know it was yours,” he bit out, still not turning around. “Didn’t matter whose it was. She was saddled. Figured someone wouldn’t miss her long.”

She stepped closer. Knife still pressed tight to his skin.

“She’s mine. They all are.”

Willie let out another soft growl, closer now, body tense at her side. The man glanced at the dog from the corner of his eye.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

She was sure if she motioned for Willy to attack, he would attack.

His tone shifted, sharp now. “You gonna stab me or what?”

“I might.”

“Then do it.”

For a second, just a beat, the cold in the air felt heavier. Time stilled. Just by glancing at the side of his face—whatever he’d been through, he was tired.

So tired.

Not afraid.

Just worn down to the marrow. Like he’d seen so many knives, one more didn’t mean a thing.

But she didn’t move. Not yet.

“What’s your name?” she asked, jaw clenching.

“Joel.”

And that... that was the name.

The one they’d been whispering about in town.

The one Tommy had seemed half proud, half pissed about.

The brother.

The one who left. The one who came back. And now here he was, standing in her stable, stealing her horse, and looking at her like she was the problem.

“You’re Joel,” she repeated flatly. “Tommy’s brother.”

He gave a slight nod.

She pulled the knife away from him, letting him go. But didn’t sheath it.

“You got a habit of stealing horses in the middle of the night?”

Joel shrugged. “Didn’t come here lookin’ to make friends.”

“No shit.”

She stepped back finally, eyes locked on him. Willie circled once, sniffing him like a TSA agent, before sitting down again at her side.

Joel adjusted his coat, fixing the strap on his shoulder. “You always this friendly to strangers?”

“I follow anyone acting shady as hell past curfew. You walked into my barn. I walked in behind you. That’s not unfriendly. That’s protective.”

He looked at her for the first time.

Really looked.

Something shifted in his eyes—nothing soft, nothing kind, but something curious.

Like maybe he hadn’t expected her to be this sharp.

This ready.

He didn’t say anything though. Just nodded once and started toward the exit like he didn’t just have a knife at his throat thirty seconds ago.

“You try to take one again,” she said, “I won’t hesitate.”

Joel paused. Glanced over his shoulder.

Then he was gone, disappearing into the shadows like he’d never been there. Not a single response muttered.

She stood still for a moment, heart pounding in the silence, watching the door swing gently on its hinges.

Willie looked up at her.

“Yeah,” she muttered, sliding the knife back into its sheath. “What the fuck was that?”

She didn’t know it then—not fully. But that man, that stranger with blood in his eyes and death on his shoulders, was about to unravel everything she thought she knew about danger, trust, and the spaces in between.

And by the time he came back, two months later, everything would be different.

Everything.

[serendipdipity01]

iii. 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬

mary on a cross - yellowjackets ♱ CHAPTER THREE series masterlist

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬

[ ₁₉₉₆! ]

THE LOCKER ROOM was cold.

Not the kind that prickled your skin or made you shiver, but the kind that sunk into your chest and coiled there like a warning. It was a haunted kind of cold—quiet and stifling. The air hung heavy with things unspoken, the silence brittle and waiting to be shattered.

Annie Jo sat stiff-backed on the bench, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, like if she let go, everything inside might spill out. Blood—Allie's blood—soaked through her sock, tacky against her shin. She didn't dare look down. She didn't need to. The image was etched behind her eyes: Allie's leg, mangled and wrong, jutting sideways with bone exposed. The sound, too. That sharp, wet crack. Like a deer being struck by a car.

Her stomach pitched again.

You passed to her.

You should've screamed louder.

If she had just done something—anything—maybe it wouldn't have ended with Allie on the ground, screaming, with the rest of them frozen in place like statues. Like cowards.

Across from her, Natalie rummaged through a half-open gym bag that definitely wasn't hers. She pulled out a towel and ran it under the sink until it steamed. No one asked what she was doing. No one told her to stop.

She came back over without a word.

"Let me see," she said quietly, crouching down.

Annie Jo blinked. Her voice caught in her throat. "It's fine."

Natalie didn't argue. She just moved closer, eyes down, fingers gentle as she rolled up the hem of the sock. Dried blood had crusted in jagged trails down Annie Jo's shin—Allie's blood—and it made her want to throw up all over again.

Natalie dabbed at it with the towel, slow and careful, like she was afraid to hurt her. Like this mattered. Like any of this could be fixed.

"You didn't have to do that," Annie Jo whispered, watching the other girl's face. The knit of her brow. The tension in her jaw.

"Don't be weird about it," Natalie muttered, not looking up. "Everything's so fucking weird now."

But her thumb stayed. Rested just below the spot she'd cleaned. It traced slow circles there—absent, maybe. Or not.

The rest of the team sat scattered like ghosts.

Shauna was curled in front of her locker, her cleats half-untied. She kept looping the laces, bow after bow, and undoing them just as fast. Over and over. Like if she could just get it right, everything else might make sense too.

Van had buried her face in her hands, only peeking through her fingers every now and then. Her skin had gone waxy, green around the edges. She looked like someone who'd seen something they weren't supposed to. Which, Annie Jo supposed, they all had.

Laura Lee stood beside her sister with her hands clasped tightly in prayer. Her lips moved in soundless repetition—third, maybe fourth time through. Her voice had gone hoarse from whispering, like if she just said the words enough, God would pay attention this time.

Lottie stood nearby, watching her with something unreadable in her eyes.

On the far side of the room, Molly leaned against a bank of lockers, the sweat still clinging at the roots of her dark hair, arms crossed tight, her glare locked like a laser beam on Taissa.

And Taissa—

She was furthest from everyone. Sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, elbows resting on her knees, staring at the scratched tile like it held the answer to everything. She hadn't said a word since they got inside. Hadn't even blinked, it seemed.

The door creaked open.

Even that tiny sound echoed.

Nobody moved.

Jackie stepped in, her presence sharp as always—but dulled around the edges. Like even she wasn't sure how to play this moment. Her cleats clicked softly as she crossed the room, gaze sweeping over the others. Over the silence.

"I know we're all really worried about Allie..." Her voice was gentle, but too gentle. Like she was trying it on. "But it might not be as bad as it looks."

Natalie didn't look up. "You can see her fucking bones, Jackie."

Annie Jo's voice followed. Quiet. Sharper for it. "You didn't hear the crack."

Natalie's hand was still resting on Annie Jo's leg. The circles she traced had slowed. Stopped. But her touch stayed.

Van exhaled, loud and shaky, dragging her hands down her face like she could scrub the memory off. "Oh God," she mumbled. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

Molly shoved off the lockers and stormed toward the showers without a word, shooting one last venomous look at Taissa as she passed.

Jackie blinked, trying to recover. "Okay, but—I mean..." She took a breath. "We're still a team, right? We still have each other?"

Laura Lee nodded, hesitant. "And the Lord works in myst—"

SLAM.

The metal door cracked like thunder as Natalie's fist collided with it.

Everyone jumped.

Annie Jo flinched hard enough to suck in a breath.

Natalie grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder, already heading for the exit.

"Nice work, Taissa," she snapped without even turning around.

Taissa's breath hitched. She bent forward, face in her hands, like the blow had finally landed.

Annie Jo stood fast. Too fast. Her blood roared in her ears as she chased after Natalie into the hall.

"Wait," she called.

Natalie didn't slow. "Don't."

"I just..." Annie Jo fell in step beside her. "I don't think you should be alone right now."

Natalie let out a laugh that had no humor in it. "You're sweet. Naïve, but sweet."

They pushed through the back exit, the metal door groaning shut behind them.

Outside, the sky was slate-gray, thick with clouds that looked ready to split open but hadn't. The field stretched out ahead of them, still and empty, like it was holding its breath.

Natalie pulled a bottle from her bag, twisting the cap off with a practiced flick.

Annie Jo frowned. "That doesn't look very healthy."

