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lotus-acid-trip · 7 months ago

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hi! I hope you don’t mind me asking but may I request a Telemachus x fem reader where when ody returns and is being made fun of by the suitors while still in this begger disguise yn starts fighting off the suitors and yelling at them for being rude and maybe later joins ody while he is hunting them down and Telemachus has a love sick look while watching yn just like ody did for Penelope back when they were younger before he married her and after seeing how cool and awesome of a warrior yn is later ody turns to his son and says “I aprove of this one 😏” and poor Telemachus is just like 😳 all flustered and adorable what can I say Telemachus is a sweetie 🥰

feel free to ignore if you want to hope you have a good rest of your day thank you ☺️

“I approve of this one.”

Telemachus x Reader

[Epic The Musical]

oneshot

fluff

This is my first proper romantic reader insert fic, so I hope you enjoy!

Odysseus sat at the entrance of the courtyard under the shade of a large olive tree as he silently observed the numerous suitors scattered across the courtyard in idle chatter. Is this really what had become of his home while he was gone? It was baffling just how ungrateful and disrespectful all these guests were. He worried for the state of his palace after being infested with all these unwelcome guests for so many years. It must have been so difficult on Penelope and Telemachus to deal with all of them, having to feed and house them along with dealing with their pitiful attempts at courting his wife. It was a wonder why the suitors still haven’t been driven out by Telemachus yet.

His hand fiddled with the small wooden bowl in his hands. Odysseus was disguised as an old beggar, but as much as he wanted to reveal himself right then and there he needed to be patient and play it smart. He didn’t have anything other than an old knife hidden in his clothes to defend himself with and he was probably lacking a lot of proper nutrients and sustenance after being out at sea for so long with food of limited quality and quantity. If he were to fight all these suitors right now, he was sure to fail. Not only do they have an advantage in numbers, it was obvious they were well fed, and all the used training equipment seen around the palace was all he needed to know the suitors could fight. If Odysseus wanted to win, he needed to stick to the plan, which meant playing his part as an old beggar.

A suitor passed by him devouring a chicken leg and he held out his bowl to him. It would be a good opportunity to not only learn more about the state of his palace and family, but to also know just what his family has been up to in the past years. “Would you care to spare a bit of food for this old man?” The suitor tilted his head to look down at Odysseus for a moment before raising a brow. “And what exactly is this homeless old man doing in a palace like this? Surely your life hasn’t fallen so far into poverty that you’d go scrounging for scraps in the homes of royalty.” He leaned back against the tree, hands crossing over his legs. “Well, that wasn’t exactly my plan. I was just walking by but with the heat of the sun and with a body as frail and weak as mine, I just had to take a break under the shade of this mighty tree. I was always curious of what happened in the lives of royalty anyway.” He said as he looked up at the leaves and branches. He remembers planting it so many years ago to see how to take care of an olive tree as preparation for making his and Penelope’s marital bed. It's grown so much since then, and he wonders just how much Telemachus has as well. “Well, since you have so much spare time to just wander around doing nothing, why don’t you bring us all a meal or two, all the way from inside the palace’s pantry. You want some food? Work for it, old man.”

Odysseus raised a hand waving off the offer. “Ah, but there might be one small problem. I am just an old beggar, remember? I don’t know anything of the layout of the palace. I’m sorry, but I must decline. Can’t you just ask a servant to help you instead?” The suitor seemed to get irritated at his reply. “Ha! Yeah right, those servants can barely do anything right. They never bring the food on time and always seem to be short on stock. Not even their pathetic prince seems to know what he’s doing.” He stared at the suitor judgmentally. “ ‘Pathetic prince’ you say? Bold words for someone who’s staying in his palace.” The suitor looked at him as if he had just said something audacious instead of common sense. “Listen old man, we’re the guests here, not them. Do you not understand basic hospitality?” Odysseus narrowed his eyes at the suitor. He knew his palace, his servants and the workforce in it. They aren’t lazy or incompetent, if they were they wouldn’t be serving his family. Not to mention, if there wasn’t enough livestock there were plenty of skilled hunters and hunting dogs to accompany them. His memories of old hunts with Argos and others were more than enough proof of that.

“Of course I do. Perhaps instead of trying to defend your impudence against the prince, you could put away your prideful hurbis for a moment and just lend me even an inch of the food you already have on you. For someone relying on the shared hospitality of someone else for their own comfort, you sure don’t seem to be able to do the same.” The suitor’s bored annoyance quickly morphed into thinly veiled anger. “Listen you old derelict, need I remind you that this is not your courtyard you are resting in? This is not your abode and I do not tolerate your insults. For someone who seems to preach so strongly for returning hospitality, you don’t seem too keen on basic respect.” Odysseus hid his amusement at the irony with indifference. “Although that may be true, last I checked this isn’t your home either.” That statement alone seemed to be enough to push him over the edge into full blown rage. Odysseus jumped away from the suitor’s flying fist as it hit the trunk of the tree where his head used to be. “You know, for someone so insistent on how they have difficulty doing physical activities you’re awfully quick to move.” The suitor began to walk towards him, his larger form towering over him and casting a shadow that engulfed Odysseus’s entire form. “Listen here old man. If you think you can just run off after that impudence, your mind must be as deteriorated as your age.” Odysseus continued to back up, hand immediately searching for the knife he hid. A chill crept up his spine when his back hit something. Turning around, it was another suitor, the others beginning to close in on him. Fuck, he messed up. The suitor he first talked to grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted him up to his face so Odysseus could face him. “Now, I think it's time that you finally learned a long needed lesson on hospitality and what happens when you don’t respect your host-“

“Hey! What the hell is all this racket?” Odysseus never turned his head away from the suitor, but averted his gaze towards the newcomer. A woman emerged from inside the palace and stared at the scene before her in a moment of silence before her once confused gaze immediately morphed into an infuriated wrath that could rival the suitor’s own rage. “Antinous, what do you think you’re doing! Gods above and below, has no one ever taught you to respect your elders?” She marched on towards the both of them, unshaken by any visible fear at the obvious violent intent of the suitors. She gripped the suitor’s, now known as Antinous, wrist and forcefully yanked it away from him, letting Odysseus fall to the ground. Antinous opened his mouth, ready to yell at her but the woman cut him off as she glared coldly at him. “The queen is watching us.” She said as she stared into the suitors eyes as if daring him to try anything. The mention of Penelope is all he needed to whip his head towards the balcony he knows she always loved to use to watch the courtyard. And there she was, elegant and poised, watching with a composed face as she always does. He could see how she’s changed from when he last saw her, the small streaks of white in her hair that weren’t there before, the wrinkles and tired eyes. But he didn’t care, for it was his Penelope, and Odysseus felt like he was falling in love all over again.

Penelope observed them silently, looking at each person one by one before her eyes eventually met his. For a moment, it felt like time froze and they did nothing but stare at each other. It was like the world itself was holding its breath. It was the smallest difference in her eyes that made his chest swell with warmth. Those indifferent calculated eyes that always seemed to be studying every little detail softened for a moment, her composed face faltering for a split millisecond to look at him with the same eyes that looked at him with so much affection and appreciation when he told her how he’d tackle the challenge she gave him. The tension in the air was so thick, yet only he could feel it… and maybe she did as well. Logically, Odysseus knew that they had only been looking at each other for a mere few seconds, but it felt like he was staring for an eternity at something so close yet so far. And Penelope did nothing else but silently stare back. She shifted her position, pulling away from the scene and returning back inside. Odysseus let out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. It felt like time suddenly began moving once more when it had always been flowing, falling through his fingers like flowing water with no hope of holding on to it.

“Antinous, if you do not explain to me what exactly you were doing I can and will tell Penelope.” The woman said as she walked in front Odysseus, who’s gaze still lingered on the balcony for another moment before returning to look at the suitors and the new woman. Antinous sneered. “And why should I? Your family may be up there in terms of status, but you’re nowhere near close to me.” He sneered. “And? Do you think I care? You already showed just how petty you get because someone bruised your fragile ego. I still haven’t forgiven you for the fight with Telemachus.” The woman took a step forward towards the suitor, but he didn’t move. “And? The boy started it.” Another step forward and another rise in tension. “Who exactly called his mother a tramp? That’s right, you.” Another step forward until she was right in front of him. At this point even more suitors began to crowd around them to see what was happening, and Odysseus dreaded a physical fight would break out.

“Well then, since you seem so keen on berating me for teaching the little wolf a lesson, why don’t I give you an opportunity to even out the scales?” Antinous’s fist met the woman’s face, sending her stumbling back. She regained her balance before gently touching her face, a bruise forming on her right cheek. Whispers and murmurs emanated from the crows as it grew larger, more suitors joining the audience and a few servants discreetly watching from the sidelines. She looked at her own blood smeared against her fingers before turning her attention towards Antinous. “I gladly accept.” She ran forward, fist aimed at Antinous’s face. The suitor held his forearm up to block it, only for her to twist her foot, turning around to kick him from behind without her fist ever making contact with him. Antinous was pushed forward a step from the force of the kick, but quickly recovered, turning around to grab her by the leg she used to kick him. The crowd around them began cheering as he pulled her forward into another punch, which was blocked by her own forearms, now also bruised. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her into a headbutt, unable to dodge or move away because of their position.

The sound of a wooden bowl hitting Antinous’s head caused all sound to cease, the silence deafening as everyone’s heads turned to look at the source of the bowl. Antinous glared at Odysseus, who was hiding his grip on his knife in his oversized clothes. Antinous let go of the woman who fell on the floor, wincing at her bruises. Odysseus’s grip on his knife tightened as he took a step forward towards him. He opened his mouth to say something before he was cut off by a young voice. “Stop! What’s going on he- [NAME]!” A young boy shoved his way through the crowd and into the clearing that formed around the olive tree, rushing towards the side of the young woman. He kneeled beside her as he assessed her wounds. Antinous crossed his arms in annoyance as the young boy began to ceaselessly fuss over her. Odysseus stared at the boy, he could recognize those eyes from anywhere. “[name], are you okay? What happened?”

“Tele, I’m fine. It's just a few bruises, I’m not an old frail man.” She said as she sharply turned to look at Antinous. “Unlike the person a certain someone was harassing.” Odysseus stared at the young man- no, his son. No wonder he looked so familiar. He had his mother’s eyes and the same fair skin as her, but the face and hair of his own. His head was reeling, it had been so long since he’d seen his young boy. He was all grown up now, grown through all those special moments in his life Odysseus would never be able to experience. Gods, he missed his first hunt, his first training session, he missed being able to teach his son all the things he promised he’d pass on from his mentorship under Athena. But now Telemachus was right there, but he still couldn’t teach him all the things he wasn’t able to.

Antinous looked at all three of them one by one, from Odysseus to Telemachus in increasing disgust. “I’ve had enough of this, the way both of you act around each other is nauseating.” He said as he left the courtyard and into the building. Telemachus helped [name] up and she turned to look at Odysseus. “I am so sorry for all this. My intent was only to help you get that pig off your back,” She said as she looked at the direction Antinous left in with so much disgust it almost gave Odysseus whiplash from her original apologetic tone. “but it seems my impulsiveness got the better of me. Usually I try not to cause fights but I’m not exactly the best at not doing that.” She said shamefully. “Oh please, it's quite alright. I understand what it’s like. Sometimes, when you’re in the heat of the moment, your emotions cloud your judgement and you’re so focused on doing what you think’s right that… you don’t realize the consequences that might follow.” He said with a wistful smile. “I really have no idea what happened, but I apologize either way. Please, have this for your troubles.” Telemachus said as he handed him money, before cutting through the crowd to probably lead [name] to get healed. Odysseus stared at the coins placed in his hand, it was enough to buy him a whole house.

……………………………………………………

The metallic stench of blood filled your nose as you walked across the wet floor, the red liquid staining your sandals. The faint light of the torches could barely illuminate the dark room, the moon’s light nowhere to be seen through the windows. What little the light did show was nothing but puddles of blood and the faint outline of bodies. Right there, at the end of the room were twelve axes that were originally supposed to be used for the challenge queen Penelope made for her suitors. It didn’t take long for you to hear about what went wrong, and it took even shorter for you to make your way here. You grabbed one of the axes, testing its weight as you gave it a few experimental swings. The silence of the challenge room was so quiet you could hear your own wet footsteps echo as you tested the axe. You internally facepalmed as you looked down at your weapon, realizing just how little you thought this through. You had no plan in mind, you just heard that Telemachus was also fighting and just had to join. The idea of fighting alongside him was exhilarating, and meeting his father, king Odysseus and master tactician that won the war? You didn’t really think too hard on your decision to join. As much as you hated to admit it, Telemachus and your father were right. You really needed to think things through more.

Your body tensed when you heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the room, your grip on your axe tightening. Well, if you were good at one thing, it was brazenly charging into battle. You readied your stance, prepared for a fight. Since you weren’t able to kill Antinous, you’ll have to settle for killing the suitor first. The moment the bright light of a torch rounded the corner of the entryway, you charged forward, swinging your axe towards their head. Being on the other side of the room, they had plenty of time to jump out of your way. Now, you were at the entrance and they were trapped inside the room. Their torch illuminated their face and you took a moment to look at them. Eurymachus, the cowardly one. “Hey, [name], let us talk about this! I never once went out of my way to hurt you nor Telemachus, I always payed my due respects to her majesty. It was Antinous that-“

“Lead you and your fellow scum in the plan to execute my betrothed in secret.” You said with a sneer, throwing the axe at his head. It flew past the torch, the push of wind blowing it out as the man in front of you fell to the floor. He met the floor with a loud thump, his remains now nothing but another body in the landscape of corpses in the room. You moved to pull the axe out of his head with more aggression than needed before leaving. His words irritated you to no end, the man was nothing but an idle fool who made the choice of inaction. Never once did he try to stop his fellow suitors from tormenting Telemachus, never once has he tried to lessen all the resources they waste, never once did he leave when Telemachus ordered them. None of them did.

You let out a sigh as you walked through the hallways. Where exactly was Telemachus? And where was Odysseus? They most likely passed through this area already, if the bodies everywhere said anything. The father son duo was probably closer to the courtyards of the palace outside where the suitors must have fled towards. Either that or the pack of meatheads ran towards their weapon supply. You guessed it was the latter and promptly made your way through the familiar halls, passing by familiar faces on the floor that will never be missed. Surprisingly enough you couldn’t find any signs of struggle during battle. Nothing but the light of torches fallen on the floor could light up the scene, the moon and stars never daring to gaze upon the massacre. Bodies upon bodies were piled up in a gruesome display of vengeance with a vile stench that made your nose wrinkle in disgust, and yet each and every one of them only had an arrow to the head or chest to blame for their demise. No bruising nor cuts of a blade, only a lone arrow on each suitor. It was only after a long time of walking did the bodies slowly lessen in numbers, but still remained ever present. A silent reminder of the ruthless monster that lurked in these dark halls.

Your head turned towards the sound of metal blade against metal blade just to your right. Carefully peeking over the edge, your eyes widened at the sight of Telemachus fighting a suitor on his own. The light of a fallen torch reflected the glint of a knife in the darkness. Your grip on your axe tightened and you swung at the knife wielder without hesitation. The suitor’s screams were drowned by his own blood pouring out of his mouth, your axe lodged into his throat. Looking behind you, a surprised suitor was stabbed from behind, his blood coating the rest of the blade that pierced through him. The sword was pulled out and the suitor fell to the floor, revealing Telemachus behind him. “[name]? What are you doing here?” He asked as he looked around as if worried anyone might be eavesdropping. “Did you really think word of your suitor hunt wouldn’t get out? Tele, the entire palace could hear the screams of terror.” You replied as you rested your axe on your shoulder. “Of course I didn’t think we’d be able to hide a mass genocide! What I’m asking is why you came here after learning about a giant fight-“ He paused mid sentence, and you didn’t need to see his face to know he was staring at you with the most unimpressed expression you’ll ever see. You barely tried to hide your amused snickering as he rolled his eyes at you. “You know what? I retract my statement. The fight was all the reason you needed to come here, wasn’t it.” It was less of a question and more of a statement.

“Actually, not really. At least, it wasn’t the only reason.” You said you stared directly into his eyes that reflected the ever dancing light of the torch. The flame flickered, going from bright to dark and back within seconds. You could barely see Telemachus, but you poured every bit of attention you had into listening to Telemachus go from unamused to curious. “Really? Then what was it?” He asked as you smiled. “I’m looking right at it.” Telemachus looked around once more, but this time to find what you were staring directly at rather than look for hidden dangers. “Wha? But the only thing you’re looking at is… Oh.” You didn’t even try to hide your amusement this time, bursting out into a fit of howling laughter at his flushed face. “Really? Do you have to tease me even in the middle of battle?” You shoved your face right in front of his, mere inches away. “Yeah, cause you haven’t told me to stop yet.”

“Euryalus, he locked the rest of our weapons in one of the rooms! These are the only ones we have, none of us could open it up-“ Telemachus looked towards the group of new suitors, who immediately drew their weapons at the sight of the both of you. “Shit.” You cursed under your breath, you were kinda having a moment here. With much annoyance your stance changed from relaxed and playful with your axe on your shoulder, to a defensive battle stance with your weapon at the ready. Even with Telemachus, you could only handle so many suitors. “Hey Tele, remember what I told you about hunting wild hogs?” You asked as he looked at you incredulously. “Aim for the area around the shoulder or the head? [name], what does this have to do with anything-“ You cut him off with a mischievous grin barely lit by the torch. “Exactly. I suggest you aim for the chest since you’re too short for their heads.” You could practically see the gears turning in his head before he opened his mouth in a baffled offense.

You charged forwards to the four suitors, stepping on the torch and putting it out as you ran. You moved to the side of the group and swung your axe at the outermost member. He blocked your axe, and at the same time you heard the clash of metal from the other side of the group. You could barely see anything, but you recognized the silhouette of Telemachus fighting off the other two suitors. Another suitor came up from behind the one in front of you to aim his sword at your side. You pushed the sword blocking your axe downwards to block the other suitor’s sword, before pushing both of them off. Spinning around, you hit the head of the first suitor you attacked with your axe, killing them. The sight of another sword in the corner of your eye made your breath hitch, it was far too close for you to move away and turn around to block. You still tried to pull up your axe to block it, and a spray of blood passed by your view. By the time you were fully turned around to face your attacker, they were clutching their hand in pain. Or more like their lack of one. In front of you stood Telemachus, sword in hand as he charged forward, stabbing the suitor in their chest while they were writhing in pain. “[name], what did I say about minding your surroundings!” Telemachus said concerned as the suitor died and joined the rest of them on the floor. “Hey, it turned out okay in the end. He’s dead and I’m alive, I’ll be fine-“

A large thud behind you made you jump, and you slowly turned around with your axe held up. “You know, my son is right. If neither of us were here, you’d be another body on the floor.” You blinked and stared at the man before you. “Father!” Telemachus gasped from behind you. Oh. OH. “Odysseus?” You asked bewildered. He was a lot shorter than you expected. Now you know why Telemachus was shorter than all the men his age and you while his mother still towered over everyone in the room. He nodded with a gentle smile. “And you’re the [name] my son has so fondly told me about.” He said as he drew back his bow. You looked back at Telemachus and you both made eye contact, before you looked at Odysseus. “Wait, what? He talks about me? Wait, what did he say? Tele, you better not have told your father about the sand incident.” You heard him stifle a small chuckle, and you whipped around to gasp at him with all the exasperation you could manage. “You did not!”

“I did.” He said unapologetically. You stared at him in betrayal, jaw dropped before turning back to Odysseus. “Hey, your majesty, did you know that before I got with your son he trained Argos to run at me so he could pretend like he accidentally let him loose to make an opportunity to talk with mMMFFF!” Telemachus slapped his hand onto your mouth as you struggled against his arm. “I did not do that, she’s lying.” He said indignantly as Odysseus stared at the two of you amused. You shoved at Telemachus’s wrist while you both physically struggled against each other. You saw him eyeing your hand on his wrist and you looked at him sternly. “Don’t you even dare- OW!” The madlad bit your hand and you pulled away from him, your bodies detaching from one another. “You menace.” You said as he shoved his face into yours, mere inches away like you were mere moments ago. For a moment, he just stared at you and you stared back at him. It was like all the emotional intensity that was interrupted before was returning full force, a shameless rush of affection like a raging river. You’ve always been told by Penelope that there were moments between her and Odysseus that felt like time stopped, when they looked into their eyes and saw love for eternity in each other. But right now, you felt nothing close to that. It was like time was rushing past you with no end, quick and intense. Every small detail blurred together into Telemachus, and in his eyes you saw the life you have right now.

“Telemachus, I know little to nothing about you, and even less about [name], but I see the same love I have for your mother in you, and I see the same love Penelope has for me in [name].” You both stared at him, hands that had intertwined subconsciously squeezing tightly. Telemachus looked over to you, and once again you saw not just your life in his eyes, but yours and his. “I approve of this one.” Your lover blinked in sync with you. “Besides, weren’t you the one who said how much you loved it when she stood up for you before you got the courage to fight Antinous?” Telemachus stared at his father and after a beat of silence, screeched with embarrassment. “FATHER, DON’T-“ You looked at Odysseus with a devious grin, and began to explain every single Argos incident while Telemachus hid his face in your neck.

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cimoris · 3 months ago

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- ⚜︎ My Father’s Eyes ⚜︎ -

A Cookie Run Kingdom Reader Insert Fanfiction

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Relationship: Child!Reader x Parent!Shadow Milk Cookie | Fount of Knowledge, Child!Reader & Burning Spice Cookie | Herald of Change

Summary: Y/n used to be proud of her eyes. Now it is her death sentence. Series / AU: Chasing Home << Prev -- Next >> [Masterlist]

==============================================

“You have your father’s eyes.”

Y/n flinched and turned to see the Herald of Change, head held up high on the palm of his head, while his half-lidded eyes stared down on her. The younger cookie blinked and tilted her head upward. Staring at red eyes with indigo eyes.

“Pardon?”

The Herald clicked his tongue. “I said, you have your father’s eyes. A perfect copy. I would have known if there was even a speck of change–I am the Herald of Change after all.” Then, he grinned. “Ah, the Fount’s arrogance truly knows no bounds! Creating a child in his image, just like the Gods of olden times!”

Just as those words left the Herald’s mouth, a book–The Complete Encyclopedia of Magic Volume III, the fourth publication–flew across the room and hit straight on the back of the Herald’s head. Y/n had to stifle a laugh when the Herald yelped in anger.

“Burning Spice! Stop spouting nonsense to my daughter!” Shadow Milk Cookie screamed from across the room, stopping any conversations between the Virtues. The Fount of Knowledge’s steps were hurried as he crossed the room to reach them. “And step 10 feet away from her!”

And as the two fall into their usual banters, Y/n could not help but smile.

‘I have my father’s eyes.’

“THAT IS THE EYES OF THE BEAST!”

Y/n ducked, barely dodging a pitchfork thrown over her head. Another one whizzed on her side, landing barely an inch from her feet. She stumbled, scratched her knees, and forced her tired body to move again.

“KILL THE BEAST! KILL THE BEAST! KILL THE BEAST!”

Move. Move. Move. One step. Then, another. And another.

If she dared to stop, she will never move again.

If she failed to move, the scornful fire and angered pitchforks will reach her.

If they reached her, …

She ducked into a small pit by tree. Mud splattered over her clothes, covering it in more dirt and droppings. She twist around and hide in the shadows, muffling her whimpers as the cookie approached her location.

“KILL THE OFFSPRING OF THE BEAST! THE VILE BLOOD OF BEASTS!”

Y/n closed her eyes and listened at the cookies’ chanting. Screaming curses for her eyes, her jams and her father. She did not dare to move, nor breath, nor squeaked.

Only when the sound passed by and the presences of the cookies had disappeared did Y/n finally opened her eyes.

Her vision’s blurry from the tears, sweat, and jams pooling at the edge of her eyes. Her body was torn by branches and thorns when she had jumped through the bushes. She could hear the angered cookies tearing through the dark forest in the distance.

She was not safe.

‘Ah…’

Y/n curled on herself, knowing she had to be on the move again before the cookies retraced their step.

‘I missed my father.’

<< Prev -- Next >>

A/n: And another one! People seemed to like the other fanfic. I'm going to start creating a master list for this fanfic. Once again, I hope you enjoy it!

Oh, and hope you enjoy that small art I made!

#doodle #cookie run kingdom #crk #crk fanart #shadow milk cookie #burning spice crk #crk x y/n #crk x reader #crk x you #shadow milk x reader #chasing home crk au

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muletia · 7 months ago

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guys... please let me cook... and hear me out on this...

obsessed!megop x reader

but not in a 'we're rivals fighting for the love of our lives' or 'sharing our darling' way — more like 'after the messiest divorce in the universe, we got back together, but now YOU are entering this relationship with us'. basically, a poly relationship sprinkled with insanity and horniness

very incoherent and loose headcannons word count: 1100 18+ content at the end (nothing detailed tho)

Let’s assume Megatron and Optimus sort things out. After eons of brutal fighting, they go back to their roots—being with each other, not against each other. They find common ground in their conflict, reaching a compromise between ideologies. Maybe it’s when you entered their lives, and their intense feelings for you began to overlap, eventually aligning on the same wavelength. They realized they could allow themselves a fresh, better start. Build a relationship anew, this time on sturdier foundations. Escape the trap of repeating the same moves— ones that only slowed their rival down rather than destroying him outright. In this case, you’re the catalyst for peace, the olive branch that reconciled two warring factions, all while bringing an end to the longest, most toxic divorce trial in the universe.

When there’s a breakthrough in their relationship, the tangled mess of emotions—hatred, longing, and fervor—slowly begins to untangle. That’s when they disappear from your life for a while. From everyone’s daily life, really. Megatron no longer sat brooding on the Nemesis, scheming your next abduction, and Optimus never returned to base after announcing he was going to "clear his mind." They vanished like stones dropped in water. Zero contact. Not even Soundwave could locate his master. The Autobots were just as clueless.

For you, this situation seemed perfect—you could finally start living a normal life. No more getting kidnapped at 3 a.m., no more being stuck under house arrest at the Autobot base. No more deranged warlord holding you on his lap, promising passionate fantasies that could never come true as long as his rival kept a protective watch over you. And no more overprotective Autobot leader spending hours parked in your driveway. You were free. For about a month.

Ratchet is the first to inform you. After weeks of complete radio silence, they finally managed to locate Optimus. And despite the routine drama of abductions and rescues, you couldn’t help but feel happy. And relieved. Because you missed him, even if you were exhausted by his antics. Maybe you even missed Megatron a little... Despite his madness, he could be charming and intriguing, at least. And everything was going great, just fine—until Ratchet informed you that Optimus was at your house. And he wasn’t alone.

From that point on, you became entangled in their fledgling, turbulent relationship. Passionate, yet resembling a ticking time bomb. Still unexplored. And the funniest part of it all? You were living a much better life than before, even though you were the only sane person in this relationship.

They’ve infected each other with their mania, directing it toward each other whenever you’re not around. It’s especially convenient for you because now Megatron has someone else to fixate on when he feels possessive or craves physical contact. He can take it out on Optimus, who also acts as a brake on his partner’s urges when they get too overwhelming when the need for touch prickles at his claws. No more abductions and schemes—now he can vent on Optimus. That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, though. When you come home from work, both of them are eagerly ready to show you just how much they’ve missed you.

They quickly find a way to insert themselves into your home. To have a space that’s yours, where they know you’ll always return—and they take full advantage of it. You come back from work, and they’re already there. You’re just taking off your shoes, and you can already feel warm claws brushing against your exposed neck, followed by gentler servos caressing your cheek. Megatron wastes no time, pressing his sharp dentae to your bare skin. Optimus, ever the considerate one, asks how your day was and reminds his partner that you deserve at least a minute to relax. A brake. You go to prepare dinner, and behind you, there’s the subtle sound of metal tapping against metal and an even quieter, low moan...

With two Cerberuses at your side, you’re practically untouchable. And while Optimus doesn’t go beyond stern verbal warnings or intimidation by size, Megatron is ready to demolish your boss’s house if he dares make a snide remark at you. This dynamic also shows when you’re around the Autobots (it took them a long time to accept the new reality, by the way). One sassy comment from Arcee, and your protector is ready to return to the warpath to defend your honor. There are even times when Optimus fiercely defends his partner when someone on his team doubts Megatron’s reformation.

Even though they have each other now, content with their companionship and finally feeling fulfilled, they still can’t stop talking about you. Declarations of the passion they feel for one another almost always transform into monologues about you—about their longing, the softness they associate with you, the belief that if you were with them right now, they’d feel that sense of completeness again. Wholeness. Fulfillment. Harmony. Caught up in each other, but still aching with longing for their human. Their beloved. Without you, they’re like planets without a sun—lost, unproductive. They need you to function on a basic level. The three of you are inseparable.

The end of the war means more free time. Both of them are now unemployed, so all their attention shifts to nurturing your relationship. Including in the bedroom... Suppressing their feelings for so many years, burying them deep in their sparks even as they fiercely clawed for freedom, they’re surely brimming with frustration—frustration that spills into their most intimate, primal needs. They infect you with their fever, proving just how unbearably they’ve missed you and how deeply the desire to have you has consumed them. How it’s burrowed into their processors, taking over their lives, manipulating every choice and decision.

Some days, they can’t wait. The conversation about you goes on too long, dives into too intense, too intimate territory, mocking their self-control and teasing hidden components. Sometimes they climax, chanting your name, even when you’re not around. Sometimes you witness their "games." You don’t intervene, yet have full control. Watching with your own eyes just how utterly dependent they are on you, how they can’t release without your approval.

If having one titan in love with an ordinary mortal wasn’t already an empowering feeling, now you have two, completely at your mercy. Both burning with their own desire and all the tools needed to relieve it—yet it is your word that is final.

try not to develop a god complex challenge, lmao

#transformers x reader #optimus x reader #obsessed!optimus #obsessed!megatron #megatron x reader #megop x reader

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kiame-sama · 9 months ago

Text

Humans Are Extinct- (Yandere!TWST x Fem!Reader) Monster AU pt 4

(Since my computer died, I will use some of the other monster AU art I haven't used in a chapter yet instead. Hopefully I can rustle up another computer soon or get Ol' Peepaw Sammy (my 10+ year old laptop) to run my drawing software without having a heart-attack.)

Warnings: collaring, aggressive kindness, yanderes are rampant in this story, invasion of privacy, romantic yanderes, platonic yanderes, monster AU, some history for the monster AU, mention of Humans being eaten, Teachers and Crowley are going to have a ROUGH time, more characters being introduced, reader insert, fem reader, Driders, Crows, Minotaurs, Shadow-men, Selkies, Dragons, Fae, Bats, Harpies, Unicorns, Nemean Lions, Grim is less boisterous/confident in this AU given his rough life but he is still the sassy and clueless kitty-creature we all love, reader is called several affectionate pet names by platonic yanderes (Pup/Cub/Chick)

~~~~~~~~

"So... What happened here?"

You cuddled your new monster friend close to you as you looked upon the building you had been carried to by Rook. He had been swift to return you and the cat-monster you befriended to the building the supposed teachers had been leading you towards. Even as you sat on the large Spider's back and stared up at the building, you could see the apparent change that had overcome it.

It mostly looked the same as it had when you had run away from it, but there were several improvements and adjustments that had been made in the short time you were away. Where the windows had been boarded up, they were now all clean and fixed. Where the siding of the building had been in obvious disrepair and even falling off in some places, it now looked like it had received a needed bit of care and reconstruction.

"I can answer that!"

You let out a yelp at the sudden interjection, unconsciously reaching out to Rook's torso and clinging to the Spider man in fear. The way you yelped made your sudden visitor giggle in amusement at your behavior. Hanging from what appeared to be a dead tree branch above you was that same pink and black haired guy that had been in the Dragon's nest with you. He had an impish smile as he regarded you, that smile slipping ever so slightly as his eyes flicked over you and how tightly you held to Rook.

Rook was actually both amused and felt endeared by the fact that you grabbed onto him in a bid for protection from the Drider. It was so very sweet to him to see he had earned some goodwill and trust from you by rescuing you from the Undying Ursus Minor. Even when you relaxed upon realizing who was speaking, you very clearly held tightly to your soft companion, Grim.

"Oh? Did you make a friend out in the forest?"

The Bat Fae dropped from the branch, righting himself before he even hit the ground as he approached your little group. He took a long moment to look at Grim before he gained a kind of impish smile.

"I'll have to inform Malleus about your new charge. We wouldn't want this little one getting burned to a crisp by Malleus. Besides, I know how protective and adoring Children of Man can be when it comes to their cherished companions. The last human I met died for their companions."

Grim seemed unsettled by the Bat's presence and you could feel the way his torn wings seemed to pull closer to his body. Maybe it was the fact that the Bat had wings that were a lot like Grim's, and maybe it was the fact that this newcomer had been so keen to startle you. Regardless, you felt a strong need to protect your new friend as he was the only one who didn't seem to have some kind of twisted agenda planned for you.

"Anyway, Malleus and the other Housewardens showed up after you ran away- not a wise move, might I add- so several of them decided you should be somewhere safer than an old run-down building. Malleus did most of the fixing, but it seemed even Schoenheit was keen to make several additions to your accommodations. They're still mostly here, Malleus went back to his nest to give you some space."

You carefully slid off of the back of the large Spider man, noticing the unusual softness of his fur along the back of his Spider body. There was a kind of intimidation you felt now that you were back on level ground, as the height of Rook's Spider back did make you feel somewhat safer. Now you were on level ground and felt very small next to the blond who towered over you.

In some ways, you wanted to question the unusual Bat, but it quickly became clear you were not going to get that chance as the more adult-appearing men approached. The Crow was in the lead and was flanked by four others that seemed to be older than the monster men you had encountered en masse when you first entered this twisted nightmare land. Two of the men you recognized as the two who came with the Crow to retrieve you from the odd Dragon that had claimed you. The other two were unfamiliar to you, but no less beastly than the first.

One of them seemed to be an older man somewhere in his fifties with gray hair and clear creases along his brow and mouth. Attached where his lower half should have been was the body of some kind of big cat, a pair of oddly large wings sprouted along the shoulders of the cat body and the lower back of the man. He almost seemed to walk with a slight limp as his back leg had clearly suffered some kind of damage in the past.

The second newcomer was a man that seemed to be wreathed in shadows. All you could really make out from the darkness was the skeletal white mask adorning his face, lining up on the same place his own skull would be. His bright purple eyes pierced through the darkness and gleamed like gemstones beneath the brim of his top hat. He seemed younger than the others, but you found it difficult to accurately gauge his age due to the shadows that wrapped around him.

"Now that you're done racing off with no regard to your own health, foolish little chick, it seems I must have a lengthy conversation with you regarding the dangers that are ever present to someone as magically lacking as you."

~~~~~~~~

Several Housewardens and even a few Vice-Housewardens gathered nearby the Ramshackle building and watched the interaction curiously. It was true many had all pitched in to make the decrepit building a bit more liveable for you, but it was nowhere near the level of quality they believed an extinct species should have. They did what they could in the short amount of time they had, busying themselves with the project instead of charging headlong into the forest like many wanted to.

Rook and Lilia had excused themselves from the stern lecture the Crow was giving, opting instead to retreat to the nearby group. Many of those present took interest in Rook, as they could detect the scent he now carried due to carrying the fragile Human back to the safety of campus. A few even tried to take a subtle sniff of the Drider in an attempt to catch more of that uniquely Human smell.

"Roi du Poison, your faithful Huntsman has returned victorious with the little Human completely safe and sound!"

Rook was quick to take his place next to the peacock Harpy, practically beaming from the joy of another successful hunt. For all the beautiful muses Rook had claimed, he was closest with his muse Vil Schoenheit as the peacock Harpy had been one of the primary driving forces in Rook's life. From learning to care for his own appearance to taking care of Vil's pin feathers, he had few he could thank half as much as Vil.

Vil gave the slightest of smiles at having his second in command back by his side, his feathers ever so slightly rousing and fluffing out to show the Harpy was pleased. For all the eccentric behavior his Vice-Housewarden showed, Rook was nigh irreplaceable to Vil. Just knowing Rook had been the one to rescue the little Human was also another source of pride for Vil as it was another source of envy from the others.

"At least Rook can be trusted to bring the Human back promptly. I doubt the same would have been said of you, Leona."

The Nemian Lion was standing away from the group, but the clear way his ears angled back showed he was annoyed. Leona knew he wasn't trusted around the Human without supervision. He and anyone else from Sunset Savana would have to prove themselves 'domestic' to even be considered.

It was Sunset Savana that continued to eat Humans the longest and thus had been branded by the other Kingdoms and Queendoms as barbaric monsters. Leona didn't often pay attention in class- especially boring ass History- but even he knew the way Humans had been adored by so many others. Riddle went as far as not letting Leona out of his sight the second they arrived at the rundown excuse of a dorm. He knew the others wouldn't trust him around that fragile Human even with supervision.

"Piss off, Birdy."

Rook was not thrown by Vil's casual sniping towards Leona, the two proud Housewardens always seeming to be at odds. Instead, the Drider turned to the red-haired Unicorn with a pleasant smile.

"Roi du Règles, you will be pleased to know mon Trickster is Mademoiselle Trickster. You mentioned earlier you could sense her purity, non? That would make her a Human Maiden; the ideal boon companion for a Unicorn such as yourself!"

"Is she? Then it seems I must endeavor to even greater heights to protect her. No doubt the common rabble here will be eager to get at the only Human and only female on campus."