Natalie took a sip. Her eyes didn't move from the field. "Neither does a snapped tibia. But here we are."

A silence fell. Not awkward. Just...heavy.

"You okay?" Annie Jo asked.

Natalie scoffed. "Stop asking that like the answer's ever gonna be yes." Then she glanced sideways, voice softening. "If anything, I should be asking you that. You're the one who held her."

Annie Jo didn't answer. She didn't need to.

They stood there, both of them still except for the occasional shift of wind through the trees. Natalie took another drink.

"She pushed her too hard," she said.

"It was an accident."

"Still happened."

"She didn't mean to hurt her."

"That doesn't fix shit."

Annie Jo looked at her. Really looked at her. The lines of her posture—rigid, defensive, as if the entire world was a threat and she was daring it to try again. A shield forged out of sheer will.

"You going to the party tonight?" Natalie asked suddenly.

Annie Jo shrugged. "Not if you're not."

Natalie arched a brow. "Didn't peg you for the codependent type."

Before Annie Jo could reply, another voice called out.

"Annie Jo?"

Laura Lee.

She jogged over, cheeks flushed, hair damp and curling at the edges. "We should go. Pastor Miller coming over, and Momma'll kill us if we're late."

Annie Jo turned back to Natalie.

"See you later?"

Natalie didn't answer right away. She stared at her for a long moment, like she was deciding something. Then she gave the faintest nod.

"Yeah," she said. "Later."

Annie Jo followed her sister down the path, their footsteps fading into the distance.

Natalie stayed behind. Alone now, the bottle dangling from her hand. Her gaze didn't move from the place Annie Jo had just been.

‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

The drive home was wrapped in a heavy sort of quiet. Not tense — just suspended, like both girls were waiting for someone to find the right words to cut through the hush. Laura Lee had the aux cord, fingers curled around it, but never pressed play. The silence was filled only by the low hum of the engine and the soft whoosh of the tires on the darkening road — a sound that felt too gentle after the sharp edges of the day.

Annie Jo leaned her temple against the window. The glass was cold. Outside, the trees blurred by in long, dark strokes, their shadows slicing through the last of the evening light. Her knee still throbbed where Natalie had cleaned it, but she didn't reach for it. Her hands sat quiet in her lap, fingers twined tightly, her thumb brushing a circle over the same spot on her knuckle — a nervous habit she didn't know she had until today.

"I really hope she's okay," Laura Lee murmured, almost to herself. Her voice always climbed a little higher when she was anxious — bright, fragile. "Allie. I mean."

Annie didn't look at her. "Yeah," she said, barely above a whisper. "Me too."

"She's just a freshman." The blonde paused, swallowing. "She didn't deserve any of that."

"No," Annie agreed. "She didn't."

Silence again. Thicker this time. Like it had weight.

Laura Lee fidgeted with her hoodie strings. "I think Natalie's taking it hard," she added, hesitantly. "She looked... upset."

Annie Jo's gaze flicked toward her sister, then away again. "She is."

The gravel crunched beneath them as Laura Lee eased the car into the driveway. The old porch light buzzed, flickering in and out like it couldn't decide whether to stay on. Before either girl could unbuckle, a familiar low rumble filled the air behind them.

A truck. Powder blue, sun-faded, streaked with rust down the doors and patched with road salt — the kind of truck that had been around long enough to outlive the stories people told about it. It rolled to a slow stop behind them.

Pastor Donald Miller stepped out, tugging his jacket tighter against the breeze. He was still dressed for the pulpit — slacks pressed, shirt neatly tucked, oxford slightly wrinkled as if he'd worn it all day but never let it fall out of line. The open collar was a deliberate choice: approachable, almost academic, a nod to his years as a professor. And the way he carried himself — hands in pockets, eyes surveying everything like it was a text to be read — made it clear he still thought of every conversation as something to dissect.

He smiled, the kind of smile that had been polished over years of funerals and casseroles and home visits.

"Evening, ladies."

Laura Lee returned the greeting with a polite, practiced cheer. "Pastor Miller."

Annie Jo gave him a nod, but her eyes didn't linger.

The porch light blinked again as they stepped inside.

The scent of lemon cleaner met them first — sharp and clean — followed by something warmer: cornbread, maybe, or roasted sweet potatoes. Home smelled like that. Even on days like this.

Charlene Chambers stood framed in the doorway to the kitchen, towel in hand, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She was tall, with an elegance that didn't demand attention but earned it anyway. Her blonde curls were pulled back into a loose bun, a few wisps escaping around her temples. Her face — fine-featured and expressive — carried the weight of someone who had learned how to smile through stress, to pray through disappointment. At that moment, her expression hovered in a place between gratitude and dread.

"There you are," she said, exhaling. "We've been waiting."

Her eyes landed on Annie Jo — really landed — and something flickered behind them. Not suspicion. Not quite worry, either. Something harder to name. Like she was scanning her daughter's face for signs she didn't want to find.

"Everything okay?" she asked, wiping her hands slowly.

Annie Jo gave her the best smile she could manage. "Yeah, Mom. Everything's fine."

From the dining table, Randy Chambers, their father, looked up, setting his fork down with a quiet clink. He was still in his work shirt — name patch stitched above his heart, sleeves rolled to his elbows, grease smudged faintly along the hem. He had that kind of small-town charm that came easy: quick with a joke, steady with his hands, always the first to fix a neighbor's truck or shovel a stranger's drive. But tonight, his usual ease was dulled. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

He cleared his throat. "The pastor's got something he wants to share with you girls."

Miller stepped forward like it was a cue he'd been waiting for, his smile still intact, just softened at the edges.

"I'll keep it short," he said, hands folded in front of him. "I know it's been a long day. But we've been talking, and we'd like to do something for you two. A celebration. At the church."

Charlene's eyes lit up — not just with surprise, but with something deeper, a kind of maternal pride that gave her hands motion. She clapped them together once, voice full of warmth. "That's a beautiful idea."

"It won't be much," the pastor added. "Just a potluck. A few kind words. Some music, maybe. But this town's proud of you. Going to Nationals... that's not something we take lightly."

Laura Lee's face brightened, caught off guard by the attention. Her smile widened. She looked to Annie, who was still staring at the pastor, unblinking.

"That's really nice," Annie said. "But, actually... we've been invited to a party. It's a bonfire. Kind of a send-off."

The shift was immediate. Almost invisible. But Annie felt it.

Charlene's smile froze at the corners, hands now folding the towel with surgical precision. Randy's gaze dropped back to the table. He picked at the newspaper in front of him, doing a once-over.

"A party?" Charlene asked, her voice light — too light.

"It's not that kind of party," Annie said quickly. "Just music. Friends. Nothing crazy."

Her mother didn't answer, not with words. She didn't have to. The silence said everything: disapproval wrapped in restraint, the kind that waited behind every Sunday dress and grace-before-meal.

Then Miller broke the tension with a low, genial chuckle, placing a hand on each girl's shoulder — firm, but not heavy.

"Well," he said, "we'll make sure the church celebration comes first. That way you girls can enjoy both. You've earned that much."

Charlene's lips pulled into something that looked like agreement, but didn't feel like it. She said nothing else.

Annie Jo stared down at the pastor's hand where it still rested on her shoulder. It wasn't rough. It wasn't cold. It wasn't anything she could point at and say wrong. But it stayed a second too long.

She stepped away first.

They started up the stairs, Laura Lee already talking about what she might wear. But then—

"Annie," Pastor Miller called gently from the doorway, his voice warm, practiced. "Mind if we chat? Just a moment."

She paused mid-step, the hesitation barely noticeable—except it was. Then she turned with a polite, closed-lipped smile. "Sure."

He gestured toward the porch with a small nod. She followed.

Outside, the wind had sharpened with the coming dark. It bit at her cheeks and tugged at the hem of her sweater. She pulled her sleeves down past her wrists, fingers curling into the knit as she crossed her arms. The screen door creaked behind them before clapping shut with a final-sounding snap.

They stood in silence for a moment. "How are you holding up?" Pastor Miller asked, his voice gentle, almost fatherly.

Annie's shoulders twitched. "I'm okay."

"You've had a long week," he said. "I heard about what happened with the freshman girl at practice. You handled it well."

She nodded, but the compliment landed wrong. The words didn't feel like praise. They felt like a prompt. A cue.

Miller turned toward her slightly. His smile had narrowed, less warmth, more weight. "You remind me of your mother, you know. Quiet strength. Grace under pressure."

She didn't thank him. The comparison twisted in her chest. Her mother's legacy hovered over everything like a ghost in Sunday shoes—admired, expected, inescapable.

He gave her a moment, then added, more pointed now, "I hope you've been keeping up with your devotionals."

There it was. The real reason for this 'chat.'

"I've been trying," she said, the words automatic, rehearsed. "Soccer's been a lot lately."

He tilted his head, that slow, practiced motion that said he was listening, but not quite agreeing. "Trying is good. But discipline, Annie... that's where the real clarity comes from. The kind that doesn't waver when temptation knocks."

Her hands tightened where they were tucked under her arms, nails pressing into skin.

"I'll do better," she said.

He nodded, satisfied. That approval—small, measured—settled on her like dust.

"I had a good talk with Thomas Fielding this week," he said, as if remembering. "He asked about you."

She blinked, caught off-guard. "Really?"

"Said your prayer at the last youth meeting was... mature. His words, not mine."

Annie summoned a smile, brittle as frost. "That's nice of him."

"He's a good boy. Involved. Godly. I think he'd be a very good friend."

That word again. Friend. Emphasized just enough to mean more than it said.

And then she remembered the blank, numb space in her chest whenever Thomas Fielding smiled at her.

He was the kind of boy people noticed—tall and clean-cut, with dark hair that always looked freshly combed and a jawline that suggested he'd never broken a rule in his life. His button-downs were always tucked in, his teeth perfectly straight, his Bible pages worn just enough to suggest daily use without dog-ears. He led morning announcements, opened doors for teachers, and never spoke out of turn.

She knew he was the ideal. The one she was supposed to want. The kind of boy her parents would beam over at Sunday potlucks, the kind her sister whispered about in that dreamy, conspiratorial tone—like he was some kind of reward for being good.

But there was nothing.

No pull. No warmth. Just silence inside her where everyone said something should be.

"I'll keep that in mind," she murmured.

Pastor Miller reached out and gave her shoulder a gentle pat, heavy with meaning. "You're a good girl. Keep choosing the light."

From inside, the dining room glowed with warm lamplight, casting soft gold shadows through the curtain. Upstairs, Laura Lee's laughter echoed faintly, a remnant of something simpler, something clean.

Annie didn't follow him back in.

She stayed on the porch, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she could hold something together. The cold crept in slow and steady, sliding under her sleeves and pressing into the spaces between her ribs.

She didn't know what the light was supposed to feel like anymore.

[d0youc0py]

Warnings: medical inaccuracies, barely proofread, gn reader, sappy, probably not accurate character portrayal, blood, mentions of pain, abuse and death

“You scared or something?” Your eyes darted up from his bloody abdomen to his masked face. You shook your head, disagreeing with his question. “I don’t believe you.” He rasped out, shifting slightly.

“Please don’t move.” You requested as another glob of blood poured out of him. Your shaky hands wiped it away.

“Think you’re gonna have to cauterize it.” He groaned, digging around his vest for gunpowder.

“I don’t know how to do that.” You panted.

“I do.” He sighed, shoving a small bag of gunpowder into your hands. “Just throw some of that on and light it up.”

“Won’t you catch on fire?” You questioned. Regardless you dug into the bag and began spreading the small pellets over the gushing wound. “This doesn’t seem like the best option, sir.”

“Kid, I don’t have time to argue.” He growled, reaching in his pocket for his lighter. Your eyes widened at the depth of his statement and shakily you took the lighter from his hands. “Wipe your hands off.” He huffed. You washed the gunpowder off your fingers with your water canteen. He ripped his glove off and shoved the fabric under his mask and into his mouth to silence the pained screams he knew were heading his way. He gave you the nod to go ahead. He gave you a hard smack to the shoulder when you hesitated.

“Alright.” You growled. You held the flame up to his wound, wincing as it immediately caught aflame. Ghosts hand flung out and gripped your arm, his vision fading from the pain. The wound had been burned closed, but the pain had tripled. He regained consciousness as quick as he had lost it, his chest heaving up and down. You couldn’t begin to imagine the pain. The fabric of his gloves did little to muffle his howl of agony.

His grip on you had your bones creaking but it was a small ache compared to what you had just witnessed.

“C/S, Ghost, How copy?” You jumped as Price’s voice rang through your comm. You quickly spoke into your shoulder.

“We’re at the safe house. Ghost was stabbed, three inches across about an inch deep, had to cauterize it.” You explained. “He’s solid right now.” You heard a few curse words from his side of the comms.

“Can he make it two hours? Can’t get to you till daylight.”

You looked at Ghost for an answer. He mustered up the strength to nod.

“He can make it, Captain.” You affirmed.

You both said your goodbyes and well wishes.

“Do you need anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

“Don’t know if you should smoke covered in gunpowder, sir.” You said slowly. He growled, rolling his half lidded eyes.

“Flask- my bag.” He said shortly. You decided that was a fair compromise and dug around in his bag till you found his silver flask. Unscrewing the lid you held it up to him. He finished it off in two gulps.

“I have some painkillers. I know we probably shouldn’t mix the two but”-

“I don’t do pills.” He cut you off. “Don’t ask.” He groaned, laying with his back flat on the floor.

“Why don’t we move you to the chair?” You hummed, beginning to loop your arm with his.

“I like the floor.” He interjected. You let go.

“How come you don’t do pills?” You questioned. His closed eyes furrowed.

“Didn’t I tell you not to ask?” A series of coughs left his body and you held your breath hoping he didn’t cough up any blood. You shoved your water canteen towards him. “I know I told you not to ask.” He continued once the coughing ceased. He took a swig of water.

“I just think it’s odd. You smoke and drink but won’t take a few little pills?”

“Exactly.” Ghost growled. “Drop it, kid.”

“Dropping.” You sighed, holding your hands in the air. All was silent in the safe house. Calling it a safe house felt odd since it resembled more of a shed. You could see stars through the holes in the roof. You tore your eyes away from the twinkling above when you felt two holes being burned into you. “You okay?” You questioned, meeting his gaze.

“How long has it been?” Ghost asked, clearing his throat when his voice cracked.

“Since?”

“Since you talked to Price.”

You looked down at your watch.

“Three minutes.” You responded, two lines appearing between your brows. “Why?”

“I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”

His voice was calm. Eerily calm. If he thought he was on the brink of death, why the hell was he so fucking calm? Your hand shot up to your comms, but he stopped you.

“Don’t bother.” He groaned, another series of coughs wracking his body. You pulled your jacket off, using it as a pillow for him. “No point in anyone else gettin hurt.”

“How can you say that?” You gasped out. “You’re just willing to die?” His hazy eyes scanned up and down your sitting form before stopping at your face. His eyes traced over ever feature like it was the only thing keeping him present.

“I always knew it was gonna happen. Thought it’d be a bit more eventful, but”- He cut himself off with the shake of his head. You hadn’t know Ghost for very long. This was actually just your second mission with him- the first one he basically refused to talk to you. You preferred working under the wings of Captain and Gaz, so when Cap paired you with Ghost you hardly knew what to expect.

“It’ll be fine.” Price had said. He gave you a soft pat on the shoulder, trying his best to ward off the concerned look on your face. “It’s a simple two man job, in and out. Plus it’ll be good for you to learn something besides Gaz’s snarky comm talk.”