It was then a certain displeased yell split the air, originating from the Human in question. The shout unsettled the various students present and even managed to make Riddle almost rear from the sudden interjection.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

~~~~~~~~

You stared incredulously at Crowley, your hands resting over the collar that now sat securely on your neck. Despite how you pulled and groped at the material, you couldn't find a way to unlock it and free yourself from the new and rather dehumanizing feeling of being collared. Even Grim got himself a matching Collar, though his looked more like a pristine bow. Both his collar and your collar had a little device hanging where the tags would be on a dog's collar.

"You've made it more than abundantly clear that you will wander away to areas that can be dangerous to your health if you are allowed to freely roam. I can't have you ending your life prematurely simply because you didn't have the sense to stay away from something dangerous. That collar of yours will make it much easier to dissuade you from going places you shouldn't."

Grim was still trying to wriggle out of his collar while you glared angrily at the overgrown Crow who put it there. You eventually had to stop Grim as the little cat-creature was beginning to thrash and could hurt himself if he wasn't careful. Luckily, the little beast soothed with your touch and stared up at you through his mismatched and scarred eyes. Even though you wanted to lay into Crowley for daring to put a collar on the two of you like you were some kind of pet, the man who had introduced himself as Divus Crewel spoke up.

"I know you don't like the collar, but try to think of it from our perspective, sweet pup. You aren't a normal sight here or anywhere in our world. If certain ne're-do-wells caught wind of a Human living on our campus, they may try to poach you if given the chance. We don't want to give them the chance."

You frowned angrily at the men but also somewhat understood where they were coming from on the matter. Though you really couldn't grasp the concept of Humans being extinct- given the fact you came from a world where Humans were the only truly sentient species- you did somewhat understand where they were coming from. Classifying an animal as endangered only made an increase in the demand for pieces of said animal. They were certain Humans were extinct, so you were more than just a prized commodity to collectors and hunters alike.

"How does the collar help against poaching? If someone wanted to get me with an arrow or a knife, a collar doesn't do anything to stop that."

"That is true in most cases, but your collar is enchanted. The collar keeps track of your location and will alert us as well as the Housewardens if anything does try to harm you. It can't stop a full attack, but it can deflect minor magic."

"Why did Grim get collared too?"

"Because, though I am loathe to let a beast of the forest stay with you, it is better you have some kind of magical protection with you. His skills are subpar compared to a Housewarden, but it is still more skill and magic than you have available to you. Best to keep track of the both of you."

Grim didn't fight his collar anymore, but he certainly didn't look happy as his little torn wings drooped and his ears angled downwards. He was clearly quite displeased but didn't seem too upset despite the fact he did not sign up for this kind of treatment. Once he resigned himself to the collar, he slightly perked up and raised his lopsided gaze to meet that of Crewel.

"Hey, Seal-guy, does this mean I have to go to classes with my Hench-Hooman like a student and stuff?"

"It would be ideal to have (Y/n) attend classes, if only to keep her around professors and prevent the loneliness from negatively impacting her health. Humans were known to be a social creature, after all, and with no other Humans around the other students would be the next best thing."

"... So does that mean I can actually be a fancy-pants student and become the greatest mage to ever live?"

"Whatever keeps you by (Y/n)'s side. Though it may behoove us to enlist the aid of other students as well... They will have to prove themselves first, of course."

Crowley nodded along to Crewel's words as if they were the most obvious thing and you vaguely got the impression that the Crow really didn't realize what he was agreeing to. Though he was the Headmage- which to you meant he was the head of the school- he seemed far less aware of the situation as a whole and leaned on the other professors for that information. Something about him made you wonder why he was so eager to keep you on school grounds. It made you think back to his comment about the last human he met and you wondered if that had anything to do with how keen he was to keep you yet seemed keen to let the others take point in explaining things to you.

It was during this thought that the older looking man spoke, his voice aged and almost fatherly in how he spoke to you.

"Naturally, you are still the only true expert on Humans, being one yourself, so we will have to ultimately trust your judgement. I am of a mind with Divus that we should not be allowing a forest beast unrestricted access to you, but you seem to trust this Grim. Should you need something, you have but to ask us one of us. I also feel Mr. Rosehearts, Mr. Hunt, Mr. Draconia, and perhaps even a number of others would be keen to aid you. Don't ever go to Savanaclaw for aid. Though it may have been several hundred years ago, many of those from Sunset Savana and those of specific beastman lineages were instrumental in the extinction of Humans. Better to be safe than sorry with your safety."

He had been introduced to you as Mozus Trein, the History professor. Though you were curious as to why he seemed so fond of you, you figured it had something to do with you being Human and his natural love and fascination with history. You had to admit, it was nice that he didn't talk to or about you like you were a pet or some kind of exotic toy- an exotic animal, maybe, but not a pet. Most of the professors seemed to be of a similar mind- minus the Crow- and that somewhat helped put you at ease with them.

"So, does that mean it will only be Grim and I in here? No one else?"

"Well, the regular ghosts or fore fairies may pay you a visit and check in on you. Would you like someone to spend the evening here as well? I understand this is a new place and some company may put you at ease. It is my understanding that Mr. Draconia has already made a secondary nest in this dorm for you to use at your leisure, no doubt the others added beds or various furniture as well."

"No, I kind of like the fact that it's just me and Grim, I was just wondering because all of them are here," you gestured to the group of Housewardens and Vice-Housewardens nearby, "so I didn't know if they were staying or not. It is getting super late at night..."

"They should be returning to their dorms soon, though Housewardens and Vice-Housewardens are not bound by the same curfew as the other students."

He glanced at the others before back at you, a serious look of concern painting his features.

"Are you certain you would rather be alone tonight? Some wayward fools may try to enter the dorm when we leave."

The genuine concern in his expression and tone made you seriously consider his words. It was true that you didn't really feel very safe with anyone other than your small companion Grim, but the wizend professor did have a point. His prompting paired with the fact that you had made many poor choices for yourself this night did more to sway you than expected. You looked at the several monsters waiting nearby and had to conceed that someone keeping an eye out was not a bad idea given the already rocky start to your time in such a world.

"... I think you might have a point, actually..."

"How about this; you choose from the Housewardens and Vice-Housewardens who helped fix up this old dorm for you. Clearly they have at least shown they care for your wellbeing enough to put in an effort to make it livable. I will say now- however- should you choose Leona, I will choose someone else for you. I would love to say all our students are safe, but that just isn't the case and we can't take chances with you."

"That seems fair... But how do I know which one Leona is?"

"Leona is the Nemean Lion- ah, but I forget, you don't have Nemean Lions where you're from, do you?"

You shook your head. You could recall that there were Greek myths of Heraclies slaying a golden lion known as the Nemean Lion, but nothing like the monster men you have met.

"I will point him out when you decide who you feel is safest to stay with you."

"Okay. Grim, want to help me choose?"

The stout creature smiled eagerly in response to your question, holding up his front legs for you to pick him up. He was not like a cat in the sense that he was thrilled when you held him, but he did seem to enjoy your warmth and the fact he didn't have to walk when you carried him. As you cuddled Grim, professor Trein began to lead you to the group.

It was easy to feel somewhat safe with the older man and you kept close to his side as you two approached the group of fellow students. They all looked curious at the fact that you and the professor had approached them first. Perhaps you were going to thank them or ask them for something else to help you settle in.

"Listen up, you lot. I would hope others have enough common sense to leave (Y/n) here alone, but we all know that isn't going to happen. Since you are the ones that actually showed up to ensure our only Human is safe, it is safe to assume you care what happens to (Y/n). We feel it would be best to have either a Housewarden or a Vice-housewarden remain here for the evening in the event someone tries their luck."

Professor Trein then glanced back at you, nodding his head towards the group in clear invitation to approach. As you drew close, you couldn't help but take note of how all eyes quickly fell on you. Some of the people there were familiar to you, and some were not.

Rook was among the familiar, same with the Harpy that stood next to him. The only one whose name you recognized was Rook's as he had been the only one to actually introduce himself to you.

"... Can I choose Rook? He's the only name I know..."

"I would happily accept, Mademoiselle Trickster, but there is one far fairer and better than I at all but hunting. I suggest you choose Roi du Poison, the beautiful Vil Schoenheit."

The Spider man made a sweeping arm motion to his side towards the Bird man, as if he were presenting the Bird man to you. The Bird in question seemed surprised by the sudden introduction but took it in stride and instead turned his purple eyes to you. As you locked eyes with him, something odd happened. His feathers seemed to quiver before the feathers atop his head raised, his tail feathers doing the same to create an almost dazzling display of iridescent colors. He was clearly a peacock Bird man, but what didn't make much sense to you was why he was showing off for you. You didn't think you were really worth showing those feathers to since you weren't a Bird like him.

"You are welcome to choose one as fair as me, little Human. I will ensure your safety to the furthest of my capabilities."

It almost seemed like the peacock were trying to make himself seem like the best choice, showing off colors and strength in an effort to have you choose him. If anything, you weren't the only one who was surprised at seeing such a display from the peacock. The others seemed almost shocked by this showing of feathers but someone was clearly far less than pleased upon seeing Vil posturing for you.

"Absolutely not! I refuse to allow anyone who does any kind of display dance for her to be permitted anywhere near her. I would have your head if you weren't my senior, Vil! Such a maiden should not be accosted by eager men who only see her as a breeding toy. Professor, I demand you override this choice and select me to guard this Human. I shall uphold every rule the Queen has set and I will not allow such tomfoolery to burden this Human."

Vil seemed angered by this as his feathers ruffled and stood on end, eyes glaring angrily at the offending Unicorn man. The wickedly sharp tallons on the ends of the Bird's fingers seemed to only be sharper when displayed with such clear disdain for the Unicorn. It seemed like a fight was on the verge of erupting before Grim's voice interrupted them.

"I don't like any of them! Maybe the Spider-Drider-guy, but this is my Hooman which means I should choose who protects us!"

"Are you-? What the hell is a 'Hooman'? She is a Human, not 'Hooman' and I don't appreciate your casual disrespect for her species-!"

It was during the Unicorn's rant that you interrupted, feeling angry that the man would dare talk to Grim like that. Sure, you found it odd that the cat creature called you Hooman, but you certainly didn't mind it either. Even above all of that, Grim was your friend and these men were not.

"And who said it was your place to correct him? I know what I am and I think it's cute he calls me Hooman. What I don't appreciate is how you think you can yell at him! He can call me Hooman if he wants, you are not afforded the same privilege! And I have a name. It's (Y/n) (L/n), so don't you dare ever call me anything else."

Your sudden snapping at the Unicorn clearly surprised and unsettled him as he took several steps back, almost seeming like he was about to rear from your yelling. Even though his blue eyes stared in absolute surprise, you felt no need to back down and if anything you wanted to chase off the delicate Unicorn for daring to raise his voice at Grim. A light chuckle met your ears and drew your ire away from the Unicorn and to another familiar grinning face. It was the pink and black haired Bat.

"Keeheehee, seems she doesn't like you very much Riddle. Or, it could be that Humans are traditionally a pack-bonding species and little Grim is now her pack. Clearly Riddle isn't your choice, so who actually will be?"

You frowned at this question and went back to looking at the group, Grim seemed to be doing the same as he purred and snuggled down into your arms. From those you now knew, you still figured either the Bat or Rook would be best. It was then someone else caught your eye bringing you to a halt as you stared at them.

He had sun kissed skin and dark mahogany hair. Even as he stood in the light of the moon, he almost seemed to have a golden glow that wrapped around his scowling figure. When he noticed you looking at him, his bright green eyes narrowed ever so slightly before looking away from you. His actions were as if he were trying to dissuade you from picking him despite the fact he was among the group. You vaguely recognized him from the many who you first saw when you came tumbling out of the coffin.

"Choose someone else, Mousey. They won't let you pick me, I might gobble you up."

"I'm not a-"

"Yes, you are. You are a little Mousey herbivore of the only sentient species Nemean Lions dared to feast upon."

"Nemean...? You're Leona?"

"I'm surprised you even care enough to know my name. Leona Kingscholar, second prince of Sunset Savana and Housewarden of Savanaclaw. Careful, Mousey, you aren't safe around me. I may not have tasted Human before, but I'm willing to break several laws to give it a try."

He almost seemed like he was trying to actually get you away from him, a look of vague sadness hiding behind his smouldering emerald eyes even as he glared at you. There was more to this tale than he was telling but you knew he wasn't going to give you the information you wanted. With another long look at the golden Lion, you turned you gaze back to the group as a whole.

"I guess... Since the Dragon- Malleus, if I'm remembering properly- isn't here, I'll pick the Bat."

"Aww, I'll be sure to let Malleus know you wanted to pick him. I'm sure he'll be pleased. I can keep an eye on you and make sure those other whippersnappers don't come sniffing around. Keeheehee, cute that you call me Bat, but I also have a name if you feel like using it. Lilia Vanrouge, at your esteemed service, (Y/n). Malleus is my primary ward, but he certainly wouldn't be too displeased if I kept an eye on his hoard as well."

You nodded, wondering just why the Dragon decided you were one of his but not willing to question Lilia as to the true motives just yet. It almost seemed like those present fixed Lilia with a jealous sneer as the Bat happily joined your side. Trein simply nodded, accepting your choice as it was not Leona- whom he planned to berate for threatening you- and was a fairly safe choice. Lilia was of the few who had encountered a Human before in his many centuries, so no doubt he would be safe around you.

"It is decided then. I shall see you in my class tomorrow, (Y/n). Do not hesitate to reach out to me should you need anything. Your other professors and I will be working on getting you a phone to communicate with us faster. For now, sleep well, little cub."

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #my monster au #twst monster au #Humans Are Extinct TWST AU

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queers-gambit · 10 months ago

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Shadows of the Past

prompt: the High King recruits you personally for the expedition headed by your intended, Herald Elrond. your company encounters the darkness and Galadriel portrays an apology to her friend.

pairing: Elrond x betrothed!female!reader

fandom masterlist: The Rings of Power

word count: 5.1k+

note: wonky brain can think of nothing but this show right now i'm so sorry

warnings: cursing, spoilers, another reader insert for the haters, depiction of character injury, emotions are hard, small canon complicit angst, literal hurt and comfort, established relationship.

"Tell me again," your brother-in-law asked, "why you're not leading this company?"

You smirked, stepping over a fallen branch, "Because the High King has bestowed the honor to Herald Elrond, Daenor."

"Then why enlist you, too?"

"I am a mere emissary of the King. Besides, skills are required for this quest, Daenor, why would I not be employed?"

"Right, of course. I guess my question should be, what skills do you possess?" He teased, laughing when you shoved his shoulder playfully. "But truly," he asked, "why would the King send you both, so close to your wedding day? Why send you, too, if not to lead this company?" However, before you could answer, the air turned serious when the procession you followed came to a rather disturbing discovery upon the laid path.

You leaned on the intact stone while listening to Camnir discuss with Elrond possible paths forward after intending to cross a bridge over the gorge, only to find it in ruins and rubble. Elrond originally questioned the force that could've brought the ancient stone down in such a harsh and violent manner, thinking perhaps lightning, but another voice refuted this idea by claiming it was the Dark Lord, Sauron.

This familiar voice was that of Lady Galadriel - and while you've known her to be a fellow Commander, you were unsure of her title now. Yes, she was technically lieutenant of this company, and that was what she was addressed as, but you knew how stubborn the Elleth was and that she would not be so easily demoted.

You said nothing. You just listened as Camnir told Elrond they could take one of two paths: one so out of the way, it would add two weeks to their journey, and the other, down the same darkened path the Dark Lord laid.

Upon mentioning the path before them through the Hills of Tyrn Gorthad, Lady Galadriel twitched. She had been daintily ghosting her fingertips over the charred and mangled metal of the lanterns set on the imploded bridge, seemingly stuck in thought, then freezing. You couldn't see her face, only taking note of the brisk tension mounting in the Elleth's shoulders.

She spoke, "There is evil in those hills." The group shared silent looks, each with varying degrees of mistrust or caution. "Ancient, and full with malice," Galadriel glared at the landscape before her. "Sauron means for us to go that way. We must go another," She informed the group as if she were in a position to give orders.

From the crouch he took to observe the damage done to the stone, Elrond rose while speaking in a firm tone that overpowered the Lady's, "The Enemy is doubtless watching both roads." His eyes flickered over yours last as jetting over each of his soldiers, clocking the way you nodded in agreement. To you, it seemed common sense: of course, the bad guy was watching the paths that would lead the good guys to him! He was evil, not stupid! Elrond reminded his people, "This collapse makes it more critical than ever to reach Celebrimbor at speed."

"We won't reach anywhere with speed if we walk into a trap," Galadriel argued; the two friends (and distant cousins) held each other's even stare for several moments.

"What say you, Commander?" You asked, hoping to break the tension and little trance they were locked in. No, no, not out of jealousy, but out of protectiveness; wanting to break the ice for the sake of Elrond's authority.

"We go South," Elrond decided, turning from the fragmented bridge stump, ready to lead his company on, when Galadriel spoke again - from the same spot she had yet to move from.

"Commander, I must protest."

You did not move when the others did, you waited when Elrond paused and replied, "Your opinion on the matter has been heard."

He went to walk away again when Galadriel growled with a rolling tongue, "Elrond!"

You flinched to a halt in blinding irritation, upset by your peer's very audacity. Everyone halted around you, Camnir even shifting in his stance out of nervousness from the heat of your glare not on him. Your fiancé turned back to glare at his friend, ending with finality, "Opinion heard, lieutenant. We go South." He gave an encouraging command in Sindarin, leading only a few strides before pausing. When you automatically halted yourself at his side, he nodded and spoke softly while seemingly mindlessly grabbing your hand to give an affectionate and reassuring squeeze, "Lead them on, love, stay on the trail."

You glanced back at Galadriel, who was finally moving to keep up, and whispered for only his ears, "You sure?"

"I'm sure, go on," he confirmed, nodding again and offering a soft sort of half-smirk. His eyes, though, were squinted; indicating he was genuine in his displayed gentleness. With a squeeze to his hand, you offered one last stale look at Galadriel, who expertly avoided your eyes, then let go and walked forward to lead the way.

Behind you, Elrond snarled his scolding of Galadriel, insisting she shape up, forgo trust in the Ring of Power she wore, and if that wasn't possible, she needed to excuse herself. The Commander of the Northern Armies rebutdtaled that she did not desire to see any member of the company slain - a veiled response to her stubbornness to not abandon their quest and refusal to ignore her ring.

Forward, you marched.

Though you seldom showed it, you felt fearfully nervous when the night fell and your company crept further into what felt like infected wood. The ground turned spongey, a particular stench permeated the air, the darkness shadowed most all you saw. The trees loomed tall, the moon casted a bright silver light, and dead leaves crunched under booted, lithe steps. Elrond shared a nervous look with you, his hand only briefly brushing yours; a way to say he was there with you without being overly affectionate in front of his soldiers.

From the corner of his eye, Elrond saw your head tilt back in wonder before a fell voice hissed on the wind, "I am waiting for you." But in truth, nobody was sure about what they heard or did not hear. Perhaps they did not want to know, but still, the voice made the area further darken in suspicion, and once in a small clearing, all came to a halt to survey the surrounding area. There was a threat somewhere, but where exactly was yet to be determined.

Daenor questioned sharply, "What is this place?"

"Tyrn Gorthad," Camnir answered. "Known to men as the Barrow-downs."

You chimed in softly, "In ancient days, this was where they laid their lords and kings to rest."

"I feel no rest here," Daenor grumbled. "Even the trees seem ill at ease."

"Fear not," Vorohil chimed in, sounding amused while stepping up to (and through) your group's observation deck. "Dead men are no threat."