This wasn’t at all what you had expected. Actually you expected the roles to be reversed. You bleeding out all over the floor and Ghost relaxing in one piece. You leaned your back against the shed.

“Can’t believe I was afraid of you.” You mumbled. His eyes honed in on you. “You know when I was first excepted into 141 all everyone wanted to talk about was you. People at the academy still call and ask me if you’re at all like the rumors. ‘Can Ghost really rip someone’s spine out with one hand?’ ‘Does Ghost really wear the mask all the time?’ ‘Does Ghost really sleep upside down?’” You mimicked.

“Sleep upside down?” Ghost questioned. Even with his mask on you could see the smirk. “Like a bat?”

“Yeah, like a bat.” You huffed, slinking down. Your shoulders were pressed against each other and you wondered for a moment if you should scoot away. You felt his shoulder relax against yours.

“And what do you tell your friends?” Ghost hummed.

“They aren’t my friends.” You corrected. They paid no attention to you until Price started to. “But I tell them the truth.” You sighed.

“Christ Kid, I need to beat it out of you?” He huffed, urging you on.

“Like to see you try.” You gave him a pat on the arm. If he wasn’t almost dead he would’ve chuckled. “I tell them that you tell really, really bad jokes.” You smirked, drawing your words out.

“No you fuckin don’t.” He growled, his eyes blaring up at you.

“Someone had to ruin your reputation Lieutenant.” You bit your lip to hold back a laugh. “I’m lying. I don’t tell them anything- like I said I’m not friends with them.”

“Good.” He huffed, his body relaxing once more. “Also my jokes aren’t really, really bad.”

“Whatever helps you Lieutenant.” You mumbled, flashing him a side smile.

“You know for someone who’s watching another person die, you sure are cheeky.” Ghost shot back.

“I doubt you’re dying.” You pressed. “Also good news we just wasted fifteen minutes.”

It was hard to keep his eyes open. He kept his eyes trained above him, moving back and forth between your face and the stars.

“I almost killed my father.”

You turned your body to face him.

“Almost? Like an accident.”

“No.” Ghost sighed. “He was a shite, everyday, all day- except on my mothers birthday. That was the one day of the year he would get it together. He would take us all out to dinner and ice cream- one year we even went to a movie. I fucking hated him for it. He was taunting us, all of us. Showing us he could be a kind father and husband, he just didn’t want to be. After one of those days, when everyone had gone to sleep I snuck into the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife I could. I stood over the bastard for two whole hours. I kept lifting my arms like I was going to do it, but then they would get tired and I would lower them. My hands were so sweaty and shaky I dropped the knife. It hit the floor and he woke up. Beat the livin’ shite out of me and took all the knives out of the house.” He chuckled at the last part like it was all some joke. Yet his reddening eyes showed the truth.

You released a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

“I’m not ready to see him in hell.” Ghost’s eyes panned to yours like you held the solution. The man was frantic, even if he didn’t have the energy to be.

“You aren’t going to die, Ghost.”

“Simon.”

“What?”

“Simon. That’s my real name.”

“Okay. You aren’t going to die, Simon.” You assured. “Drink some more water.”

“You kids and your damn water.” He snapped.

“Kids? I’m like five-seven years younger than you are. You just feel extra old because of all the blood loss.”

“I’m going to take a nap.” He said suddenly.

“If that’s code for dying, you better not.” You scolded.

“I won’t die.” He spat. “Just need a rest.”

You begrudgingly watched as his hazel eyes slid shut.

“What are you doing?” He rasped. You pulled your head away from his chest.

“Checking for a heartbeat.” You explained.

“Oh, you find one?”

“Yeah. Sounds like a rock being throw around in a metal can.”

A small snort left him.

“That’s it alright.” His eyes opened slowly. The stars were gone. The sky a shade lighter.

“You’ve lasted an hour Simon.”

“Not my best.” He mused, letting his eyes fall shut again. You choked out a chuckle.

“Subtle brag.” You whispered, standing. You took a turn about the room, peaking through every crack in the wood.

“If you see something I’ll distract them while you run.” He grimaced, making a move it sit up. You quickly bent down to help him.

“That’s very noble of you, sir.” You commented. Truth be told a run sounded nice. You felt trapped in the small shed, your Lieutenant’s massive body taking up nearly fifty percent of it. “You have any more stories about your father?” You asked. Maybe talking would did you of some of your jitters.

“Yeah. None for you though.” He went silent for a moment, but you could feel words on the edge of his tongue. “What’d you mean earlier when you said you couldn’t believe you were afraid of me?”

You flushed. You plopped down opposite of him in the rickety wooden chair.

“Drop it.” You said, copying his own words. He shook his head.

“That only works when I say it. Fess up.”

You wished you could go back in time and slap yourself. How could you tell him what you really thought of him? Your eyes crept over to the gun propped up next to him. He would shoot you for this.

“Kid.” He pressed- no demanded.

“Earlier, I thought you were weak.” You admitted. You waited for a shot to be fired but it never came.

“Weak, for being stabbed?”

“No.” You opened and closed your mouth like a fish. “You were such a big deal at the academy, everyone made you out to be some sort of god- someone who only a few have seen but everyone has heard about. And here you are laying on the floor accepting your death.”

“You expected more from me?” Ghost added. You were too wrapped up in your own thoughts, nodding your head in agreement with him before his words had reached your brain. You stared at him with wide eyes about to disagree but he stopped you. His eyes bore into yours. You quickly looked away, not able to handle their intensity.

“I’ve been fighting a long time.” His words were just as intense as his eyes. “After a while you run out of excuses to keep fighting.”

“What qualifies as an excuse to you?” You questioned. His eyes looked you up and down.

“I think I’ve bared enough of my soul to you.” It felt like he was scolding you. You held your hands up, with a soft roll of your eyes.

“Ghost? Y/N!” Your head shot towards the wall, just barely being able to make out Soaps form between the small cracks.

“Oh thank god.” You instantly felt lighter, your hands itching to throw the door open. You were greeted with relieved smiles and pats. You almost asked them why they were early- but you bit your tongue.

“Told you, you’d be fine.” Price smiled down at you. His eyes widened when they landed on Ghost. “You on the other hand, fuckin’ hell.” Price took the stretcher from Gaz and began transferring Ghost onto it with the help of Soap.

“Don’t know how you made it this far, mate.” Soap groaned, grabbing the handles and hoisting the colossal man into the air. Price held the other side like it was a feather.

“He’s a tough bastard.” Price chuckled dryly. You moved out of the doorway, grabbing the guns that were tossed about the floor.

“Easy when I was confined with a chatterbox.” Ghost piqued up.

“Well you are good at entertaining yourself, sir.” You spoke from behind. He gave a wryly chuckle in response. Ghost was loaded into the helo, you next to him. You had never been so happy to be up in the air before. You closed your eyes and enjoyed the battering of the wind against your face. You opened them when you felt something brush against your hand. You looked down to see Ghost’s hand carefully resting by yours. You made no move to retreat or get closer. He seemed to be waiting on you doing one of the two. Finally he reached out and gave your hand a quick squeeze, before returning to his side.

To you it was a thank you- although you weren’t sure if you were any help. He meant it as a thank you too- but not for saving him because let’s face it, you weren’t too big of a help, but you gave him a sliver. A sliver of promise that maybe- possibly one day you could be an excuse to keep fighting.

I don’t know if I like this or hate it. It’s been sitting in my drafts since the dawn of time and it felt too long to not post. Hope you all liked it? 🥰🩷

[woodenplank-gt]

Questioning

The trio are officially getting involved with the case! Hopefully the only human witness has some answers….

First: A Not So Average Night

Previous: Part of The Team

Next: Coming soon!

—————

The door to the interrogation room opened with a creak.

“Don’t worry Lassie, back up has arrived!” Shawn declared as he strode into the room with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

Tucker glanced around the small interrogation room from the hole in the pocket. The floor was dark grey concrete and the walls were two different colors; the lower half a dark blue while the upper half was tan. There was a steel table in the center of the room with a large mirror built into the wall next to it. The only light making it into the room was from the lonely bulb hanging from the ceiling.

The borrower spotted the resident male sitting across from the scary detective at the table. His hands cuffed and attached to a loop on the metal surface. His eyes were red and puffy from hours of grieving the loss of his wife. Tucker quickly noticed how tired Steven appeared with his disheveled blond hair and dark bags under his eyes. The man hardly seemed to care about Shawn and Gus’ intrusion.

The detective slowly turned in his chair, staring icy daggers into Shawn and Gus. Even though the human had no way of knowing Tucker was hiding in a pocket, it still felt like the glare was aimed at him too. Juliet stood by the door, looking between her two friends and her pissed off partner. Her body was tense as she seemed to brace herself for a confrontation.

“Detective O’Hara,” Lassiter began, his voice chillingly calm. “What are they doing here?”

“I know they were at the crime scene and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have some extra help on this.” She explained. Her voice was firm and confident even as she addressed the scary man.

Lassiter rose to his shocking height and strode over to the two self proclaimed detectives. His blue eyes narrowed as he studied the two men for a moment.

Then, his gaze turned towards his partner. “I don’t need help on this case, especially from them. I have everything handled.” His voice was so low it rattled Tucker’s bones.

“I asked them to come over if they found something.” Juliet stated as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“What did they manage to find that a whole team of officers couldn’t?”

At that, Juliet pressed her lips together into a thin line and glanced helplessly at Shawn.

“I’m about to find us some evidence in...” Shawn glanced down at his watch, “about two minutes once I start talking to Steve.”

“Nah, I think five.” Gus countered.

They immediately eyed each other, creating a silent bet in their minds that Tucker wanted no part of.

Lassiter grumbled out a few curses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, get out now before I have you placed under arrest for interfering with a case.”

Shawn nodded, “Okay, we’ll leave-”

The detective’s eyes widened at how easily Shawn gave up. His shoulders relaxed minutely and he motioned for a now stunned Juliet to open the door.

The psychic moved around him and towards the metal table instead. “-Right after I speak to Steven.”

“No!” Lassiter protested and grabbed the back of Shawn’s shirt collar, effectively stopping him in his tracks. Shawn lurched back with a choked noise and Tucker was tossed against the hard wall of the chest behind him.

The human struggled against the hold for a moment causing the pocket to shake violently. Tucker fearfully gripped the cloth around him and tried his best to stay in the corner of the pocket. Images of him flying out of his hiding place and into the open with more humans flashed through his mind. He should have known this was a bad idea.

“Shawn!” Gus called out as a panicked warning.

Gus didn’t need to say anything else before Shawn abruptly stilled, almost unnaturally. Tucker felt the large muscles behind him tense up and a firm, but gentle, pressure covered him from the outside of the pocket as if checking on him.

Shawn allowed himself to be dragged towards the door, but his protests didn’t end. “We do this every time Lassie! We both know how this ends!”

“Yeah, with your ass out the door.” Lassiter retorted.

Juliet blocked their path with her hands up in an attempt to calm them down. “Guys! Stop acting like children in front of the victim’s husband!” She scolded in a whisper and gestured towards Steven with a frustrated hand.

Although it was doubtful Steven even noticed the scuffle in front of him. His eyes were still cast down at his hands with a deep frown.

“I’m not a child!” Lassiter argued.

“I’m not acting!” Shawn retorted at the same time.

Before anyone can do anything else, the door opened. Lassiter immediately let go of Shawn’s shirt collar, allowing the man to whirl around to face the newcomer.

Tucker practically tumbled over to the hole in the pocket to see the new human. It was a woman with stern brown eyes and blond hair cut into a bob. She wore a black blazer and pants with heels that made her petite form taller. She looked a bit older than the other humans in the room and had an air of authority around her as she evaluated the situation.

The woman crossed her arms over her chest and Tucker felt the muscles behind him slightly tense. Gus shifted uneasily from the side while Juliet and Lassiter both stood with their backs straight and watched her with attentive eyes.

“Everyone out. Now.” She ordered sternly.

“But-”

She held up a hand. “No buts Carlton.”

Tucker could hear the immature snickers from his human acquaintances as they moved out the room and into the hallway.

When all five humans (and borrower) stood in the hall, the woman’s eyes narrowed and her lips formed into a small frown.

“Who wants to tell me what the hell was going on in there?” She demanded.

Lassiter was the first to speak up. “Everything was going fine Chief, until these two bumbling idiots decided to interrupt my interrogation.” His voice was laced with annoyance as his head titled towards Shawn and Gus.

Tucker tilted his head at that. Chief? What a strange name for a human. He thought to himself.

“What interrogation? The poor man is too upset to even speak.” Shawn shot back with a roll of his eyes.

Tucker flinched back as the tall human whirled towards the psychic. Shawn must of felt his shaking as a hand gently patted the pocket twice. Thankfully, Chief interrupted before any more fighting broke out.

“And what are you two doing here, Mr. Spencer. I don’t remember assigning you to this case.” She asked calmly, but Tucker could still hear the threatening tone in her voice. He desperately hoped Gus would respond instead since that human seemed better with his words.

The borrower was never a lucky man.

“Fate pulled me to this case, but the spirits aren’t telling me anything. I figured meeting Steven might get my otherworldly acquaintances talking.” Shawn explained casually.

Tucker held his breath as Chief’s eyes narrowed. Even though Shawn told his lie with unnatural ease, it looked like the woman was seeing right through him.

Tucker held his satchel closer to his chest. What if she knows Shawn is a fraud? The human would be in so much trouble even if he’s helping. Tucker won’t be able to take the blame for getting the two humans on the right track on the case, therefore leading them to this exact moment. They’ll be caged because of him.

The chest behind him shook as the giants continued to speak outside of the pocket.

“C’mon Chief, you don’t actually believe Steven is the killer?” Shawn pointed out.

Chief remained silent for a moment longer before letting out a long sigh. “I’m giving you five minutes, Mr. Spencer.” She stepped closer and pointed a finger at Shawn’s chest, hovering right over Tucker’s hidden form. “But if you end up wasting our time, you’ll wish you never worked for this department. Understood?”

“Thanks Chief.” He replied with a toothy grin before walking right back into the interrogation room with Gus hot on his heels. The tiny man let out a breath of relief from the close call, allowing himself to relax minutely against the warm chest behind him.

Tucker could faintly hear Lassiter complaining as the door slammed closed, but none of the other humans followed them inside.

Steven’s watery eyes flicked up as Shawn and Gus stepped closer.

“Hello Steven, my name is Shawn Spencer. I’m the department’s psychic detective.” He gestured over to Gus with his hand, “this is my partner Lavender Gooms.”

To Tucker’s surprise, Gus just waved his hand in greeting with a small smile despite the nickname. Seems like it’s a reoccurring thing. He had stifle a chuckle at that thought as he wondered what other names Shawn has come up with.

When Steven didn’t say anything, both Shawn and Gus pulled out the metal chairs across from him.

“Can we sit down?” Gus asked politely.

The resident male remained silent. The two humans briefly glanced at each other before plopping into the chairs.

“We were at the scene last night. Usually my physic abilities paint a clear picture for me, but this case is more complex than most. I have a few questions. ” Shawn began. “Although, I can tell by your aura that you would never hurt Kirstin.”

At that, Steven eye’s shot up to Shawn. Tucker noted how his facial features shifted slightly into what resembled relief and hope.

“Yes, I love- loved her!” His brown eyes grew glassy. “You all are wasting your time on me! I didn’t fucking kill her!” Steven yelled angrily, glaring at the mirror to their right.