"Well, we've lived very different lives," you scoffed under your breath.

However, after Vorohil, Elrond followed; casting a look at the lot of you and reminding, "Keep moving."

You let the others pass ahead of you, trying to shake off your nerves and mentally prepare yourself for the hell you were walking into. Something anchored your feet, refusing to let go; every nerve in your body on fire and begging you not to wade into the dark. Your name was spoken gently, Galadriel's hand on your shoulder startling you.

"What is it?" She asked quietly.

"We shouldn't be here," you whispered, Elrond doubling back when he noted your delay. Not wanting a confrontation, Galadriel sighed and patted your shoulder before slipping away as your lover approached you.

"Are you alright?" He asked softly but urgently.

"There's something sinister here," you told him stiffly, stepping half a step closer, "watching us."

He took a breath, "If Galadriel's ring - "

"It's not that!" You insisted. "I feel it, Elrond, not the ring, not anything Galadriel said. I feel it."

Elrond's brows furrowed at the tips, like something hooked them to yank towards his nose. "Then stay close to me," he decided.

"We should move on, quickly," you snatched his hand to prevent him from parting; his gaze turning worried. "Please, listen to me."

"My love," he spoke softly, squeezing your hand, "it is a gravesite, nothing more. The dead cannot harm us."

"It is the living's influence I fear."

He sighed and nodded, "We will not linger." His forehead found yours to rest, "But do not stray from my side, it is of great comfort."

"To us both," you agreed, letting him pull back. Yet he did not relinquish hold of your hand, keeping it tight in his and leading you into the clearing the others were surveying.

"Commanders," Rían called, standing over the corpses of two horses... Attacked seemingly a time ago, and upon inspection, discovered the pairing bodily remains of an Elvish party.

Elrond questioned your name when you squatted, brushing aside debris. "Their barding is from Lindon," you told him, gently ghosting the leather with your touch. You looked up to meet his eyes, glancing over to see Galadriel, predicting, "The King sent a dispatch to warn Celebrimbor."

Galadriel nodded in confirmation as Rían discovered the encased message from the King in a decorative tube, asking, "This dispatch?"

Slowly, you stood from your position and held a silent hand out, being given the tube for inspection; all eyes on you, waiting for whatever your overly keen (even for an Elf) eyes would see. After confirming the contents, your eyes locked with Galadriel's, and she spoke what you both were thinking: "We must go from this place."

Elrond appeared ready to agree, tension mounting as your company seemingly felt the blanket of panic being thrown over them all. From the dark, a set of rotting chains shot out to coil around Daemor, yanking him into the toxic, spongey earth and across the clearing.

"Y/N!" He shouted in shock, and without thinking, your hands slapped into his as if in an effort to anchor him... But you were both yanked off your feet. "Commander!"

"Daenor! NO!"

"Help me! Y/N, Y/N, please!"

"Hold onto me!" You begged, being drug on your belly.

"Sister! Sister, please, help me! Help me!" He sobbed in fear, a vice grip on your wrists and hands surely to leave blemishes. "Don't let go! Pl-eeeeeaaaaaase!"

"Daenor!" You whimpered, struggling as the force that held you both hostage was too strong to maintain a safe, secure hold permanently - meaning, saving him was futile.

Your name was bellowed, being drug towards one of the opened tombs; but at the last moment, the tether that kept you and Daenor together was broken and he was pulled into the abyss of the grave. You whimpered in fear, slowly lifting from your belly and to your knees as Daenor's screams were silenced... In fact, the entire area turned eerily quiet.

Behind you, the others rushed to the scene and Elrond immediately dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around you. "Are you hurt? Hey, hey, look at me, are you hurt?" He demanded, fearful that the chains might shoot out again to finish the job to swallow you in the dark. He checked for any physical injury, but the tension was too great to ignore; the mouth of the tomb glaring at you, forcing Elrond to silence himself.

You flinched back into his hold when the gruesome sounds of crunching bone and squelching flesh was heard; indicating whatever was inside, whatever claimed Daenor, had disposed of his living body.

Elrond took advantage of your flinch to rock you back onto your feet, standing as a group as a voice hissed, "Cold old be hand and heart and bone, And cold be sleep under stone, Never more to wake on stony bed, Never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead." Galadriel brandished her sword as the wights first emerged, revealing their zombified forms. You encouraged the group to form together in a circle as the demons emerged. The Voice continued, "In the black wind, the stars shall die."

"Prepare yourselves," Galadriel warned, the group arming themselves.

"What are they?" Rían trembled.

From perfectly between Galadriel and Elrond, you answered, "They are those who laid in the tombs, the Lords and Kings of old... Lore calls them Barrow-wights."

The creatures surrounded your company, leering, growling, sizing you up. In Sindarin, Elrond commanded, "Attack!"

In tandem, the group lunged; weapons striking the ghoulish foes but they merely disintegrated in air... Then reformed. It seemed that fighting only served to irritate the enemies, their collective hissing and screeching making stomachs curl and skin to prickle in fear. Galadriel clocked this first, warning Rían, "Still your arrow!"

But the Elleth was already locked and loaded, the string slipping from her grip to fire at a distant wight. But it only soared through the zombie's face, not stopping, directing towards Camnir - but Elrond intercepted, swiping his sword to cut its path and save his soldier. The creature rejuvenated.

"They're impervious to our weapons," Camnir voiced, fear inking his tone.

Elrond's eyes found yours, seemingly connected by a string of similar thought; remembering the old wives tales you once read a lifetime ago, ancient lore about Barrow-wights dating back to the time of Melkor. So, he sheathed his sword and told his soldiers, "Hold fast." To Camnir, the closest to him, he demanded, "Come with me!"

"Where are you going?"

"Help me open it," Elrond told him, trying to pry open the sealed tomb as you swiped at another wight's skeletal hand reaching for you.

"What?"

"Hurry!" Elrond barked in Sandarin.

Back in your group, Rían muttered nervously, "Commander?"

"Ease yourself, remain calm..."

"What do we do?"

"Make no sudden movements. Stay together, fend them off but don't engage a fight," you advised, "hold strong - "

A gasp cut off your words when chains coiled around your ankle; securing in a tight zip that knocked you off balance and back into the toxic dirt. You scrambled for purchase on anything, finding only wet leaves; and suddenly, the chain turned taunt with tension before you were being sucked back into another tomb.

"Commander!" Vorohil shouted, trying to reach for you, but just missing as you were reeled back over the dirt.

"Y/N!" Rían cried, alerting Elrond and Camnir of your situation. You whimpered in fear, sobbing as you couldn't fight the force; couldn't save yourself; only able to helplessly submit to your approaching doom after clawing unsuccessfully for salvation.

"No! No!" You yelped, trying to remove the chains, but another tightened around the first chain in a horribly tight, vice grip that strangled breath from your lungs from the pure burning sting. With the last of your air, you screamed, "Elrond! Please!"

You heard Vorohil sprinting after you, freezing in your escape attempt when a grisly, decayed hand extended from the ebony shadow of the tomb towards you. There was a panicked finality to your blood, fear clogging rational thought; never seeing Elrond, only focused on the threat pulling you in. But the half-Elf you meant to marry in only a few weeks time came surging onto the scene, sliding on his knees at the mouth of the tomb and swinging a sword to sever both hand and chains.

"Y/N - "

"Fuck's sake!" You snarled, unintentionally cutting Elrond off; shoving the chains from your leg, scrambling to your feet.

You were just about to thank Elrond when he instead encouraged, "Here, take this." He held out one of the ancient weapons excavated from the tomb, nodding with increased vigor before turning away when it was in your grip. You hacked and stabbed the wight that came after you, Elrond and Camnir tossing the rest of the company weapons to cast down the surrounding enemies.

"How?" Rían asked in shock, seeing the wisps of the last wights waft into the wind.

"According to lore, only the blades with which they were buried with will return such creatures to rest," Elrond explained.

"But the men buried here have been entombed for over a thousand years," Camnir trembled, turning to his companion.

Vorohil seethed, "I think it is safe to say that something has awoken them."

"No," Galadriel argued, glaring down at the wight's decaying body. "Someone... Awakening evil. Across all Middle-earth."

You ignored the conversation and slowly took a seat; leaving your weapon in the dirt while focusing on hiking up your trouser leg after discarding your boot. With a clenched jaw, you revealed the wight's chains left sizzling lacerations; the metal seemingly enchanted to burn damn near to the bone, creating craters, indentations, dimples to your otherwise pure and unblemished flesh.

You winced when fabric stuck to the wound, bearing your teeth while hissing through them; breathing turning staggered as the pain became biting. "Commander?" You heard Camnir question softly with concern, others turning to set their attention on you.

"It's nothing," you insisted, observing the wound and deciding a tourniquet was required.

"You're hurt," Elrond growled, surging forward and unintentionally knocking Galadriel's shoulder - but the Elleth didn't take offense. The others wanted to close in around you, but Galadriel held them back after witnessing you before. As Commander of the Southern Armies, you had seen many battles with Galadriel, and sometimes, you sustained injury; she's witnessed how you turned akin to a panicked animal when accosted with attention - no matter how genuine the concern.

"It's nothing," you repeated, reaching for one of your belts, "I'm fine."

"You're not - "

"It's a burn, Elrond, nothing more," you sniffled, feeling how far up the chain had gone; deciding to tie the tourniquet above your knee.

"Let me," Elrond whispered, laying his hands over yours that shook and trembled without abandon.

"Elrond - "

"Just," he snipped, needing to pause and take a breath, "please, let me help you."

Behind him, Galadriel ushered the others away to a short distance; deciding to gather whatever belongings of Daenor they could to honor his lost life. You met Elrond's worried gaze and nodded, sniffling, "Okay. J-Just above the knee, here," you showed him.

"I know, love, I've got yah," he breathed, shuffling closer and kneeling beside you while taking the belt. You pulled the material of your trousers straight, grimacing when Elrond first wrapped the leather around your thigh. "All right?" He checked, seeing you nod rapidly; no words used because you were holding your breath to prevent yourself from crying out. When Elrond first tied the leather, you whimpered and his eyes turned teary. "It's gonna get worse, love, just hang on f'me - " He warned you before suddenly tightening the tourniquet, making you yelp painfully. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I know it hurts, I know, I know, I'm so sorry," he repeated, your hands latching onto his forearms out of subconscious need to feel him for comfort while he secured the leather belt. When done, he reached for your cheeks and pet hair that escaped your braids behind your ears, encouraging, "Breathe for me, just breathe, love. You're all right, there you go. Breathe. Good, good, I've got you, I'm so sorry, just breathe, just breathe... Oh, I, uh..."

"What's wrong?" You worried when he trailed off; eyes full of tears and his mouth half opening while retracting his hands that you held by his wrists still.

"I've blood on my hands..." He splayed them in display between you two.

"It's okay - "

"Got it on your face," he frowned.

"It's fine," you insisted, sniffling sadly, "it's my blood, anyway. We should be moving - "

"You're hurt."

"I know, but it's not life threatening, I don't need coddled."

"I'm not coddling you - "

"You are," you half smirked, "because you're worried."

"Of course, I am," he scoffed, using his sleeve to wipe your cheeks and temples free of blood. "How can I not be? You..." His voice quaked with emotion, "You are my starlight, my fairest friend, my sweetest love. Seeing you hurt..."

"I know," you whispered, bringing him close so your foreheads met, "but I'm okay."

"For now."

You sighed, pulling back to respond, "Don't say that, don't even think it. Optimism is our only friend in this situation, else, what is the point of going after Sauron?"

He needed to take a breath, sniffling his own emotion. "Fine. We should rest until morning... Regroup, give you time off this leg for now."

You nodded, "You sure?"

"I think we could all use the reprieve," he admitted.

"Does that include you?" You asked while caressing the coils of chestnut off his forehead.

"I'm fine - "

"As I am?"

Elrond paused, then scoffed a small laugh and nodded. "I'm managing..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Hey," you whispered, bringing him back to your forehead, "you're doing an excellent job of leading this company. But we all have limits and tonight was a lot, you deserve the time to breathe."

"Time is something we don't have."

"We have enough for now," you insisted, more or less forcing Elrond to relent.

As Daenor's belongings were pulled from the tomb and buried in the scorched earth his killers had rose from, the company each offered you hollowed words of condolences for your loss. Beside Elrond, it was known, you and your brother-in-law were great friends - being the reason he met and eventually married your sister. His sword was embedded in the ground as a marker, the company gathered to silently pay their respects while their commander stood at the riverbed's edge in deep, solemn contemplation.

You held one of his daggers, intending to keep it in reminder; pocketing a few pieces of jewelry, intending to give it to his wife. However, all was interrupted when from a distance, you heard the booming rumble of drums. Not just any drums, but the beating sounds of a marching procession; something ominous and daunting. You perked up, standing to your feet as something dark and familiar started in your chest before sinking to your gut. By looks of your company, they, too, heard the drums and shared your worried thoughts; sheathing Daenor's dagger to your belt and surging for where Elrond stood speaking to Galadriel.

"Forgive my intrusion," you bid the pair, Elrond turning instantly.

"Are you all right?" His hand reached for your hip instantly, trying to help stabilize you - if you had been off balance.

Your hand laid to his cheek, answering swiftly, "I'm fine," before dropping your hand to rest on his bicep, "but we've heard drums - in the deep. Sounds like there's a host on the march."

This sent the company into action, tracking the sound of the enemy over leagues of wooded area. By the end of the day, at dusk, you all gathered slowly on a darkened clifftop; watching in horror as legions of orcs marched down the beaten path to the sounds of their war drums. "Orc treachery," Rían cursed upon sight.

"That trail...?" Elrond questioned, letting go of his secure hold on you to lower in a squat, "I gather it leads to - "

"Eregion, my liege," Camnir confirmed.

"We came in search of Sauron," Vorohil narrated everyone's thought and question, "And instead, we find Adar?"

"Could they be in league with each other or... Perhaps at war," Elrond thought aloud, you shifting on your bad leg for a moment to readjust your stance among the trees.

"A legion of Orcs have marched into Elvish lands," Galadriel spat in anger, glaring at Elrond. "We are all of us at war."

Elrond agreed, "Word of this must reach the High King before our host sails for Mordor."

The silence was calm in a resolute sort of way, everyone just pausing to bask in their shock and awe. This was shattered when a distant Orc shouted, "There!" An arrow thunked into the trunk of the tree behind you, a horse neighing shrilly as it galloped through the forrest towards freedom and away from its pursuers. Just as the company turned to face the enemy, another arrow flew through the air almost inconspicuously, finding its mark in the soft part of your chest just beneath your sternum.

You grunted when the arrow landed, taking half a step back and wanting to cry out. Instead, you just held where the arrow embedded itself in your flesh. You felt dizzy suddenly, clothes and hand saturating with blood as the arrow had pierced through the aorta artery to cause major damage. Irreparable damage. Fatal damage...

In a whisper, Elrond told his soldiers in Sindarin, "Hold!"

In the distance, the Orcs were heard complaining about the horse escaping while a few random arrows were fired off again in a last ditch effort to wound the animal. If you did not move, the mangey creatures did not notice, smell, or sense you. But you couldn't form a full coherent thought, just understanding your injury, the looming grace of Death soon to kiss you, that breath was becoming increasingly harder to come by, and the pain - the pain was aching, soon spiking.

You did not mean to, but your fear was too great to ignore, and you stuttered in a whimpered gasp, "El-Elrond?"

His head snapped over, seeing the arrow protruding from your chest and feeling himself crumble inside. You were choking on blood, trying to remain silent - and they all saw that effort. How blood came splattering from your nose as you tried to subdue your noise, but that only made it harder to breathe; inadvertently choking, a groan strangled from your lungs just as Elrond reached you. He held you to him with his chest and single arm anchoring your waist, the other lifting to lay his hand over your mouth as Galadriel glued to your other side for added support.

The company moved back several yards, covering ground swiftly before laying you down behind a natural outcropping of protective rock. You were struggling, unable to fight it any longer; hacking a cough, blood spewing, splattering, streaking down your neck, the pain insurmountable. Elrond's one hand cushioned under your head, tears in his eyes as he could only hold you as the Orcs were heard closing in, other hand once more clasping over your mouth.

Still, Galadriel was sandwiching you, wincing when Elrond's hand stifled your groans of pain as he strained himself to peak over the top of the rocks. When he lowered himself, your lover leaned his forehead on your temple and hushed in your ear, "I'm so sorry." Upon lifting, he met Galadriel's eyes, who had been examining your wound, only to find her's full of sadness. Her head shook with muted words - telling him whatever she saw wasn't good.

You whimpered lightly. The Orcs could smell an Elf.

You wrangled Elrond's hand from your mouth, "Lis-Listen to me - "

"Hush, do not - "

"Shut up and listen!" You hissed, keeping hold of his hand, "'M not makin' it outta this, love, you've gotta go. L-Leave me - "

"No!"

"Elrond. Leave me," you insisted, "and they'll k-know 's m-me they smell. Y-You have t'warn the H-High King."

"I'm not leaving you," Elrond grit.

You smiled sadly, "And I love y-you for that. B-But you h-have t-t-to."

"Not in this lifetime," he begged, a few tears falling. "Just give me time to think, I'll figure something out."

"Time... Is something we don't have," you repeated his words from earlier. Suddenly, Galadriel just knew something without words; a feeling; a sort of understanding that she could help in this moment. She heard you whisper, "I'm so sorry, this wasn't supposed to happen. W-We should've had so much more time - "

"Please, don't say that," Elrond begged quietly.

Galadriel took a sobering breath and moved her hands to the base of the arrow; pressing enough to make you wince and breath in sharply. Elrond went to tell her to back off, but paused when The Ring of Power she wore twinkled in the dark night - seemingly pulling you out of that fatal twilight. Your breathing turned slow... Eyes clearing of hazy pain... Life breathing back into your flesh...

The arrow fell out, making all three of you gasp. Galadriel's hands fell away as your own shot to where your wound had been - finding it healed between the fabric the arrow tore. You looked at the Elleth in shock, breathing, "You healed me...?"

She just nodded, Vorohil speaking in astonished Sindarin, "Amazing."

"You're - You're, you are - ?" Elrond stuttered in shock.

"I'm okay," you confirmed, caressing his cheek as he beamed down at you in pure glee. "I'm okay, love, I'm okay; Galadriel, she healed me," you sniffled, looking to your friend. "Thank you, my friend."

"Of course," she breathed, the Orcs heard shouting in the distance to overturn every rock. With a look of shared understanding, Galadriel told Elrond over your body while you tried to mop up some blood, "Get to Lindon. I will occupy them as long as I am able. Get her up."

Elrond huffed through his nose, but did as bid - not like he needed to even be told in the first place. He gathered you into himself and stood, making sure you were stable before looking back at Galadriel; slowly squatting again as she wriggled the ring from her finger. "Take it," she breathed, presenting Elrond with the band of jewelry. When he made no move, she snatched his hand and folded the ring into his grasp, "Take it, Elrond!"

"What will you do?" He asked begrudgingly, storing the ring in a leather pouch for safety.

"Something foolish, probably," she smirked, nodding in meaning. "Now, go. Go!"

"Elrond, love," you whispered, holding your hand out for his and heaving him to his feet. "With me, c'mon, quickly," you advised the others, beginning the trek down a new path in the woods. As you moved, you realized that Galadriel's ring hadn't just healed the arrow wound, but the Barrow-wight's chain, as well, which helps remedy your limp.

A semi-safe distance away, there came a decently loud and abrupt boom behind you, and upon looking, saw the trees up in flames. It was where Galadriel must've been battling the Orcs alone.

In earnest impression, Camnir narrated, "She scarified herself to save us all."

Elrond came to a halt when he realized his company members were captivated by the sight of heroics in action. So he interrupted their dreamy thoughts by calling, "No, you are mistaken, Camnir." He stalked forward through his delegates, telling them in their native tongue, "She did not do it to save us."

Tension simmered over each member.

"What?" Camnir questioned.

Elrond turned away from the spectacle with Galadriel's fire, consulting the dark again, speaking with ramped distain in Sandarin, "She did it to save the ring." His hand reached for yours again, the two of you leading the company forward with him calling over his shoulder in the Common Tongue, "Hurry!"

requesting rules and masterlist

TROP masterlist

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brights-place · 1 year ago

Note

hi hiii! is it alright if i asked for seperate nsfw hcs of creek (+ BROZONE BEGGING ATP) w submissive fem!reader who is touch-starved, a bit insecure and tends to get easily flustered (who may have a thing for being praised in bed)? any type of hcs would do tho, but I'd also specifically like to hear what they would say to the reader pleaseeAJFJKDMGM 😋😋🤭

Brozone with an touch starved S/O

Pairing: Brozone X S/O (Seperate)

Warnings: MDNI, Mild cursing, NSFW, and Smutttt

A/N: It’s all good! Your like my 8th request so it’s fine! plus I love writing requests for all of you （≧∇≦）

John Dory

- When you first started dating and he held your hand he didn't get that hand back for awhile cause you played with it and clinged to it with an soft smile stuck on your face

- He took note of how when he gave you any affection you'd melt into his arms and cling to him or would smile at him with an loving gaze