Tucker’s hands launched up to his ears from the volume as he flinched back. The heart beating against his back provided him a bit of reassurance that he was safe. Or as safe as can be with Shawn and Gus. He wasn’t exactly sure how well they can defend themselves against other humans. They even got scared of him, a 3.7 inch man, during their first encounter. Yeah… Tucker wasn’t hopeful in their fighting abilities. Hopefully the three officers would help them if things go awry.

Gus held up a hand. “We believe you, Steven. We just need a way to prove it. Is there anything you can tell us about last night?” He asked in a comforting tone, not unlike the one he used with Tucker back at the office.

Dejected, Steven hung his head down and shook it side to side. “Like I told the other detective; I just woke up to some noises.” His voice wavered. “Walked in to find my wife all- I’ve never seen anything like that.” He cried.

“Hey man, we’ll figure this out.” Shawn replied.

The psychic reached out a hand to pat Steven’s cuffed left one. Right when they made contact, Shawn’s hand launched back with a pained shout and he gripped his wrist with his other hand. He rose from the chair and dramatically paced around the room holding his left hand.

The other three detectives burst through the door and into the interrogation room with looks of varying concern. Juliet’s eyes assessed Shawn while the other two suspiciously eyed the stunned man at the table.

Tucker worried his lip. He didn’t see anything happen and there was no way Steven could hurt Shawn with the cuffs on. But the pocket gave him a very limited line of sight. It’s possible he just didn’t see whatever made Shawn so distressed.

However, Gus continued to sit at the table like nothing was wrong, only watching his friend with a quirked brow. That’s when the borrower realized this was another one of Shawn’s acts.

“Shawn are you okay?”Juliet asked urgently with a hand hovering over Shawn’s arm.

“Yeah yeah, my wrist just started hurting when I touched him. It’s a psychic thing.” He said through gritted teeth. He stopped his pacing and looked over at Steven. “Have you hurt your wrist recently?”

Lassiter rolled his eyes next to Steven who perked up. “Yeah, my left wrist. I- uh- only got out of the cast three days ago.”

“Really?” Shawn stopped holding his wrist and quirked a brow. “I imagine it would be pretty hard to kill someone with a newly healed wrist.” He gave Lassiter a pointed look.

“The wrist will still be sensitive and weak even when the cast is off.” Gus chimed in from his seat.

The head detective crossed his arms with a loud huff. “People have murdered with worse injuries. A broken wrist doesn’t mean anything.” He grumbled.

Tucker sucked in a breath as the scary man wrote off the new information. He clearly hates Shawn and Gus and despised the thought of even being around them, but the man seemed to be letting that get in the way of the case.

He wrapped his hands around his satchel and dejectedly leaned against Shawn’s chest. He wished he could just come out and tell everyone what he witnessed. That way, Steven will be released and can properly grieve Kirstin and Josh will be off the streets and locked away. But here he was instead, stuck in a pocket and forced to watch everything go on without him. It’s fine. He’s used to it.

In classic Shawn fashion, he never let Lassiter’s words phase him. Instead, he scrunched his eyes and held up a hand to the side of his head.

“I’m seeing something!” He announced. His other hand started writing something in the air. “I- I can’t make out what it’s saying!” His hand wrote the word more aggressively each time as if it had a mind of its own.

Juliet’s heels clicked on the floor as she stepped a few paces back from Shawn’s wild motions. Gus, however, stood up from the chair to get a better look.

Juliet tilted her head. “What’s the word? I can only make out the ‘J-O’ at the start.”

At this point, Tucker had to tightly hold onto the fabric around him as the writing motion violently shook Shawn’s entire body.

“It looks like it’s spelling ‘Josh’.” Gus answered with a frown, appearing to be thinking very hard about this. Tucker knew better.

The writing motions stopped as suddenly as it started. Shawn opened his eyes and perked up. “Yes! Yes it’s ‘Josh’!”He patted Gus on the shoulder, “what would I do without you, buddy.”

“You’d be in prison or six feet under.” Gus answered.

“Josh?” Chief asked from where she stood by the door. She didn’t seem phased at all by what she witnessed, unlike Juliet whose blue eyes were full of curiosity.

A low scoff stopped Shawn from responding. “You can’t seriously be considering this, Chief.” Lassiter stated.

Before any more words could be exchanged, Steven’s eyes widened. “You- you said ‘Josh’ right?”

“Yeah. Do you know a Josh?” Gus questioned.

The man nodded vigorously. “Y-yeah, Kirstin mentioned someone named Josh when we first started dating. She got a restraining order against him years ago.”

Lassiter strode to the opposite side of the table from Steven next to Shawn, crossing his arms over his chest as he seemed to study the husband for a moment. He took over the line of questioning. “Did she say why she got a restraining order against him?”

Steven frowned and shook his head, looking back down at his cuffed hands. “Kirstin hated talking about him. She just told me he’s crazy.”

“Would he know where you live?” Detective O’Hara asked from the side.

Steven adamantly shook his head again. “No, no we were always careful about revealing our address.” He sniffled a bit, “and our social medias were private so only family and friends can see our posts.”

“What’s his last name?” Lassiter questioned.

“I don’t know.”

“How would he have gotten into your house with no damage?”

Steven shrugged and looked down at the table once more. His eyes were glazing over and dissociating like how he appeared when they first walked in.

The humans continued to speak, their rumbling voices bouncing around the small room. But Tucker continued to stare at Steven from his hiding spot. It was just so strange seeing the usually lively resident-male acting this way. Josh might as well killed both Kirstin and Steven seeing the dead look in the man’s eyes.

So when Steven’s eyes widened a fraction and his body flinched minutely in realization, Tucker was quick to notice. He waited for one of the five detectives in the room to notice as well, but none of them strayed from their current conversation. Even Shawn didn’t say anything about it.

And Steven didn’t say a word. His chest heaved and his fists clenched as his eyes flicked around the room. The man was having a war in his own head but continued to keep his mouth shut.

Shit! Tucker thought in a panic. He had to tell the humans something changed with Steven! They could learn something!

But how? It’s not like he can just poke his head out and tell them what he saw.

With no other options, the borrower glanced at the wall of clothed muscle behind him. Steeling his nerves for what he was about to do to a human, Tucker wound his legs back and launched them into the chest with as much force as he can.

He felt the muscles tense the moment he made contact. Shawn froze in place which would have drawn unwanted attention to any other human, but everyone here seemed used to his weird behaviors.

“I need to powder my nose. C’mon Gus.” He interrupted as he reached over and began quickly dragging his friend out the room before he could even protest.

They walked down the hall, putting some distance away from the interrogation room before Shawn finally stopped and peered into the pocket.

“Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” He questioned as he snaked his fingers into the pocket.

Tucker yelped as two large fingers invaded his space. He slapped one of them but it didn’t stop them from gently pinching him around his waist and lifting him onto an awaiting palm.

“You hurt him? I knew it was a bad idea for you to carry him!” Gus accused as he stepped way too close to Tucker to look him over.

Tucker scrambled to sit up and resisted the strong urge to fight back. “I’m fine! I’m not hurt!”

That didn’t stop the humans from analyzing his body for any injuries. Shawn lifted a finger and carefully moved one of his arms to inspect it. Thankfully it was nothing like the first time he observed the borrower’s arm, but that didn’t mean he liked it any better.

“Then why’d you hit me? I thought you got smushed during my psychic revelation.”

The small man swat Shawn’s finger away. It took a moment, but the human eventually conceded and allowed his finger to be moved. “I was trying to get your attention!” Tucker huffed frustratedly. “I think Steven knows something but none of you humans noticed, so I took matters into my own hands.” He explained.

“Sorry for scaring you.” He sheepishly added after a moment.

Gus smiled and shook his head. “I think we deserved a little scare for what we did this morning.”