- Every time he see's you staring at yourself in the mirror he knows just to go over and hug your waist and put his head on your shoulder praising you which makes you flustered

- But when it’s in the sheets OHOHOHO oh god I love this

- when he held your waist dominating you in bed while his hands slowly touched and caress your skin

- Your small noises and your doe eyes looking up at him made him know you were begging him to fuck you

- When he praises you while your riding him and blushing an deep red on your face as he whispered the praises in your ear as you move faster and kiss him lovingly

- “G-God t-that’s right- Agh~ your doing S-so well”

- John Dory would love when he praises you how you go faster and plan to pleasure him more to get more praises and affection from him

- when your done he’s make sure to clean you up very well and continue to praise how good you were which made you even more red and giggle

- You two obviously cuddle as he holds you tight while you nuzzle into his shoulder tiredly

Spruce/Bruce

- When you two started dating he shows his affection so much and enjoyed how you blushed easily or when you stutter out for him to stop but he knew you didn’t want him to

- he enjoys seeing you become flustered due to his comments and when he touched your waist when you do an job well done while working

- He always make sure your happy and when he shows you affection he always knows how you light up is amazing

- when you cling to him when he doesn’t show affection cause he always show it to you he’s chuckle and then pepper your face with kisses

- enjoys your love sick gaze when he kisses you and holds you so close

- Hands on your waist or holding your hand whenever he can

- Time for the flavored part that you horny lovers want Neheheheheh

- When he praised you in bed he couldn't help but smirk when you let out an moan and looked up at him with teary eyes

- I mean he’s enjoy it so much

- a breeding kink and praise kink? OHOHO This man loves it

- His cock touching the back back of your throat grabbing your hair while praising how your doing so well sucking him off

- “Ngh~ your doing so well honey just d-do it like that”

- Literally loves having him inside your gummy walls that milk his cock dry and or in your mouth sucking him off either one he enjoys

- When done he makes sure to give you as much affection needed like always and would kiss your face praising you.

Clay

- Okay but you wouldn’t tell me clay isn’t touch starved

- You two show each-other so much affection holding hands and cuddling whenever you get the chance to do so.

- it goes for both of you. You each give each other physical touch that is craved and words of affirmations

- When he see’s your sad expressions or talk bad about yourself he wraps his arm around your shoulders and kiss your cheek or hug your waist happily

- He makes sure your happy with yourself and happy around him even if your sad he’s comfort you

- Your both in the sad book club and are the ones that cry holding each-other close

- When you two were doing the deed he grabbed you by your hair lifting you up as your head was stuffed into an pillow hands gripping onto the sheets your back arched

- He praises you for your noises and being able to go through the punishments and rewards he was giving you for being good for the day

- When he praises you he enjoyed how you shivered at his touch as his hands stroked your sides before making you switch positions so he could hear the noises past your lips much clearer

- He enjoyed your panting and your eyes rolling back while you clinged to him

- “You feel good l-love Ngh Come on let me here your pretty little moans”

- would chuckle at how you’d thank him for making you feel so good and being lovely

- when done you with your Uhm… Stuff he would go clean you up and change you to your PJs and would go clean himself after

- You two would lay in your shared bed while watching tv together.

Floyd

- THIS WAS ALL BEFORE! BEING CAPTURED BY VELVET AND VENNEER - NEHEHEHHEHE I know How many Floyd simps are out here who want some food for their fav emo troll

- Anyways Floyd being the sensitive one is Every Thing

- He would notice how you'd seem freaked out and worried so he'd wrap himself or hold you

- He loves how you soothe and calm down quickly in his arms

- Loves your small gasps when he randomly puts his hands on you. his hands slowly touch and caress your skin - Peppers your face with kisses whenever he can and you two would do daily cuddles and chat on the couch - He took note of how when he gave you any affection you'd melt into his arms so fast he'd laugh and cup your face - Now for THOSE floyd simps who want to have and read more FREAKY Stuff

- He's bent over the counter and praises you as you pound into him

- Literally whimpers at how you'd continue to make him feel every inch of you and how he notices when he praises you more you'd go harsher on him which he enjoys

- When he dominates more he enjoyed how you grip onto him crying and thanking him. He enjoyed your panting and your eyes rolling back while you clinged to him

- “T-there yes Good job baby NGH~ Right there your so good ”

- would chuckle at how you’d thank him for making you feel so good and being lovely

- when done you with your Uhm… Stuff he would go clean you up and change you to your PJs and would go clean himself after

- You two soon talk about random things sometimes plan and see when you two are free to go on an date.

Branch

- Him and Clay are touched starve mother fuckers like DAMN?!

- MAN WAS LEFT ALONE FOR 20 YEARS

- he'd show you affection in private but not in public actually if he's jealous he'd hold your waist tightly glaring at anybody! - He show's affections holding your hand or holding your waist tightly

- He loves cupping your face as you cuddle which made you smile.

- You two obviously cuddle together as he holds you tight while you nuzzle into his shoulder tiredly while hearing your giggling makes him smile softly

- Get's abit overprotective if someone else tries to touch and show you affection but he knows your loyal. His love languages includes acts of service, gift giving and physical affection.

- He makes sure your happy with yourself and happy around him even if your sad or annoyed he'd walk over and hold you close

- TIME FOR THE DEED TIMEEEE!

- This man you cannot tell me is a switch but leans more into the dominant side of things!

- When doing the deed he'd make sure your comfy while letting himself slam in and out of you repeatdly

- When he grunts and whispers praises in your ear he enjoys how you become louder and you drool on the sheets of the bed while whining

- "You can't seem to st- Ah~ Stop enjoying what im Ngh~ Doing. Are you m-my love?"

- When finishing doing the deed he's amazing in after care. Would say how amazing you did while cleaning you up

- he stayed by your side giving you all of the peace and comfort he could give you after doing the deed

reblogs + comments are appreciated ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

©brights-place 2023 — do not repost on another platform, copy, translate or edit my works! if you fit my DNI list please don't interact

#dreamworks trolls #trolls 3 #trolls band together #trolls branch #trolls john dory #trolls clay #trolls spruce #trolls floyd #trolls x reader #trolls reader inserts #branch x reader #john dory x reader #clay x reader #spruce x reader #floyd x reader #fanfic

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namelessgakusei · 2 months ago

Text

Extra EP. 1.3 Conflagration

Devil May Cry x Reader Insert

Warnings: It's DMC. Based on the New Netflix Series. Spoiler warnings for the actual show. Not proofread.

EP. 1.2 COMBUSTION (prev.)

EP. 2.1 Lead us not into temptation (cont.)

Synopsis: Unbeknownst to you and Dante, there are people plotting to bring the two of you down.

Deep within the Whitehouse gathered various people of authority, united for the same agenda of addressing the strange Vatican City Bombing. Dr. Fisher explains that a network of terrorist demons might be behind the attack, a claim immediately questioned by the general of the military, saying that America shouldn't entertain such ridiculous notions. Suddenly, a voice cuts in, defending the doctor's claim.

Vice President Baines turned to the general to his left, the glare accumulated from years of tactical management visible in his face. "I assure you, he is serious."

Dr. Fisher continued his presentation, saying that demons are related but separate from humans when it came to the evolutionary branch, having tested the DNA left on the scene. He explains that they exist and are natives from another universe, a parallel plane to Earth. While the talk about their place of origins continued to escalate, Vice President Baines furrowed his brows, deep in thought.

Mythology exists to explain Reality, said the doctor.

Apparently, there exists an interdimensional rift that acts as a bridge between the two universes, although it has been blocked for millennia by a field of quantum interference. There had been natural disruptions that makes way for demons to pass through, but are unstable enough to only let lesser ones in, enabling them to blend in the crowd. The president sputters and struggles to keep up, asking what this all means.

"Which means the big demons are stuck on the other side." Dr. Fisher nods. When asked about his employer, the presentation changed to reveal the organization. "Dark Realm Command." The bright red color contrasted the black screen as the insignia reveals the rest of the name. "DARKCOM, as our PR department insists we call it."

"DARKCOM is an independent dimensional security firm, funded by private investments, such as my own." Baines' voice made everyone shift to his direction, understanding well on who has the real power within the room. The lull in the room was broken by a hurried employee who insists on making everyone see the contents of the tape he delivered.

The screen plays the last moments of the group of criminals who raided the Vatican City Museum, revealing the culprit behind the attack, the White Rabbit. He spoke of a name, Sparda, as he marvels at the sword. This ignites the curiosity of the doctor, having heard the name before. But what soon followed in the feed was the brutal deaths of the men and the Rabbit's taunting words. "The gates of Hell will open soon enough."

"To any sapiens wishing to join the celebration," It's clear that the Rabbit planned for this video to be found, as it's like he's speaking directly to the leaders of America. "If you want to catch a rabbit, find the hunter."

"Hope to see you all there♡"

The thief screamed in agony as the Rabbit continuously stabbed him, laughing manically as the man dies.

The president staggered to get up on his feet, still shaken from what he saw, saying that this is all too much to deal with. Baines assured him that this is all real. Hell is real. And this is the start of the Holy War that Humanity should win.

"I believe the demon is toying with us." Dr. Fisher's expression hardened, nodding to the executives in front of him. "Giving us a clue to its next move. We need to figure out who this hunter is, which can only mean..."

"A Demon Hunter."

Baines' posture straightened up as he barks a command, voice low like a storm about to hit. "Find every demon hunter you can. And bring them to me."

Paranormal offices were raided, hunters were captured, beaten up if they resist, as they were all brought together in interrogation rooms. Frauds were weeded out from actual hunters, but it didn't saved them from getting hurt here and there. No matter how much they fight, they were always asked the same thing.

Do you know the White Rabbit?

Finally someone spoke up. A man, tanned with dyed blond hair, asked for a cigarette in exchange for his information. He said he knows a guy, a broker for demon hunters and mercenaries, a hustler who feeds off the bottom of the bottom feeders. "Last time I saw him, he told me how he'd set up this job for a talking bunny."

"I didn't give him much thought, coming from a serial liar and a drunk." The chained up demon hunter smirked at the other side of the one way glass.

"But maybe he wasn't lying." And perhaps he wasn't, and if it adds up, it means the White Rabbit was operating in New York. "Give me a name." Baines glared back, although he knew that the man can't see him from the other side of the glass.

The club was crashed in by a SWAT unit, their black uniforms completely out of place under the colorful lighting, demanding the whereabouts of Enzo Ferino. People screamed in surprise but didn't budged, either too high or drunk to care, but their target wasn't. Enzo jumped over a table and bolted upon seeing the cops, passing through the dancing crowd, who weren't too pleased by his hurried movements.

He thought he was safe when the fire exit was on his sight, cackling at his escape from imprisonment once again, only to get a door slammed to his face. The staff member gaped as Enzo was apprehended.

Enzo woke up with a start, handcuffs on his wrists and an electric shock clip about to get connected to his skin. "Before we start, you should know that I'll tell you anything you ask me about any subject!" He sputtered, narrowly avoiding getting electrocuted. That seemed to work, as the clip was withdrawn, but it didn't stopped the information broker to try and get the situation "under his control". "Now, let's talk compensation—"

The clip was nearly shoved to his face.

"Alright, I'll do it for free! You guys should really learn how to negotiate properly."

"Tell us about the White Rabbit." Baines' voice boomed from the speaker. Enzo chuckled and started recalling the events of their meeting. "He showed up at my office with a job that needed expediting."

"And that didn't seem strange to you?" Baines looked like he was about to murder someone as he leans closer to the mic. "A six-foot talking rabbit." But it only made Enzo scoff, saying that in his line of work, it's only a slow Tuesday. "Some demons making noise over on the west side that he wanted clipped. Calling too much attention to themselves and whatnot."

"Why? What did it mattered to him?"

"Y'know, I saw the price he was offering and I must've forgot to ask." Enzo shrugged and grinned. "One thing about it that struck me as funny is that, he has a particular demon hunter he wanted me to hire." He grimaced, shivering at the memory. "Wouldn't take anyone else."

"Who?"

"Kid named Dante."

Enzo frowned after that, saying that he's a sweet kid. "Bit of a troubled past, though. You know how it is, Dad not around. Mom and twin brother brutally murdered by demons. Y'know, that sort of thing." Before grinning again with a, somehow, proud expression. "Got attached to my kid though! They're practically hip to hip! Can't separate them for too long, else they get antsy."

The last part was promptly ignored in favor of digging up information on Dante. Dr. Fisher successfully pulled out his file and began snooping for details they could use. "Dante. Last name unknown." His mugshot was unserious, picking his nose and not standing straight. "Looks like he also works as a standard hired gun. Oh! And if half of what I'm reading here is true, his capabilities are extraordinary."

"What else do we have on him?" Baines frowned while the doctor marveled at what he saw. "Anything that explains the Rabbit's interest?"

"Hmm. It is said here that he always works with another demon hunter regardless of any mission. And he's recorded going AWOL from five separate jobs."

"Why?"

"It just says... Ugh." Dr. Fisher looks disappointed. "Got bored?"

Baines frowned, and asked about the other demon hunter, making the doctor pull out another file. Dr. Fisher's eyes widened at your document, there you stood properly for a mugshot photo, only glaring too much at the camera.

[Demon Hunter PII]

Name: (Y/N)

DoB: Unknown

Age: Unknown

Address: 862 Divine Street, Brooklyn, NY, 11206

Sex: [redacted]

Nationality: Unknown

H: [redacted]

W: [redacted]

EC: [redacted]

HC: [redacted]

Skin: [redacted]

Prof: Hunting High Ranking Demons

[Document Title]

Demon Hunting Evaluation Report

[Subject]

Name: (Y/N)

Occupation: Mercenary, Demon Hunter, Information Broker

Affiliated Group: None

[Overview]

This report serves to outline the evaluation of (Y/N), a demon-hunting mercenary and information broker, in both their job performance and comprehensive performance.

[Contents]

- Successfully completed every mission using a variety of self-made guns inside their briefcase.

- Capable of dealing with multiple enemies alone with their physical ability and agility.

- Always accompanied with the Demon Hunter, Dante and vice versa.

- Often acts as a mediator between Dante and their team mates, keeping him in line and solving conflicts before it arises.

- Their great combat skills and quick thinking are well-acknowledged, but their mutual reliance to Dante showcases their codependency.

[Combat Experience & Skills]

- 10+ years of being an information broker

- 5+ years of demon-hunting experience

- Has an excellent reputation in the black market and the demon hunter community.

- Experienced in battles with various types of demons; specializes in tracking and documenting demons.

- Highly skilled in marksmanship and weaponsmithing.

- Outstanding crisis management ability in dangerous situations and great tactical knowledge

- Skillful with military weapons and firearms, creates makeshift weapons within record time.

- Specializes in close-combat.

[Personality]

- Level-headed and cautious

- Confident in their ability and power

- Constantly seen bickering with Dante, even in dangerous situations, but compliments each other in combat.

- Can be flexible and work together as a team to complete missions, but usually works with Dante.

- Sharp and observant.

[Remarks]

Unauthorized access to classified missions.

Reason: DANTE GOT BORED AND I WAS CURIOUS. Y'KNOW, OLD HABITS DIE HARD.

*Assumed to be referring to their occupation as a broker, further investigation is due to find out if there will be a leak.

[Evaluation Report]

Mercenary (Y/N) demonstrates distinguished demon-hunting abilities. However, they need to be able to operate independently.

Further caution needs to be exercised when interacting with them due to their tendency to dig into your background.

"This is quite the combination." The doctor beamed. "This must be the kid that Mr. Ferino talked about. If they are really attached to each other..."

"We could use them to lure Dante out." Baines narrowed his eyes towards your picture.

"I heard a rumor once about demons who were too powerful to cross over, so they learned how to project their consciousness into our world and possess stuff, poltergeist-style." Enzo's warden was the unfortunate victim of his ranting. "You ask me, that's what this White Rabbit is. A possessed kid's toy." The broker grins towards the speaker, which replies to him with—

"I didn't asked."

"Look, look, look, that's all I know. If you're after his location, I can't help you. I only saw him once." Enzo shrugged and groaned, but Baines assured him that they already know where to look, as a man with a rabbit head can only avoid surveillance for so long. This made the broker scoff, saying that there won't be any survivors even if they send a team. But Baines replied with a cold voice.

"There was only one."

Before he sighed over the mic, asking of what he knows about the Sword of Sparda. Enzo tried retelling the tale that everyone knows, about the demon that rebelled against his own kind and sided with humanity, but the vice president cut him off, demanding him to give new information. This made the broker raise a brow but nonetheless complied, having no choice, as he reveals the existence of an amulet. The doctor immediately went to work and realized that it was the missing piece of the puzzle, that it was the transmitter that enabled the separation of the two worlds and while the demon technology is medieval, their understanding of the quantum principles is far more advanced than Humanity in its current era.

But Enzo said that the amulet was split into two, so there will be no way for the realms to be open to each other without limit; so long as the amulet remains broken, so will Armageddon remain as just a myth. It didn't stopped the doctor from listing out the worse possible scenarios, however, before being silenced by Baines, saying that they won't let it happen as it is the DARKCOM's purpose.

Their divine charge.

To be the last line of defense against the Inferno.

The Vice President mulled over the fact that the Rabbit already have the first half of the amulet, only for the door to swing open, with a jittery soldier coming out of it. It's the survivor, the doctor says, Anders from the J-Squad. The soldier insists on having sensitive information that he just had to say it directly to Baines, concerning the Rabbit and the end of the world.

"I heard the Rabbit say something after he'd done this. He was pissed off, furious, sir. He knows where the other half of the amulet is, and he tried to get it back already. But his plan failed."

"He's gonna try again. Soon."

Baines narrowed his eyes at Anders, inquiring more of the plan that the Rabbit said. But the soldier shook his head, saying that he doesn't know that much, only something about hiring someone for a set-up job. "Whoever it was, that's who has the other piece, sir."

Realization dawned to both Baines and Dr. Fisher as they both turned to the yawning Enzo.

"Dante."

taglist!: @mischiefmanaged71 @tamashithe2nd @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @96jnie

#devil may cry #devil may cry x reader #dmc #dmc x reader #dante x reader #dante sparda x reader #gaku's works!#devil may cry x reader insert #dmc x reader insert

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butterbabyflapjack · 1 month ago

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chapter4 . blood and menthol

✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

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

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

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

✧˖° wordcount: 22k

✧˖° chapters: one, two, three, four, five

✧˖° ao3

✧˖° taglist: @fionasapple88 @alllaboutangel @fan-goddess @ireallydontknowohcrabs @littlestar2005 @chuiisi @morrrrphin @ohmillerbaby @dilfismz @moediexoxo sorry if i forgot anyone!

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

✧˖° author's note:

I'll edit this someday. please blame any typos on my nails, and please pardon my tits cause I gave you the ability to stream music from your 2007 flip-phone, which isn't technically impossible however unlikely but I don't wanna rewrite so here you go, enjoy!

✧˖° chapter 4: blood and menthol

The neighborhood’s so quiet, save for the sound of your and Brian’s footsteps across Gary’s darkened drive. The hush of midnight all around you; its distant chirps of cicadas carved through dusk. And even having been here once before, at this bastard’s house, you’re more on edge than it feels you should be. So much that even nightfall’s silence seems to make a sound, one only your paranoia can hear, until Brian’s voice beside you breaks through that anxious murmur of the night.

“Spare keys behind the garage?” he wonders of what you’ve previously told him, and after shaking yourself for the hundredth time, you nod.

“Yeah,” you tautly say, before clearing your throat. “Yes… Beneath that hideous rug with the smiling sunshines on it.”

As he saunters through the shadows beside Gary’s hushed, unassuming house, he brushes aside the fronds of a few untamed bushes; holding up one cycad’s low, hanging branch with all the flourish of a supposed gentleman as he waits for you to pass him.

“Well, at least he’s courteous,” he muses down at you, “making it easy for us. As if under the rug wasn’t the first place I’d check.”

His dark eyes follow closely after you as you attempt to make yourself small enough to slip between the wall of his chest and the house, and even nervous as you are, your pulse still briefly squeezes as your eyes are tied to the lingering of his. A silent glance in your mutual nearness, before you’re tearing yourself away in shirking past, hurrying off as he waits.

Gods, is this gonna be a problem all night..? You’d think your hots for teacher would’ve faded by now in favor of the much more important things you need to be focusing on, other than all those ways his gaze alone feels to unravel your mind.

The branch he holds scrapes down the side of the house as he follows after you, with you once again slightly tense to have him at your back. Hopping off a bit quicker to get distance from him; slinking around the dark bend to the back of the house in fetching that key from beneath the rug again, so much quicker than the first time you’d broken in. And to be honest, the last time you were here, you’d nearly just given up on breaking in cleanly–so close to just busting out a window and scrambling inside.

A key is quieter. Safer. And you have other people to protect other than yourself tonight. And as you unlock the back entrance of Gary’s garage with restless fingers, you curse yourself for still being apprehensive when there’s so much to lose tonight, especially by not being steady. Hoping Brian doesn’t notice how you shake, doesn’t chastise, as the lock clicks obediently open and you curl your tremulous hands into fists at your sides. And good job–you’ve accomplished the grandiose task of unlocking a door–so far, so good, or so you congratulate yourself as you slip inside. Cautious as you make your way through the shadow inside that dark and dusty garage, with the door left ajar for Brian to follow in after you.

He seems so undisturbed, so at home in this–breaking into someone else's home in the dead of night, while you can’t seem to shake your hyper-awareness of just how easily all this could slide straight to hell, more and more the closer all your plans actually scrawl themselves into being. For yourself, for your sister, your niece… Even Dexter and Brian aren’t safe from the fallout of your potential failure tonight.

Whether your hands still shake because of adrenaline or nerves, you can’t say, but you ball them into tighter fists, regardless. Walking by Gary’s mini-van, his choice of car just making you hate him even more, before you’re jolting out of your skin as you make to sidle past the front of it–just like you do every time Brian touches you, and why is he always touching you–?! Doesn’t he know what personal space is?!

His fingers form a bangle around your wrist from behind, and you’re rigid as he smoothly turns you back to him.

“Hold up a sec.”

Your knotted brows are more to conceal your speeding heart than to question him, and you tear your hand from his as though he’s scalded you; forcing some amount of measure to your tone. “What?”

He doesn’t immediately respond, seeming distracted from it. Something coiled in that look of his as he heeds you; a prowling jackal to the shape of his lips.

“Don’t look so nervous,” is his eventual tease, and you feel yourself glowering up at him.

“I’m not nervous.”

He seems to tongue the sharpness of his teeth behind his little smile; a measured chuff escaping his arrow-straight nose.

“As much as I appreciate your adorably thin bravado, you're not the one who’s supposed to be rushing on inside.” He quirks a raven brow at you in the dusk of Gary’s garage. “This is why you brought me along, remember? To deal with wrangling your little friend into submission, tying him up with a nice, pretty bow, so you can take him out?”

You don’t like how infinite his amusement is in toying with you, especially with how uncertain you still somehow are, indecision weeding through the web of your heart. And it’s not like you’re changing your mind, like you don’t want to kill the disgusting fuck who owns this garage you’ve broken into, but…

It’s just—like you’ve previously told him… A lot. And it’s falling into place so quickly, converging to a point where you can’t back out.

Tension takes a firmer hold of your jaw.

You’re not backing out.

“Just stay back and keep quiet,” Brian commands, your dutiful partner in crime. Debonairly entertained, as he always is, whilst departing, “Let the big bad wolf lead you inside.”

You pull a face up at him. Big bad wolf? Really?

Cheesy, cocky fuck.

“I think you have some sort of God complex.”

His eyes sparkle slightly through the dark.

“Yeah, well,” he lightly shrugs, “give God the wheel then, honey. You need to watch before you walk… That is,” he slowly eyes you, “assuming you’ve never knocked a grown man out before inside his own home…?”

Which, no, you haven’t. You’ve apprehended people, sure–held them at gunpoint to prevent their escape, handcuffed and thrown them in the back of your cruiser, but knocking someone unconscious to later torture within an inch of their life…?

Nope. Haven’t quite done that one.

So you just bite your lip and sigh; stepping back against the shelves lining the front of the garage to allow for him to pass you.

“Go ahead, then, Murder Jesus,” you say, and see his godless smile.

“That’s a new one,” he notes as he slips on by you.

“Feel free to add it to your list of nicknames, right beneath ‘blasphemic motherfucker’ and ‘human equivalent of the common cold’,” you say; adding as a supposed afterthought, “oh yeah. And ‘big bad wolf’, since you’re apparently fond of that one.”

He lowly chuckles as he leads your mutual way toward the door which leads into the house.

The hinges of it creak far louder than you remember the first time you broke inside, and while you flinch, the sound doesn’t deter Brian. He just smooths his way on inside; holding the door ajar for you with one arm outstretched. His face nearly invisible in the dark, and yet you feel his interest curled around you. Before, once more, he’s leading your way further inside.

In, past a dark, little kitchen that hasn’t been cleaned in too long. In, down a hall past a shadowed foyer on the right, and all the while both your footsteps lightly creak along Gary’s hardwood floors, cinching your heart with each telltale step that you go.

Brian slows just enough, his profile half-turned, that you suspect he might ask in which direction Gary’s office lies. But then he sees it; dim light pouring out of some distant room to the left down the hall, mute against this night-bathed, windowless corridor.

Something ugly trickles its way down your neck as, in your mind, you see Gary’s office again; that room where that vermin now hides. That room with his drives of abuses, that room where you came so close to killing him, if only he’d been home that first night. That room where you were first introduced, face to face, with that hate-blinded creature inside you; unearthed from some place previously untouched. A creature which stirs in you now, more and more as you picture it, picture him–Gary, sitting there, relaxing in that room, and you don’t realize you’re forging past Brian until his hand’s once more a shackle round your wrist.

Jerked back by his leash from your warpath, you turn with indignance to see him severely looking down at you.

Wait, he mouths silently, and though you tense as though to argue, you swallow it down. You didn’t sign a devil’s deal not to get a devil’s help tonight, after all, and so you wait, as that devil instructed, for him to uphold his end of things right now.

He eyes you a moment more, like he’s watching that stubborn struggle inside you, and only once it seems he’s deemed it sufficiently doused does he continue on, leading your way again, while you swallow hard before following.

The further you go, the closer you come, the more your heartbeat hollows a steady cavern in your chest, and it’s all you feel, all you can focus on beyond the shape of Brian’s back.

Thump-thump.

A tempo slowing to a savage crawl as at last you turn that hallway’s bend and see Gary there— actually see him. Back turned with how he sits at his sprawling computer. A thick, pudgy outline against the glow of many screens, and he does have a lot of them… and what he must often use them for makes you sick.

You and Brian pause at the room’s doorless entry, just watching him from afar, and you’re frozen–not from hesitation, but from hate. Held impossibly rigid as contempt and loathing fight in you to be fed, to sink their teeth in and tear at anywhere their vicious maws might latch. And all that doubt which bleeds through you slowly spills, drifting away. So quiet beneath the hammer of your rage. A whisper which grows till it’s howling and urging that you hurt him, that you kill that bastard right now. And even the imagined sound of it, of Gary’s deserved torment, is the only sound that in any way drowns out the remembered sobbing of your niece on those tapes–the worst sound you’ve ever heard and will do anything to never hear again.

The whole world feels silent beneath your heart’s hateful pulse. Maybe that’s why Brian’s so soundless as he brushes past you, stalking like a lynx into that room. His features duskly edged by the fluorescence of all those monitors as he prowls to where Gary sits so unsuspecting, so honed on whatever’s on screen.

Brian’s towering outline is black against the glow; Dexter’s syringe already primed, held loosely at his side, his agile thumb upon its plunger. And where your own hands still hold an overwhelmed tremble, his own a master’s repose.

Hesitation isn’t a thing that exists in him. Steady, as he always is; well-versed in what violence may come as he sinks that needle deep into the side of Gary’s neck before his prey can even realize what’s happened, that a hunter’s even here, hunting him down. Squeezing paralytic venom in his veins as Gary yelps more from surprise than anything else; twisting back in his swivelling chair so swiftly he nearly falls right out.

From the doorway, you see he and Brian’s profiles carved against all those monitor’s light. Can barely see how Gary’s bewildered panic is craning upward, met by Brian’s lazy, little smirk.

“Looking forward to when you see me again,” Brian says with coolly.

Gary’s hand flies to where that needle bit, abruptly fighting as though to stand, to flee this smirking stranger in his home, but that stranger’s not in the mood to deal with that, it seems; shifting forth to grapple a panicking Gary from behind before he can fully stand, wrestling one arm around his neck and squeezing.

“You’re about fifty kinds of fucked right now Gary, you just don’t know it yet,” he says from behind, wrangling in Gary’s struggling. Voice a smooth hum above the strangled, drug-addled sputters of Gary attempting to demand who he is, what he’s doing here, to say anything or draw a single breath around Brian’s python arm. “It’s probably best you calm down and just go with it.”

He tries to throw his elbow back into Brian’s gut, and is rewarded by how much more fiercely Brian bodily chokes him.

He exhales his amusement against the top of Gary’s struggling head as he speaks as though to stall a nervous horse, one who’s frightened over nothing.

“Relax, big guy… There you go…” his grip’s tightly adjusted as Gary’s oxygen-starved flailing wilts and starts petering out, “–You’re not going anywhere I don’t want you to.”

The second he’s fully slack, Brian releases his neck without a second thought, allowing Gary’s limp-fish body to slump from his seat to the floor with a heavy and unceremonious thud, and it takes surprising self-restraint on your part not to come right up and kick that unconscious vermin as hard as you can in the ribs.

Instead, with all that self-restraint you apparently have, your nails carve painful crescents into your palms as your gaze simmers down with disgust at his form, before you’re glancing up at Brian again. Seeing him already watching you—a dark sculpture against those screens—as though his intensity prowls around the hedges of your overwhelmed mind.

It feels invasive, that look. Like he can so easily slip in and out of the walls of your mind. And you do your best to block off whatever your tangled expression might betray, even when there’s nothing to hide.

If anything, you only speak to curtail that darkened brand of curiosity he seems to reserve just for you.

“What now?”

At length, he tears his gaze instead toward Gary on the floor.

“Now,” he returns, indifferent as ever, “I carry your fucked-up friend here to his five-star trunk ride to hell.” His brows are mildly raised as his interest’s returned to you. “Unless you’d like to spare me the trouble by simply killing him right here…?”

The idea of it’s more tempting than he might realize, as you really don’t like existing in a world where Gary’s alive. But still, your little, thoughtful frown at the thought of his life ending so swiftly in ignorant black seems enough to curb the suggestion of sparing him from your table, as already Brian yields with a brooding sigh.

“Ah, well,” he melodiously hums. Already crouching low to drag Gary’s crumpled body from off the floor; hefting him up like a satchel of rice, which he tosses over the sturdy bridge of one of his shoulders. Rising to his feet again with the ease of someone doing a thing a thousand times before whilst he muses, “Maybe next time.”

Next time…

You hate how he keeps saying that.

“There won’t be a next time,” you counter, aggravation weighing your lashes as he carelessly steadies Gary’s hefty weight. And he merely smiles, his amusement grating, like jagged teeth on your skin.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart~” he says, saccharine; already walking past you from the room, hauling Gary along for the ride.

---

Dexter found the perfect place for your kill tonight.

And as, together, you and Brian and Gary all bound toward it–one big, happy family–Brian lazes one lithely rugged forearm upon his window’s opened ledge, fingers tangling with the wind as he drives down that darkened stretch of road before you. Winding, as it does, in and out of foliage so dense it swallows the stars and sky above you in swampy woodland. Your tires splashing through flooded portions of the road as asphalt fades to dirt the further out you go, your passage thinned to a single lane that leads to what will soon be someone’s hell, just not Brian’s or yours.

You stare out your window at the steep, rising trees all around you, suffocating night; ever thicker the deeper you go. Down, down this rabbit hole, until there’s not a chance anyone will witness what you’ve done, what you will do. And though you still don’t trust Brian nearly enough to tumble into the furthest depths of where you’re going all alone with him, here you are, even so–alone with him, tumbling.

And together, you tumble deeper, deeper still along that marshland road, until at last Brian’s fancy car begins to slow. Tires bumping as he turns off at a near invisible fork in the narrow road, leading off into the web of trees. Your passage rougher with disuse; wetter with lingering humidity. Until, eventually, an old, abandoned boathouse rolls slowly into view from the lingering, midnight dark.

Its dusty windows flash as Brian pulls toward it, old glass muted against the spotlight of his headlights, falling dim as he eases his flashy car to a bumpy halt. Mottled, greenish-wood paneling peels with age all across the small cabin’s exterior, and there’s a tiny dock attached to the side out back; no longer adrift in what water once lived here, that has since sunk away, drained by time to some place else. And as the car’s engine shuts off, you’re already slipping outside without waiting for Brian. The low murmur of insects and frogs serenading you, and nothing else.

It’s silent as a grave all the way out here. And it strikes you that you need to be cautious. This is a perfect place to kill Gary, as well as anyone else.

Desperate for whatever clarity the chill of your gun might give you, your hand draws to where it rests against your hip, like the weight of it might spare you from your nerves. Yet still, you flinch at the sound of Brian’s door abruptly slamming closed, followed by the sound of his fancy-ass shoes as they tread on the earth.

“You sure it’s remote enough?” he idly barbs, sparing a glance at your newest surroundings; everglades lit only by what starlight leaks betwixt the canopy above.

You bite the inside of your lip to keep from immediately retorting, as it took a while for Dex to find this place, one you felt safe working in, and the least his brother could do is be appreciative of that.

“Dex wanted to make sure we’d have plenty of time to work without being interrupted,” you excuse his choice of locale. “I’d say he did a pretty okay job.”

You hear Brian’s low chuff as your eyes trail away from that dingy little cabin before you. Watching him saunter around the car and toward the trunk, with keys toyed in his long fingers.

“A bit overcautious, my baby brother,” he muses. Popping the trunk, which echoes through the little clearing you stand in before being absorbed into the trees. And then he’s slipping those fancy-ass keys into the fancy-ass pocket of his charcoal slacks again, and you don’t know why your eyes draw toward their loss–or, actually, you do–that car’s the only way out of here.

No, just–stop.

You don’t need to be focusing on that.

You have enough to worry about without keeping track of car keys or Brian’s every particular whereabout.

Plastic baggies crinkle in the night as Brian starts loading up gear from the trunk, and–forcing yourself from distractions–you wander over to help. After all, like it or not, you’re in this together. And the sooner tonight is done, the sooner you can get on with your life.

The trunk is stuffed full with way too many boxes and bags of equipment, including the black leather satchel Dexter lent you, which you’ve been charmingly referring to as his ‘kill-bag’. You’d dug through it earlier, before leaving your house, and found it mostly packed full of clothes. And crumpled up between all that murderous gear, you slightly recoil upon seeing Gary’s form; crumpled like a broken, pudgy doll with a punchable face and a swollen bump on his head from hitting the floor.

Good. There’s more where that came from.

You’re so glad to be rid of his presence you nearly thank Brian when he abruptly halts from loading gear to instead grab one of Gary’s forearms, yanking his portly body up and over the lip of the trunk so that he topples face-down to the earth outside it. And when you glance up at him beside you, you find his gaze already studies yours.

“Don’t get distracted,” he says, before turning back to loading gear again.

Heat flickers up your throat at how easily he reads you, and are you really this open a book? Or is he just annoyingly talented at reading you?

“Have you ever killed someone like this before?” you ask to distract yourself, grabbing up bags of tape and tools beside him. Glancing at how he keeps himself focused. And for a while, he seems almost to ignore you, before eventually he’s asking:

“Like what?”

You really shouldn’t be this apprehensive still, and yet you still swallow against a knot inside your throat. “Like this. Like Dexter does.”

He appears to spare the notion some thought. Like he’s forced to tumble down so many previous kills just to find any just like Dexter’s, which is admittedly slightly concerning, but we’re not being nervous here, remember?

“I sure as hell tried,” he says at last. Hooking more bags around the lengths of his fingers, before sparing you a glance beside him. “Or did you already forget?”

Which, no. Of course you didn’t. You’ll remember that night you and your team found Deb on that plastic-drenched table for as long as you live. So much that for a second, a harrowing flash, you can’t seem to scrape the unwanted image from your mind–of Deb’s frail, naked body strapped to that table…

And your mind’s running wild, it must be, because just as swiftly as you see her, she instead becomes you.

Bound and stripped bare, tied up in that garage.

Wrapped tight in a web of clear plastic that makes you helpless in your struggles to move. Every inch of you flinching as Brian smoothly steals inside your terrified vision, standing above where you're tied face-up. A halo of light above his darkly-curled head as his dexterous, latex-wreathed hands creak with the motion of his fingers, testing the trigger of some sort of saw, like he wants you to see as its engine burns, just for you. A handsome smile on his face as he makes a meal of your horror beneath him, and you’re forced to harshly blink just to somehow make the image go away, to rid yourself of such a scene, so that it’s taken back to the shadows of your mind from whatever overactive paranoia it surely spawned from.

Why are you picturing that–what’s wrong with you? That’s not going to happen, tonight or ever, and in frustration you tell yourself again to stop worrying about everything–!

“Or, at least,” Brian continues over the spiral of your thoughts, seemingly oblivious to them; a heavy roll of plastic tarping hefted up beneath one sculpted bicep, “I tried, to…” he selects his words with care, “gently encourage someone else to.”

His own brother, as you recall. ‘Cause that’s not fucked up in the slightest. Then again, Brian Moser and ‘fucked up’ go comfortably hand-in-hand.

“As you’re well aware,” he says above shifting plastic, undisturbed by whatever your lack of response to this might mean. “Seeing as how you likely dismantled that would-be crime scene, my dear detective.” Even as he says it, his baritone drags; increasingly unamused. “Uninvited, I might add. And you pigs truly do have perfect timing… My brother was so close to tasting freedom before you and your self-righteous hogs came bounding in to ruin everything.”

Irritation roils down your nape, and though you don’t exactly want to piss him off–you still need his help; a lot of it–you can’t exactly help yourself from biting, “That whole plan was incredibly shortsighted, by the way. Trying to make Dex take Debra out.”

From the corner of your gaze, you see the way his movement briefly tenses, and hear his flat, “I wasn’t asking for your opinion on it.”

You simply shrug. Grabbing still more bags laden with gear, and they’re starting to get heavy but you’re desperate for this to be over with as quickly as possible.

“Just offering some advice for next time,” you muse almost to yourself, “in case you get the bright idea to try something like that again.”

You feel his darkened glance. Feel the weight of whatever thoughts he refuses to voice, and yet in their absence, still you continue:

“He was never going to kill Deb.”

He snatches a box of stretch-wrap from the depths of his trunk far more fiercely than one needs to, though his tone remains smooth. “And I suppose you know everything, don’t you?”

“I know that much,” you return, stuffing your arms with a few last bits of gear, too. “She may not be blood, like you are, but…” Hands overfull with hardware, you step back from the trunk enough to steady the whole of him in your unwavering gaze. Firm in this, at least, if in nothing else, whilst you tell him, “She’s still his little sister. Will always be his little sister. And if you truly want what’s best for Dexter, you’re just going to have to live with that.”

A tightened ripple travels down the pale column of his neck, knotting his scruffy jaw in lack of response to this. And it seems a violinist's string is pulled taut in him; one which plays a note he’s disinclined to let you hear, to let anyone near the thorny note of.

“You and my baby brother have so much in common,” he lowly murmurs at last, all velveteen gruffness whilst he focuses on task. Adding like a honey-laced insult, “No wonder he likes you so much...”

All things purchased or thieved at last all saddled up between you, he nudges closed the trunk with one lanky elbow of an overfilled arm. Stepping over Gary’s misshapen body in venturing off without you–without another word, another glance–off toward that abandoned boat house in the distance, while you watch him go for dragging moments before forcing yourself to follow where he leads.

The inside of that cramped, old cabin is dark. Untouched by anyone besides yourself and Dexter for so long, and the two of you had only stopped by briefly, just long enough to vet it as a kill space.

“What do you think?” he’d said, walking in with the sureness of owning the place, like he was a realtor selling you on it; so much you almost expected him to tack on cheerfully, ‘It’s great for last-minute homicides~’

And you’d glanced around, wary footsteps creaking on those splintered floors, before resolutely telling him, “It’s perfect.”

You were so much more sure about this back then. And, again, you blame Brian for your sudden lack of aplomb. That way he needles beneath your skin without effort.