Shawn quirked a brow and briefly turned to glance down the hall at the closed door to the interrogation room. He stepped slightly to the left to better block Tucker from sight. “So why do you think he knows something?” He asked.

He shifted in his seated position on the warm palm. It wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as the first few times and he found himself settling in as it took away the constant chill in his bones. Not that he would ever tell the humans that.

Tucker rolled his eyes with a grin, “human faces are like giant signs telling me how they feel. Even the smallest twitch is extremely noticeable.” He began to explain as the two human listened intently. He, of course, noticed the uncomfortable looks forming on their faces. “Steven’s whole demeanor changed after that detective asked how Josh got in the house without breaking anything.”

“Whoa, I think Tucker is a better psychic than you, Shawn.” Gus whispered with an amused gleam in his eyes.

Shawn pouted and looked away. “It’s impressive, but I would have spotted it too if I wasn’t busy.” He defended his ego.

“You mean trying to flirt with Juliet?” Gus shot back.

Shawn began moving his hand back up to his pocket and dipped his fingers in to create a slide. Tucker was prepared this time and held onto the creases in the giant hand, using them to slowly lower himself down the steep slope. His landing in the actual pocket was slightly more graceful than the first, but he still fell onto his rear from the unsteady fabric. He was starting to think it’s impossible to make dropping into a pocket look good.

“Let’s just get back to the room.” Shawn said instead of acknowledging Gus’ earlier comment. The man’s deep voice vibrated through Tucker once more.

Gus snickered as they entered the interrogation room again. Chief, Lassiter, and Juliet were huddled in the corner discussing something quietly. Steven stayed exactly as they left him.

“You’re not gonna believe what happened in the bathroom!” Shawn said excitedly as he entered the room.

The three detectives eyes turned to him, but Steven’s stayed glued to his cuffs. “We don’t wanna hear about your trip to the bathroom.” Lassiter groused.

“Oh you definitely do!” Shawn ignored the man’s huff. “As I was going number one, I had this weird tingly feeling. Not a pleasurable one but a psychic one.” He paused for a moment as if considering something. “Well it did feel kinda good.”

Gus flicked him in the back of the head.

“Ow!” He exclaimed as he held a hand up to his head. He glared at Gus for a moment who defiantly held his gaze with a look that said ‘don’t try me.’

Shawn smartly decided not to retaliate against Gus. Instead, he turned towards Steven. “That tingly feeling told me there’s something you’re not telling us.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, simply stating something.

That didn’t stop Steven from flinching hard from the stern glares shot from the three detectives.

“What are you hiding?” Lassiter demanded as he briskly stepped back to the table.

“I’m not hiding anything, I swear!”

“The spirits believe you know how Josh got into the house.” Shawn said.

Steven’s head hung down, his blond hair falling over his features. He took a deep, shaky breath before he began to speak. “He might have our extra house key.” His voice was quiet and full of shame. “We lost it years ago. What are the chances someone is able to find where a random key goes. ‘S why I didn’t say anything. There’s no way…” Steven trailed off.

“I’ve heard enough.” Chief spoke up from her spot by the door. When all eyes turned to her, she flicked her head towards the exit before walking out. Everyone obediently followed closely behind.

Tucker breathed a sigh of relief at the contemplative look in her brown eyes. Her words were of no surprise to him.

“Detective Lassiter, I want Steven released immediately. Make sure he doesn’t leave town.” She ordered then turned to Shawn and Gus. “Congratulations Mr. Spencer and Mr. Guster, you two are officially on the case.” Her tone was as stern as ever, but Tucker didn’t miss the hint of pride in it. At that, she immediately turned and disappeared up the stairs.

Lassiter stood completely dumbstruck while Shawn and Gus bumped fists next to him in celebration. Juliet had a smug smile on her face as she glanced at her detective partner.

“We’ll keep each other updated.” She nodded at the consulting detectives as she nudged Lassiter to get him moving. The man sighed in defeat but followed her out of the hallway anyways.

Tucker stood on wobbly feet and gripped the edge of the pocket. He scrambled to hook his arms over the cloth to poke his head out of his hiding spot. He immediately met Gus’ brown eyes who was giving him a curious look.

“Do you want us to bring you back home?” Shawn hesitatingly asked from above.

The borrower thought for a moment. His initial plan was to see what was happening with the resident-male then head back home. But he should also make sure Josh is locked away. The killer could come back to the house after all and catch Tucker by surprise.

“I suppose I can stick around for a little longer. Just to stay updated on everything going on.” Tucker quietly responded.

To his surprise, Shawn and Gus squealed like girls and hopped up and down in celebration. Tucker immediately tumbled back into the pocket with a few curses.

“Sorry! Sorry Tucker.” He could hear the smile in Shawn’s voice. “Just glad you’re still tagging along. Now let’s find this Josh guy.”

[kirain]

Can I pls request Rook helping Emmrich through a panic attack?

TW: Panic attack and talks of death.

Emmrich's sleep was uneasy, as it so often was. The weight of his burdens seeped into his dreams, weaving them into feverish, incomprehensible nightmares. His body twitched beneath the sheets, his mind caught in a dark loop of impending doom.

"No..." he whimpered weakly.

The room was suffocating. His breath quickened, shallow and strenuous, as if the air itself had turned into a thick, unyielding poison. Sweat slicked his brow, his chest heaving, his unconscious moans becoming strained cries that filled the small, dim space.

In his dream, he was falling—an endless plunge into a void with no bottom. The sensation of his heart racing, of his lungs screaming for air, bled through into reality. His limbs thrashed, tangling in the sheets.

Then, suddenly, he was awake. With a harsh gasp, he shot upright in bed, clutching his chest. His wide, panic-stricken eyes darted around the room, searching for the source of the fear that gripped him. His heart pounded violently, a drumbeat of dread that drowned out reason.

"I can't... breathe," he gagged, his voice trembling. "I'm dying!"

The thought consumed him, spiraling out of control. His hands shook as he clawed at his shirt, desperate for relief, for escape from the invisible weight that crushed him. His throat felt constricted, as though it had sealed shut, and the edges of his vision blurred.

Across the room, Manfred shifted with a faint creak. He was sat in his usual favourite spot, his gemstone eyes emitting a green, spectral glow. He'd seen this many times, their nights often shared, though he didn't understand it. He only knew that his friend was in pain, and he didn't like it.

As the sound of his broken gasps echoed in his skull, Manfred stood with deliberate, jerky movements, his bones clicking softly with each step. As he approached, his scrawny hand extended in a gesture of concern, but he knew better than to actually touch Emmrich. Instead, he knelt by his bed, a low, mournful rattle escaping his ribcage, like wind blowing through hollow reeds.

Emmrich focused on that sound, his frantic breaths beginning to slow. Each exhale came with a wheeze, but the world around him began to stabilise as he pressed a shuddering hand to his cheek, wiping away the tears he hadn't realised were falling.

"I'm all right,” he muttered, though the words were hollow. "I'm all right."

Manfred stayed by his side, his large orbs fixed on him with an uncanny, unspoken empathy. Emmrich was lucid enough now, giving the kind spirit the confidence to grasp his shoulder. So he did. The firmness of the touch—cool, yet oddly comforting—helped pull the shaken man further from his spiral of terror, but the silence of the room closed in on him, as oppressive as his nightmare had been. He needed to move, to feel blood flowing through his veins.

Slowly, he swung his legs over the bed and rose to his feet, his knees quaking. "I just... n-need some air," he stuttered.

Manfred stepped aside but lingered, his doleful gaze following Emmrich as he fled.

The corridor was empty and still, the sweeping hum of the Fade's energy thrumming in the background. Grateful no one was around to witness his breakdown, Emmrich made his way outside, the stone walls of the chamber giving way to the Fade's endless horizon. He could've chased that view forever, lost in a trance, if not for the balcony blocking his path. With a pained grunt, he collided with the marble, his hands instinctively gripping the barrier.