It’s more-or-less a singular room, this place, with wooden walls and floors. One wall on the left lined by cupboards and an old sink that doesn’t work, while another’s veiled by moth-eaten blinds and dirt-stained windows. The furthest wall’s hedged by a long, vacant, cobwebbed counter, and beside it there’s a boarded-up door leading out to the old dock outside, leaving the front door the cabin’s only real entrance. And already deep in dusty shadows, you see Brian flip at a grime-covered switch, idly testing the room’s only light; a dangling, naked bulb which sways above a scarred and heavy oak table at the center of the room.

The light flickers, then pops, as though clawing itself back to life, still barely clinging to existence thanks to an ancient generator that’s somehow barely functioning outside. And as the room flickers into a low, steady buzz of light, Brian’s dark eyes drag to that table in the room, with thick legs and a top notched by years of storing gear or gutting fish or whatever else its previous owner used it for. And it’s like he can see how his brother dragged it center-stage, when first he and you came all the way out here; smiling softly to himself as though he pictures it.

“Dex, you’re so predictable,” he muses in fond derision. Heading toward the length of empty counter beyond it, spanning that furthest wall from both the door and you.

He sets his bags down on the floor, for a moment–deftly unwrapping a roll of plastic sheeting, which his brawny arms flex as he shakes in unfurling. Laying its clouded, billowing length out across the top of that counter as it crinkles and sinks into place, and only then does he stoop to fetch his bags, again. Setting them down upon the tarp-laced counter as you force yourself to move past the doorway you’ve been watching him from. Walking in past that large, center table and coming up alongside how his height looms so high above yours.

You let Dexter’s kill-bag droop off your weary shoulder, slipping down on the dirty floor, while the rest of your gear is plopped heavily upon the counter in much more of a mess than how Brian’s currently arranging all his own.

“You know, I’m not usually the sentimental type,” he says, focused on his hands, his work. Taking items out of bags one at a time as he places them, all upright and faced-forward, all a single inch apart, as though compelled to exhibit them perfectly. “But there’s a few things I find myself wondering about whether they’re still being held in evidence for me.”

Dumping items out of bags beside the meticulous showcase of his own, you nearly scoff at the presumption held in such an offhanded statement. “Nothing’s being held for you, Brian. It’s being held to aid in the criminal case against you.”

Beside you, Brian shrugs. “All the same. I’d like to take them off your hands before leaving town again.”

And you don’t want to indulge his ego at how simple he makes the task of that sound by asking any follow up questions, but you can’t repress your curiosity enough to not eventually ask, “...What items?”

He scarcely smiles. Sparing the merest glance at you, before focusing once more on his work. Setting tools out as though for your future selection, which makes your stomach tense inward when forced to actually think about, so you do your best not to.

“Some of my sculptures,” he says, nonchalant. “I could always make more, but…” he shrugs again; the merest flex of broad shoulders. “I’m rather fond of these ones.”

You eye him as he continues meticulously placing tools, with him too engrossed to really regard you.

“I’m not stealing anything out of evidence for you,” you say at last, and see one corner of his lips curl up.

“I don’t recall ever asking you to.”

“So you’re just going to stroll right in and take them? While being on the FBI’s most wanted?”

He blithely hums to himself. “You make it sound difficult, saying it like that.”

Your lower lip juts at his brazen assurance, but you don’t see a point in trying to dissuade him, misguided though he is. You’d probably make more progress persuading a brick wall than in any way persuading him.

Let him find out the hard way. It’s about time he’s arrested.

“I’m still surprised our search of your place didn’t turn up a parka, speaking of raiding your place,” you say. Spilling out the haphazard contents of your last plastic bag, you turn to fully face him. “Or even a pair of mittens. But I mean… I guess it makes sense. You weren’t chewing on menthols like your life depended on it while dicing up Tony Tucci like a Christmas ham because you weren’t always catching a cold in that giant fridge, right?”

That huff of laughter suits him. Knots your insides up tight. Pleasantly annoyed with you as he muses, “Maybe I just like the taste.”

“No one likes the taste of menthol.”

Halted for a moment from his work, he reaches down inside the pocket of his slacks. Large, agile hand withdrawing something crinkling, its wrapper scraped against your ear as he smiles down at your thoroughly disenchanted expression, and of course he brought menthol with him. Unwrapping that lozenge one-handed before tossing it idly behind his teeth.

If anything, your lack of enthusiasm only fuels that little, mischievous smirk of his.

“Yum~♡ ”

And you can’t help it. A little laugh escapes in a stunted breath before you clear your throat to stuff away the sound of it, though you see his smirk grow all the same.

Finished staging his tools, he goes about fixing the mess of yours, like he just can't stand the disarray of them. And then he glances about the rest of this small, musty room you both stand in. His chiselled features caught in the glow of the naked bulb which hangs from its short length of cord over the table, pendulous from the crumbling ceiling above.

“We need to get the rest of this place set up,” he says, before his shadow-hued eyes draw to you. And though he says it, he doesn’t move. Something about his darkness feeling to slowly sink inside you, tying your thoughts into snarls you can’t seem to untangle from. “But before we do… You’ve been grilling my ass all day and night with questions. It’s only fair you answer one, yourself.”

You can smell that lozenge on him. Cold and bittersweet, just like himself. And he’s unfairly attractive just lifting one dark eyebrow down at you like that, so effortlessly beguiling, so much that you would have torn your gaze away just to spare your pulse from spinning out if not for the challenge in that look of his. ‘Cause you’re not about to back down from a challenge, not from him–he wouldn’t let you hear the end of it, and it’s only a question.

“Fine,” you accept, and see his subtle, watchful smirk. “Ask away, Mr. Moser.”

His seeming relish that you’ve accepted is fox-like, and the man is certainly dashing, if disastrously so. But, then again, what devil isn’t? And for a moment, that devil merely eyes you, as though running the edge of his interest across the shape and shade of your mind.

“Your boys in blue gave me quite the nickname,” he says at length. His low, serrated voice taking on a wholesome note of mockery as he recites that name right now, with all its noteworthy horror, “The Ice Truck Killer…” To which his smile is smooth, all sugar and cream. “Quite the daunting title, truth be told.”

You make a show of hiding what might be your amusement. “Your point being?”

His lozenge clicks against his watchful canines.

“So,” he says, too casually for how his words feel like a loaded gun, “what do you think they’ll call you…? All those dear friends of yours down at the station? When they find out what you are?” His eyes glint harsh. “What you actually are, instead of this well-behaved, manicured little shih tzu you pretend as…?”

He’s so damn cocky. So assured of his words holding truth, when they clearly don’t, but even so it takes a moment to respond. And you don’t know why your throat slowly closes, only that it does.

“That’s not going to happen,” you say at last. “Not if you do everything you’ve given me your word you’ll do tonight.”

That curl in his amusement’s so slight. A clever shadow to him.

“Who said I was talking about tonight?” he drawls, before his dark brows barely hint with a crease of supposed concern. “I’ll keep your secret safe tonight.” His eyes glimmer dark. “But I might not be here the next time you need a little help. And you may not be so cautious the next time you dirty your hands all by your little, eager self.”

You’re so sick of him bringing this up, alluding to things that won’t happen, and though your lips part to denounce what he says, his words somehow poison your mind, twisting their way in your thoughts.

“Stop it,” you attempt to cut his fun with you short, and see his brows further hitch at your blunted insistence, like he hasn’t a clue as to why you’re so upset.

“Stop what?”

He knows exactly what.

“Stop trying to fuck with me about what’s happening tonight ever happening again,” you hear yourself growling; aggrieved that he’s still playing dumb. “It’s not going to. And I dunno why you’re so adamant that it would.” Your teeth dig into your cheek as you’re grumbling, “I have enough to worry about right now without you continually trying to worm your incessant way inside my head. What happened to you insisting I not be distracted?”

He exhales a low breath as his gaze, like rough-cut jade, is dangerously glinted. And he doesn’t hesitate from sinking a few steps closer to where you stand, closing through what little distance lie between you.

He takes your chin in the speculative hold of his hand, perched between knuckle and thumb, while you blink up far too quickly at him in surprise of it. Unable to pull away from the warmth of his hold, even as you inwardly scream at yourself to. Somehow too stricken from anything but to stare as he slowly tilts your face, this way and that–just slightly, so curiously–as though appraising the shape of your mind in his hand. The design of your thoughts. Searching for his place in them.

“Hmm…” he’s low to muse, and why can’t you slap him–!?

“...I’m already in there,” he observes, tone dragged an octave lower. “Right… there…” he goads, so softly, giving your chin a little pinch like he spots it–himself, in your head–and it truly feels he’s twisted his way inside. His thumb stroked up along the curve of your hesitant chin as his gaze alone sows seeds of himself you can’t seem to tear out the roots of. “There I am~” he lowly smiles. “So warm and so damn snug. So at home within this lovely skull of yours.”

The corners of his hooded eyes slowly pinch, like he knows how so little succeeds in strangling your pulse.

“I’ve been in there a while, too…” he goes on just to taunt you, the dark shape of his eyes nearly glowing. “Huh… No broken windows… No dented shutters… Not a single sign of forced entry to those walls of your mind…” His little smile’s edged with guile. “Seems I merely had to whisper at the door, and you rushed forth to let me inside.”

Your jaw feels like glass in his touch, so hard and close to fracturing, as at last you succeed in doing what you should have done the very second his taunting started–slapping his damn, disastrous hand away, whilst his smile edges sharp enough to slice.

“Quite the imagination you have,” you grouse up at him, fighting the burn of blushing from your cheeks. Tempted to shove him away from how closely he stands, though for whatever reason, you’re hesitant to actually touch him. Probably because your feelings on Brian Moser aren’t exactly contained, it seems, and are very much verging on some humiliating form of physically and mentally debilitating.

“Is you speaking part of our deal in me getting your help tonight?” you grumble up from his shadow. “‘Cause if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather we work in blissful silence from here on out.”

His laughter’s low and simmering, a dragon’s rumble in his throat. And even the sound of that spears treacherous want right through your middle, which you fight with increasing frustration to staunchly ignore. Telling yourself it’s annoyance he wields, and nothing else, which so tightly entangles your thoughts. And fuck, get it together, stop letting his disgusting good looks steamroll all functional thought–he’s a wanted serial murderer, not whatever the hell your evidently untamed libido wants him to be. You have a job to do tonight, and that job’s to kill a man, not to begrudgingly eye-fuck another one or whatever the hell you’re doing, and it doesn’t matter how unfairly hot he is. Or isn’t. He’s not.

Eyes darkly glimmered at your request, he lifts a hand up to the softness of his lips–slips the invisible zipper of their seam closed–and you hate how charming he is even when keeping his stupid mouth shut.

Just as requested, the two of you resume your work in merciful silence, transforming this room into a sterile playground of things to come. Laying out large, clouded tarps along the cabin’s hardwood floors, draping the walls with similar coating; clear, heavy plastic hanging ceiling to floor, until the cabin’s details are swathed in them, muted behind their mask. Windows and cabinets all hazily obscured inside this new, plastic world you create for yourselves, as together you tape every edge down with roll after roll of packing tape, until you stand in a smooth and softly crinkling plastic bag, one that will keep every spill and slash of carnage from ever slipping out, from ever being found by anyone. And it’s unnerving, how all that plastic eats away at every sound beyond itself; how every step of yours or Brian’s presses polymer to wood, how every ripple of tarp draping the walls fails to echo. How aseptic this room feels when you know, very soon, it may be dashed in blood. A synthetic tapestry painted in arterial shades that will likewise stain your hands, perhaps even stain your soul. And you know Gary has to die tonight, it’s too late to spare his life, and–what’s more–there’s not a shred of you that thinks he deserves to keep it. But as you look around this pristine, plastic visage which precedes what nightmare may come, you struggle to scrape how that sinkhole of doubt in you grows.

If nothing else, you’ll put a bullet in Gary’s head. You may not’ve killed a man before, not even in the line of duty, but Gary isn’t a man. He’s far less than that. And a bullet, at least, you can manage.

Light hazes off the billowed ridges of plastic hanging all around you, dimly caught against the room’s only light as Brian wraps that center table as though entombing it. And when at last the room is done, prepared to Dexter’s meticulous standards, it seems so too is Brian’s vow of silence.

“How about I go fetch your friend?” he lightly suggests, with a glance around this plastic landscape; keen eyes ensuring there’s no holes for filth to slip loose. An edge to the shadow of him as his gaze returns to where you’re uncertainly hovering a few feet away from him, especially as his interest travels slowly down the contours of your shape. And though your lips form a scowl, though you want to scold how brazenly he does so, a coiling spark low in your stomach won’t seem to let you speak.

“I’m sure my baby brother didn’t leave you to your own devices tonight as far as your wardrobe’s concerned,” he says at length, dark eyes returned so casually to the frazzlement of yours. “So why don’t you slip into something a bit more comfortable while I’m away, hm?”

Lifting a measured brow, he merely eyes your strangled silence as it drags, before he’s turned to depart this plastic room, and thank Gods he didn’t seem to notice what a tongue-tied idiot you so often become in his insufferable presence. If he had noted it, you probably would’ve thrown something heavy directly at his handsome fucking face just to shut him up.

Forced to shake from the unwitting snare of him, you turn toward where you left Dexter’s kill-bag slouched upon the floor beside the counter packed full of hardware. Your nerves given a pinch as you wander up and notice that length of chain you were so aghast about back at the store, coiled amongst those tools all so methodically placed.

He doesn’t seriously expect you to use that, does he?

Turning away from all those potential methods of murder–some certainly messier than others–you focus instead on what you should be focusing on. Crouching down before that kill-bag to withdraw from it the second costume you’re to wear on this ill-fated ‘date’ your night’s deemed fit to drag you on. But hey, it was your idea, so you really can’t be complaining about it.

Dark, heavy mucking boots. Elbow-high gaiters the shade of shale. Off-white latex gloves. A thick, rubber apron, the same black as your shoes. And to tie it all off: a bulky, clear-visored ultrex face-shield, which you’re really not sure is necessary–you’re not about to enter the splash zone, are you? Then again, you seem to recall Dexter’s own version of this helm being smeared in red by the time you walked in on him in that abandoned storage shed...

Fingers wriggling into the tight fit of your latex gloves, you drag each sleek, crinkling gaiter up each of your forearms, the elastic bands of which cinch around your biceps and wrists, protecting your forearms from anything wet, which you definitely try not to think about. And once they’re on, you consider that clear-visored crown for a moment, before simply setting it aside amidst the showcase of murderous hardware, unsure if you’ll actually wear it despite Dexter’s monotoned insistence as it replays in your head that you should.

It’s quite the ensemble, even now, when not fully pulled on yet. Not truly intimidating, but… if you were to wake up kidnapped, naked, bound to a table, laying there helpless before someone wearing it…?

Yeah. It’d be a little disconcerting.

You’re jerked back from the fictive image of what you must look like by the sound of the cabin’s door creaking open on rusted hinges, again. Twisting across one shoulder to see Brian pushing his way in again, nudging the door fully open with the bridge of one shoulder as he hauls an unmoving Gary upon the sturdy line of his other.

He lugs Gary to that table at the heart of the room, tipping his weight off so he slumps down like a dead trout upon it, plastic wrinkled beneath his heft. And for all those times you’ve felt like slapping Brian, you currently feel like slapping yourself just to snap from your senseless nerves. Swallowing hard at the sight of an unconscious Gary on that table, before stiffly turning away; focused on getting dressed, on distracting yourself from anything that might stand in your way, including and especially yourself.

“Aren’t you going to dress up, too?” you ask the wall as you lean down to drag those boots out.

You hear Brian shifting Gary’s form atop the shrink-wrapped table, adjusting his limbs in a manner to be more appropriately tied. Assuming, without a glance, that the shuffled sounds of tarping and fabric and buckles must be Brian undressing him; shucking his clothes away piece by piece just like his brother would have done if he’d been the one helping tonight.

“I’m not getting my hands dirty,” he says, and it feels his gaze scrapes up the length of your back, tensing you in the wake of what might only be imagined, seeing as you stubbornly won’t turn. “Am I?”

His baritone’s glossy, goading, and at its challenge you can’t help but snark, “No. I just think it’s kinda cute how you and Dex dress alike when you kill people.” Slipping more sugar into your tone, you further wonder, “Did you coordinate outfits on purpose? Or was it just an adorable coincidence?”

You hear his little chuff, before he’s musing, “It’s efficient. But I guess your current getup makes you a part of the family…?”

Kicking out of your shoes, your socks are soft on the vinyl blanket beneath you, barely making a sound as you step inside each of your heavy boots, one by one.

“What,” you wryly venture, arms a bit awkwardly wobbled as you struggle with the height of those boots, “you’re my brother now, too?”

“Wouldn’t you say I’m more of a father figure?”

“The idea of you fathering anything is horrifying.”

His mirth-laced hum does disastrous things to you, threading warmth where it shouldn’t exist. Forced to fight against the pull of it, of him, as you grab your rubber apron somewhat harshly from where it’s draped upon the counter in front of you. Yanking its neckband gruffly overhead so that the sting of it might save you from yourself.

You’re reaching back to tie it when you hear his footsteps treading plastic, walking toward you, and though you tense to turn around he’s already slipped those drawstrings from your hands, taking the task of tying them from you.

The column of your spine flinches taut as you feel him tug their blackened lengths into place, snug around your middle. His long, agile fingers working deftly as they loop a perfect knot at the small of your back; purposeful, firm in how he slowly ties them for you. And when he speaks, his voice is a saw-toothed murmur; its deepness scraping up your skin in delicious, sickening ways, sending ripples up your neck that rouse every hair along your skin to tight attention.

“You look good like this…”

Gods, and you thought you couldn’t be any more tense…

Why is he always fucking with you? This has to be on purpose… Actually, no, there’s no way he knows how much existing this close to your orbit fucks with you. At least you fucking hope not, Gods, you’re–it’s the stress of tonight, that’s why you’re such a mess. It’s getting to you, that’s all, that’s it, but even knowing this it’s still more of a struggle than you’d like to admit to unwedge your tongue enough to speak.

“Like what?” you dryly ask, forcing blandness. “Someone who sprays down sixteen-wheelers with a high-powered hose at truck stops?”

You do your best to corrode that ever-present something that always feels to flex the air between you, and especially when he’s standing this close. But whatever that something is, it further curls around your every tangled thought as he finishes tying that knot. As you feel his knuckles drag down the curve of your back, as though appraising the job that he’s done–the scarcest touch, yet it's still so disarming.

“No,” he responds, retaking your apron’s knot with the hook of two fingers. Tugging you just a step back so that your ass runs flush with his groin; a puzzle piece of him which feels far too convincing a fit, and you don’t know why you can’t move, your whole body clamping as his words seek the back of your ear, dipping low–the heat of them ruffling your hair.

“Like someone who takes what they want,” he murmurs.

For one stupid, thoughtless moment, you swear you nearly melt back in his touch. Nearly sink into those hands which barely touch you, and it must be imagined, how restrained they feel from taking more, from pulling you deeper into the dark of himself. And you want to push away from him–you do–but you’re reduced to sculptor’s clay in his artist’s hands. An unfired doll for his fingers to form, to play with; to mold into whatever shapes they like.

So it’s nothing short of a goddamn miracle when you somehow manage to resist the inexplicable spell of Brian fucking Moser and that incline to ruin he’d lead you on, managing to scrounge together enough syllables to get out, “Y-ou… should probably finish tying Gary down.” And yeah. You stuttered. It’s mortifying.

He doesn’t budge. A hum wavered low in his throat from behind you as his hold of your drawstrings twists a fraction more tight.

“Should I…?”

Yes, he fucking should–so why can’t you say it? Why can’t you just get away from him–?! Just take a step in any direction but his, just–!

“He’s not gonna stay unconscious forever,” you attempt to save yourself, and at least you’re not stuttering anymore. “How long does that stuff keep someone out? The M99, or…”

With his hand still knotted in your drawstrings, his thumb softly trails across the hollow of your spine whilst he far-to-casually informs you, “He’s probably due to wake up any second now…”

And the panic of that wrapping tight around your throat finally frees you from his paralytic touch, whatever witchcraft he wields to continuously strike you senseless and needy and dumb as you flounder out, “What–?!”

You twist around so sharply that his hand falls away from your back, with him lowly smiling down at that way you back up into the counter behind you just to create some much-needed distance, and why is he standing so close…?!

It’s goddamn annoying how much you’re forced to crane your panicked glare up just to meet his lofty smirk. And you’d like to think you’re composed whilst composedly sputtering, “–Then go and–! Go finish tying him up then, Brian! You– what – Brian–!”