He tried to steady himself, to ground his thoughts in the physical sensations around him: the cool surface beneath his hands, the raw air against his sweat-soaked skin, the light breeze brushing against his face. But the vast expanse of the Fade stretched before him, a stark and unrelenting reminder of his own insignificance.

Of his mortality.

He was nothing. A fleeting speck destined to fade away. The thought sent his heart racing again, a sickening lurch that made him clutch the railing tighter, his knuckles turning white.

"No more," he sobbed. "Please... not again."

He grit his teeth, images of his shriveled body, then his grave, then darkness flashing in his mind. His own torturous ideations threatened to shatter his sanity—and perhaps they would have, if not for the kind, unexpected hand on his back.

Emmrich flinched, whirling around with a gasp.

"Easy," Vae hushed. She stood close, her dark hair glowing faintly in the otherworldly light of the Fade. "I'm right here. You're not alone, Emmrich."

"I'm dying!" he screamed, still lost in a haze of delirium. "I-I'm going to die!"

He stared at the sky, his breath catching, though he didn't fight her when she took his hands into hers, prying them from the railing. Gently, she eased him onto the ground.

"Emmrich," she said, her voice low and soothing, "look at me."

For a single beat, the storm inside him quelled, and somehow he met her gaze.

"Breathe with me," she urged, setting a steady rhythm. "Follow my pace. In through your nose, hold it... and out through your mouth."

He struggled at first, his breaths frayed and uneven, but her calm demeanour pulled him back from the precipice.

"You're alive, Emmrich," she said, her voice unwavering as he slumped forward, his eyes squinting shut. "We're both alive. You can feel it." She carefully intertwined her fingers with his, resting his weary head on her shoulder. "You're alive, darling. You're alive."

Time froze, but Emmrich's anxieties eventually waned. His pulse relaxing, he became more aware of his surroundings—of Vae's heat against his own. His shoulders bucking, he lifted his head, his umber eyes meeting hers with an allayed expression of gratitude.

"There you are," she said, her lips curling into a fond, encouraging smile. "Welcome back."

Emmrich blinked, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Though he remembered the intensity of the attack and Vae guiding him through it, nearly everything that happened after he woke was a blur.

Still clinging to her hands, he looked to the door behind them, wide open and wanting. He wasn't sure how he managed to stumble outside or how long he'd been there, but Vae's presence, a beacon of calm amidst the chaos, had done what he couldn't do alone.

"I... I'm so sorry," he whimpered. "I thought—"

"I know, darling," she intervened, brushing his disheveled silver hair back into place. "But you're not. You're still here, and you have nothing to apologise for."

As the last tremors of his panic subsided, Emmrich pushed himself up proper, his movements frail and tremulous. Without thinking, he shifted onto his knees and reached for Vae, wrapping his arms around her with all the strength he could muster.

For a while, neither of them said anything, his chest rising and falling as her fingers graciously massaged the most tender points of his back. The fit left him thoroughly exhausted, as well as mortified, but in her embrace, he felt safe. He knew he could be honest with her.

"I'm so... afraid," he admitted, the vulnerability in his voice making Vae wince with sorrow. "Of losing my life. Of you losing yours. Of you losing me and having to mourn. It's... beyond debilitating."

"I know," she said, moving one hand to caress the back of his head. "But you're not alone in that feeling, Emmrich. It's a bridge we all have to cross some day, and that thought can paralyse even the bravest of men." She pulled back, cupping his cheek and peering into his tired eyes. "But focusing too much on death will rob you of the moments you have now. The very fact that you're afraid shows how much you value being alive."

"Which is precisely the problem," he argued, though not boorishly. "I'm sorry, I... I'm not trying to be difficult."

She smiled, running her thumb along his gaunt skin. "I know. And I wish I had answers... but I don't. All I know is that death gives life purpose. Makes it count, makes it precious. That's why we have to treat every day like a gift."

"But what if it's all for nothing? What if it's all for something? What if—?"

She put a merciful finger to his lips. "No more 'what ifs'. Right now, you're alive, Emmrich. That's what matters. And if you're ever feeling overwhelmed, you have me. I won't let you do this alone."

He swallowed hard, nodding slowly. Her words didn't erase the fear, but they softened its edges, giving him something to hold onto.

"Thank you," he murmured.

With a sigh, he curled back into her arms, willing her to hold him as long as he needed—and she did, her devotion the only other assurance in his life. It wasn't a cure, and perhaps there would never be one for an affliction such as his, but as long as she shared his journey, he knew he could find peace.

Even in the face of the unknown.

[starylovw]

New Stars

1 / 2 / 3

Hands tucked into your pockets, you walked quietly down the dim sidewalk, humming along to the melody in your ears. The world around you blurred into background noise—just the faint hum of traffic, the buzz of neon signs, and the rhythmic beat of “How It’s Done” keeping you company.

When you reached the station, you slipped onto the train just before the doors closed, headphones still in, shutting out the chaos of rush hour. The car rumbled forward, passengers shifting around you, but you stayed locked in your little soundproof world.

Two stops. Just two more, then—couch.

The thought alone pulled a small, tired smile onto your face.

Your body ached like it was twice its age, bones screaming for rest and comfort. And maybe—just maybe—a hot bowl of that miso soup you had stashed in the fridge. Leftovers from yesterday, and honestly? You could already taste the rich, savory flavor.

As your stop was announced, you gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder with newfound determination. Just a little longer.

You waved at a few neighbors as you passed through your street—automatic, polite—but none of them looked up. Everyone caught in their own little loops of exhaustion and apathy. Cities had a way of swallowing people whole.

You didn’t slow down until you reached your building. The elevator chimed open, empty, blessedly empty.

You stepped inside and hit your floor number, letting your eyes flutter shut for a second as the elevator climbed, slow and steady. When the familiar ding sounded, it felt almost like a reward.

Digging through your bag, you fished out your keys, the purple-pinkish keychain jingling like a tiny fanfare. Your pace quickened down the hall.

Home. Finally.

You unlocked the door and stepped inside to find your apartment just as you left it—a tidy mess, everything in its rightful place of chaos.

And there it was. The holy grail.

Your couch.

Clear, clean, and practically glowing under the warm lighting. Calling to you like a siren. Or worse—a demon. One you’d gladly let drag you into the abyss.

You dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes, and surrendered.

Peace, at last.

The second your body hit the couch, it was over.

Sleep claimed you in mere seconds—heavy-lidded surrender, limbs sinking into cushions that felt like clouds after a day in hell. You didn’t even bother with a blanket. Just gave in.

But peace didn’t last.

A sharp bang—metallic, jarring—ripped you awake.

Your eyes flew open, heart leaping into your throat as you sat bolt upright, whipping your head left and right. Living room. Kitchen. Balcony. Nothing out of place. No broken glass, no flickering lights, no sign of what caused the noise.

Just stillness. Heavy. Waiting.

“Yeah, nope,” you muttered, already on your feet. “Not dying in a horror movie tonight.”

You grabbed your keys off the counter with a clatter, shoved your feet into the nearest pair of shoes—one of them on the wrong foot—and bolted out the door, slamming it shut behind you like that would keep whatever-it-was inside.

The elevator ride felt too slow. You tapped your foot the whole way up, nerves jangling.

Your best friend’s door greeted you like a safe haven.

One knock.

Two.

Three. Four…Ten.

You winced. Your knuckles throbbed.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No creak of a bed. No annoyed voice asking why the hell you’re banging like the building’s on fire. Just silence.

“Just my fucking luck,” you muttered, dropping your forehead against the door with a sigh.

And there it was again—your constant companion today.

Exhaustion.

You stood there a moment longer before turning around, mentally preparing to head back down into whatever that noise was—or wasn’t.

Sorry for the late update, life been crazyyy (not in a fun way) but do not ready I’ll update more often now !

Please take this third chapter as an apology 😩🙏🏾