The green of his gaze is so sharp when he’s amused like this, and he exhales a rumbled laugh as he regards you. Seeming to enjoy this frazzled show of you unable to get a full thought out, like he finds the ordeal of you funny.

“Alright, alright, calm down, killer…” he mercifully allows, the barest curve to his watchful lips. And you thank the Gods for small miracles when he steps away, leaving you and your poor, constricting heart standing there alone, pressing back into that counter as though your life depends on it, watching as he instead shifts further down its length. One long-fingered hand nabbing a few, lengthy boxes of industrial grade stretch-wrap, his movements as smooth as always, before he’s turning off toward Gary passed out on that table again. Offhandedly musing as he goes, “By the way, has anyone ever told you you work great under pressure…?”

The blunted sarcasm isn’t lost on you, but you’re still too tongue-tied to hit him with anything more than an unamused scowl, which he isn’t exactly privy to with his broad back turned to you.

He gets back to work preparing your victim for you, like he always should’ve been doing instead of invading your personal space. Uncoiling long, clouded strands of stretch-wrap from multiple tubes that he uses to strap Gary down till he’s basically mummified, the flesh of his stomach sticking out of those plastic binds around his groin and chest like dough in a tube, and he’s truly revolting, both inside and out.

Turning away from how the mere sight of him fills you with swift-burning rage, you turn instead to that counter of tools. Your interest unwittingly drawn toward a small and sleek tank of propane that glints a bright, cerulean-blue against the room’s hazy light, with a silver nozzle angling out the top of it.

Is that a blowtorch…?

You’re already stepping toward it as the thought enters your mind. Taking it up in your hands; its metal cold and biting beneath your inquisitive touch.

“I didn’t see you pick this out,” you muse down at it as Brian straps Gary down, and feel him glance for a moment at what little he can see from that angle of what you’re holding–though it seems he sees enough.

“I didn’t,” he says above the sounds of shrink-wrap twisting and layering over-and-over itself. “You did. You practically threw the entire store inside our cart.”

Even restless as you are, you can’t seem to help a devious smile as it sneaks upon your lips. Arching a brow back in his direction. “Well. Yeah. You were buying, so…”

You hear his little chuff as he goes on working.

“Childish,” he rebukes without a glance.

“Rude,” you shoot right back, not one to let him insult you.

And apparently you’re now in a conversational foodfight.

“Pitiful,” he abrades, tossing you a look from where he’s at.

“Arrogant,” you tautly return, turning to face him.

“Hopeless.”

“Annoying,” you fire back. “Got any more adjectives for me? I could keep going all night.”

To which he lowly laughs, standing fully as he turns to face you, too, having finished wrapping Gary all up like a fucked-up present.

“Speaking of taping people’s mouths closed, would you like me to tape up Gary’s for you?” he asks. “Or would you prefer to hear him begging for his life?”

He toys a casual brow at your pause to this request, but you can’t help the way such a simple question lands like a kick to your gut.

You’ve imagined how you might make Gary pay tonight, many times, but that particular detail has eluded you…

Do you want to hear him begging for his life...? Hear his disgusting voice at all?

Fuck, this…

Just… Breathe.

“...Not yet,” you eventually get out through the noose of your nerves, through those grasping hands of hate inside you. Unable to keep your voice completely even as hesitation stirs within your gut, despite all your efforts to tamp it down for good, but at least you’ve decided on one thing: “I wanna have a little chat with him, first.”

Your gaze is hard on that blowtorch, so cool within your hands, and yet you feel Brian’s interest as it scratches at your edges, trying to work its way in. But you don’t say more, and he doesn’t ask about what you intend to have a ‘chat’ about. Merely observing you in silence whilst you fight to quell that tempest raged inside.

You’re not ready for how, without warning, you hear a low and strangled moan beside where Brian stands. The sound dragging both his and your attention toward it–yours tightly hinged, while his follows loosely. That pit of nerves you keep trying to will away hewn that much deeper as you see Gary’s toes barely twitch upon that table where he’s bound. The thick strand of glassy tape which straps his head down contorting his brow as he weakly tries to move his head, to move anything at all, though with him so fiercely confined he can’t shift an inch.

He’s awake.

Fuck.

Fuck–!

–His eyes blink groggily open. Pupils shrunken against the light, and they’re the only piece of his face he can seem to move. His fingers unsurely fluttering where they’re tight at his sides, grasping at that tarp-covered table beneath him as consciousness crawls back into his body.

Brian steps away from that table as though without care about what’s happening atop it. Walking toward you, taking post near your shoulder, as though keen to gain your exact vantage in this moment; to see what you see, to feel what you feel.

And what are you feeling…? What is this overbearing, thorn-toothed thing trying to claw its way from your chest?

He takes the blowtorch from the distraction of your hands, with your attention pulled so tautly toward Gary struggling back to life upon that spotlit table that you’re barely aware of what his hands are doing at all.

“When it really comes down to it… there’s only one real way you can fuck this up,” he murmurs down from your side, soft enough so as not to disturb your still-addled prey. Setting the blowtorch down amidst all those other tools he’s displayed for you on that counter behind you. And as Gary labors to pull from the narcotic slog Brian’s drug towed him so deeply into, he wonders at your side, “Want my advice?”

And you do.

You very much do.

You feel so suddenly lost, without it–so entirely overwhelmed by your hesitance and anxiety and wrath. Thrown out to sea, with only him as your mooring. His words. His presence. His help.

And really, just how fucked are you, with Brian Moser as your lantern in the dark?

He awaits your reply, the patient teacher, and after fighting how some weight closes in more and more on your chest, you manage to give it. Speaking as though to speak at all is foreign.

“Yes…”

He hums, seeming pleased by this answer. His touch on your skin nothing short of electric, a jolt through your haze, pulling the spiral of you into him as he softly takes your chin from your side, scarcely tilting your gaze up to where his hovers beside you. His eyes shining black as he studies what your constricted face is doing beneath the mountain of him.

“Well, my lovely student,” he says, so at ease, as though this situation that’s currently unraveling wasn’t at all alarming. “It’s like I’ve said before… you only get to kill a man once.” For a moment, his eyes flit to Gary, following the intensity of your own. “You don’t want to have regrets over things you didn’t do to him. Things you might’ve resisted. Things this bastard’s earned.”

One corner of his lips tilts slowly upward as he sees that panic further unfurl the flower of your heart, and he gives your chin a little pinch as though to halt it. And you have to admit–it does a decent job.

“Don’t think,” he commands. Orders it, and you obey him. Are helpless to it in this moment, broken down as you are by apprehension; a fruit with splintered rind, opened up for the honey of his influence, whether virtuous or vile. “Let instinct sink its teeth in. That animal inside… let it off its leash. Let it decide what you do, what will happen. Let it commandeer things for a while.”

It’s all he says, before his touch falls from your chin. His other hand smoothed up the small of your back, nudging you gently forward, and even with such tempered touch you stumble as though newly birthed before once more gaining your balance. Swallowing hard, feeling pure tension radiate through your ribs as you force yourself to breathe, to venture those few steps forward through what little distance still lay between you and that table Gary’s on.

A moan crawls up his throat the closer you come, with him struggling against his mouth’s dryness, though he hasn’t yet noticed you.

“Whuh … H.. hel..?”

He doesn’t seem to know he’s even speaking. Sounds just eeking out of wagging lips while his drug-wildered mind still writhes.

“H… ello..?” Voice hoarse, it’s trailed by a fit of coughing, until he’s questioning with more perturbed insistence, “Hello…?!” And that naked bulb which hangs above his head must be blinding to his fluttering eyes, because he winces as he tries and fails to twist his gaze away from it.

You can see it. His mind slowly ticking. Realizing he’s awake, that this isn’t a dream, that he’s tied up, undressed, strapped to some kind of table he doesn’t recognize in a room he can’t recall. That he has no idea where this room is–this strange, unsettling room, coated top to toe in plastic tarp–doesn’t know this disquieting place, how he got here, why–

So many questions. And something about his confusion is intoxicating. A talon upon an itch you cannot scratch; that only his struggling can, as slowly you draw toward him. Stepping inside the sphere of his limited vision as he lay there weakly fidgeting, fighting against his bonds as he realizes they’re there. The plastic of them crinkling to a halt as he catches sight of you soon standing over where he’s strapped. Owlish eyes twitching to the motion of you.

Like a specter, you watch him fight to come together. And it's hard to comprehend yourself when all you feel is that sickly apprehension that worms its way through your skull. When all you feel is the overpowering grip of rage, slowly peeling you apart in pieces until there’s nothing left in the void of you. Just hate, and nothingness, all cradled around those fractals of your heart. Your pulse so unnaturally rhythmed as you feel it sing inside you.

Thump…

It’s all you hear.

All you feel.

And it's unnerving, even to you, and especially to Gary with that look which he now wears, just how swiftly you unravel like this. Like you’re no longer in control of yourself. Like perhaps you never were, and are only just now scarcely beginning to realize how fragile that cage which houses your fury.

“Who… wh-o are you…?” he slowly asks, rigid with a tentative, newfound fear and budding uncertainty. And though he fights to bury it, he’d have to be completely braindead not to think something bad could possibly happen inside such a strange room.

Still. Something about that irks you. ‘Cause he should know who you are, already. Why you’ve brought him here. Why you have him so pleasantly wrapped and presently tied in the middle of fucking nowhere–

Anger eats at you as you remind yourself to breathe. And when, in rising panic, Gary tries again to speak, to fill the tension of your silence with anything else, your body moves of its own volition–one latexed palm slamming down over his filthy mouth, gruffly smothering his sputtering lips.

The way his words cut short, that tiny tremor to his pupils, rouses something hungry in you from its sleep. And with your other hand, you raise one gloved finger to your lips as you coolly eye him. Shushing his demands, his confusion; though, benevolent as you are, you’ll seek to settle that for him.

“Shut the fuck up, Gary,” you say from above him, watching him blink very fast. “You only speak when you’re answering my questions, now. That’s the only sound I wanna hear leaving your disgusting lips. Shouldn’t be too hard of a rule to follow, even for you. Right?”

When he doesn't respond but to strickenly tense, when he can’t, you give his mouth a squeeze to get your point across. See his cheeks rumple up beneath your gloved thumb and fingers.

“Do you understand?”

For a moment, even if you’d let his jaw loose, he doesn’t seem able to speak. But something about the way you watch him makes him struggle to nod his head beneath your palm, the tape on his forehead tugging his skin with the attempted, jerking motion.

Still, you hesitate to actually ungag him. Reluctant to really hear his revolting voice. Everything about him repulses you. Everything. And you’d be more than happy never to hear him speak again. But, eventually, your hand slides roughly off his face, and you tilt your head to one side from where you stand. Making sure to give him ample view of your features from where he’s taped in place–showing off all the detail of your face.

“Do I look familiar to you?” you ask, and see his brows knot–see his head shaking no, side to side, the smallest tremors.

Your gaze flattens with impatience. “You can answer my questions out loud,” you prompt him; annoyed. This has only just started, and it’s already taking too long–you’re sick of looking at him. “Do I look familiar to you? Even a little bit?”

Again, he hesitates, sweat a sheen on his brow, before he's shaking his head again, only this time he’s sparked into sputtering, “I… I don’t… I don’t know, who…” He blinks very hard, like he’s struggling to really concentrate, still half-tangled in some drug-dizzy dream. “I–I don’t know who you–”

“Huh,” you cut him off sharply. So thoughtful, and yet it sounds false. “Now see, that’s interesting. Because we’ve met before, Gary.”

When his eyes widen, you patronize down at him, “Yeah, Gary–you should know who I am already. But I guess you were too busy ogling my six-year-old niece to notice me the few times we met, huh? Or notice any of those pictures of me around her house…? To remember anything at all beyond your perversion and gluttony for children…?”

You can see his muscles tense in response to that. And when he doesn’t respond, you flash him a thing like a smile, though it’s the furthest thing from an actual smile you've ever worn.

“Well,” you continue at last; amiable. “Allow me to refresh your memory. I’m Ava’s aunt.” And with this knowledge, you watch as something wracks his constricting brain; a coin of thought tumbled down through panicking slots inside his head.

“...Ava,” he wavers, bumbling the word. Flinching eyes blinking quick against the light as he haltingly adds, “Ava Black…?”

You’ve never wanted to slice a name out of someone’s mouth more than you want to slice your niece’s name out of Gary’s mouth right now, and it takes decided effort not to promptly fetch a blade for the task.

“So you remember her, at least,” you eventually say. Words betraying how your anger bleeds profusely. “Good. That’s good. I’m glad you remember her, because she’s the reason we’re here right now.” You glance around this plastic bag you stand in, as does he, struggling to do so from where he’s held in place. “Quite the place,” you lightly venture, eyes returning to him, “isn’t it?”

His breath becomes shallow with nerves, chest rising and falling fast beneath that plastic. Yet his jawline hardens–even now, staring up at you like this, it hardens as though with remonstration, as though whatever reason brought him here is wrong, undeserving.

“Look,” he stumbles, and though his pudgy jaw is firm, his words still waver. “I dunno wha-t… what this…” his eyes dart about in his motionless skull, taking in the oddity of his surroundings, “this is, but, I… I babysit for Ava, yes, that’s… th-that’s not… Look, whatever this is about, there’s clearly be-en some sor-t of… of m-misunder standing, but I–”

“Has there?” you cut him off again. “Well, why didn’t you just say so, Gary…? I would’ve untied you like ten minutes ago.”

He actually seems to think you might–the relief of it whispered across his anxious features, and you can’t have that. His hope. His relief. There’s no relief for him where this is all going. Nothing even close to reprieve.

“Except…” you’re slow to add, as though suddenly remembering. Honing your gaze to carve out all that hope from him. “...I found the videos, Gary…”

Your pale gloves angrily creak as your hands curl into fists, and you wish they were strung around his windpipe. “I found the fucking videos,” you continue, with such candied inflection it barely suits that dangerous edge you hold, that you can’t seem to pull back from. “Of you? And my niece? And all those other little girls you got your filthy hands on…?”

You can barely hear yourself speak above that mounting hammer of rage within your pulse, and how are you still talking beyond the need to make him pay for that? How are you still here, enacting anything beyond making him pay for that?

Even fearfully twisted, you can see his mind squirming, see him still trying to fight his way out of this.

“What videos?”

You should cut out his tongue.

“Let’s skip the part where you tell me someone else stuffed those hard drives beneath your floorboards,” you depart with an edge, willing your tone alone to slash at his guarded expression whilst muttering, “You’re in the videos, dumbass.”

You’re so wrapped in this moment, so utterly consumed that when sudden movement catches on your periphery, it’s like the rug of the world’s been violently shifted, spinning out until you wobble just a step. Reaching out for that table’s edge to steady yourself from how it’s suddenly hard to think, as whatever that movement was seems to redirect course, heading toward you quite swiftly, and suddenly Brian’s arm is around your waist. An anchor you won’t admit you’re so grateful for; the man’s ego’s inflated enough.

“What was that…?” he wonders beside you, lithe fingers digging into the plush of your side as, for a moment, he steadies you against the tower of himself. And if you could think at all between how your rage for the man strapped to your table and your utter magnetism toward Brian so discordantly splits you open, you might’ve been able to comprehend the question.

As it stands, you’re left inwardly striving to scramble back your lost stability for long enough that Brian’s interest slowly draws more amused.

“You alright…?”

Great question–he’s just full of them. And you struggle to unweave your thoughts before giving a short, stiff nod.

“Yeah–” you assure, not knowing if it’s true. “Yes–I just…”

He chuckles lowly, and with cheeks burning at just how charmed he seems by all of this, you strive to reform your center as more than a wavering string. Glancing up to see the shape of his smile’s knowing.

“Tunnel vision,” he affirms. Firm fingers giving your waist a squeeze. “Sorry to distract. Just wanted a better view. This is much more interesting than I’d anticipated.”

Gary doesn’t seem as delightfully interested in whatever’s going on here–with what he still hasn't wrapped his thick skull around.

“What the fuck is this?!” he shrilly demands, lost from his previous reticence beneath the blow of finding out there’s additional parties in the room, which seems to’ve further untwisted him. His fat body wriggling atop the cabin’s table in his rising confusion, though he scarcely even moves; his attempts to tear through rolls and rolls of plastic heightened tenfold. “What are you– What –Wh- Who are you people–?!”

Brian raises a slow brow down at his thrashing desperation. Soft lips casually pursed, though he says not a word. And when he glances instead at you, it’s as if he’s waiting for you to speak; for you to address your quarry, or perhaps to object to if he, himself, does. And when you don’t say a thing–anxiety once more momentarily stifling you–he slips quite easily into orchestrating things on your behalf.

“Well,” he says to Gary at last, with his arm still snug around you. Good-natured, in what seems his exposition. “This is Ava’s aunt, as you’ve already been introduced.” He flashes a handsome grin, one shared in the politeness of greeting. “And I’m the guy who’s going to watch her kill you.”

There’s a second which hangs in time, in which language and time itself no longer make sense, no longer drag forward, with you all caught inside its sluggish web. And then those halted seconds all catch up at once, speeding forth and crashing into you, into Gary, until his eyes are nearly bulging from his head, a skipping vein on his brow doubling tempo.

“You…” he struggles, like he can’t comprehend human speech, what it is Brian’s saying. “You… Y’… What…?! You… Y-You can’t…”

He can’t continue. Can’t bear repeating what was said, not even to clarify what Brian’s so calmly told him. And Brian waits, patient as ever, for the reality of his situation to slowly steal its way inside. His thumb dragged along your waist in how he holds you, musing to you like a lion to its hunting cub, “People try so hard to dance their way around the inevitable…”

That edge to his tone is apparently the key that once more gets Gary talking– blathering, really.

“Yo-u c-can’t… You’re both crazy–! You can’t... Y-ou can't kill me–!”

“Oh, I’m afraid we can,” Brian returns, quite simply. “And we’re going to. Just as soon as your lovely executioner’s finished preluding your end.”

Gary’s a broken record on that table, plastic twisting with his every failed attempt to set himself free, and he’s sweating more and more the longer he lay there.

“Y-you,” he stammers, panic dragging him further from sense, “You can’t–!”

“Yes, you said that already,” rumbles Brian, with dark eyes shining. “Might I recommend you try a different angle from all those potentially leading out of this? Perhaps a remorseful prayer? Or you could try tearfully begging...?” Gentle lines crease beneath olive eyes as he smiles, oh-so-helpful. “I’m not sure either would work, but it’s worth a shot, right?”

You can practically hear Gary’s heart slamming up against his ribs. That adhesive across his brow reflecting sharply against that light overhead as he tries again and again to writhe even a single inch to either side from how he’s imprisoned.

“I–I–!”

“Words, Gary,” Brian chastises from above him, “I’m not a mind reader.”

“I… It-It’s…” He fails to swallow, the sound a half-formed hiccup in his chest. “I… It’s not my fault,” he stammeringly implores, owlish eyes bouncing between you and he both as you stand there silently regarding him. “I… I have a p-problem, okay? I ca-n’t…”

“You do have a problem,” Brian mildly agrees, though it seems he isn’t thinking of quite the same problem Gary is.

Gary tries to shake himself, to keep his head on straight. Breaths coming fast; staccatic.

“I couldn’t... help it,” he eventually squeaks out, pathetically babbling, “I- I- I… I couldn’t h-elp myself, b-but… but I’m going to get help! I’m… I’m going to…!”

Brian purses his sculpted lips. Glancing thoughtfully, for a moment, about this abandoned little cabin in the woods, before his eyes return to the man strapped to its table.

“I don’t think anyone here’s going to help you, Gary,” he smoothly says. “Not in any way you’ll immediately appreciate, in any case. Though you’ll certainly be abstaining from all those things you just can’t seem to help yourself with for a while, so…” His slow-formed smile’s all cheek. “You’re welcome~”

Gary’s once more fighting to shake his head, a vein on his temple throbbing. “Th-is is a joke–this isn’t… You’re insane! Y-you can’t–!”

As his naked arms and legs anxiously twist beneath all that clouded plastic, his composure takes a nosedive toward violently inconsolable.

“Yo-u can’t do this!” he shouts at Brian, at you; nostrils flaring as he struggles in place, little good it does. Spit speckling his chubby chin as he screams and writhes like a rat in a glue-trap, “You can’t do this! Y-y-you–! Let me go–! Help! Someone help me! I’ve been kidnapped! He-lp! Help–!”

It might’ve been funny watching him completely fall apart like this if the repellent sight and sound of him didn’t jam the spokes of schadenfreude so discordantly. And as that cocoon of plastic around his body crinkles more whilst he howls and demands and beseeches, Brian’s vast well of patience at last seems to be wearing thin.

“Could you at least cut his tongue out before continuing?” he asks, as though privy to your previous thoughts on the matter of Gary speaking. Gazing down at where you’re stowed under his wing, the pad of his thumb smoothed up again along the softness of your hip with you so presently overwhelmed you barely notice. “I’m kinda over the whole him talking thing.”

And though the idea is tempting and surely a justified way of keeping someone like Gary quiet, the thought of actually wrestling his tongue from his fat fucking face is absolutely revolting. So you just muster up what mettle you have in slipping out from Brian’s grasp, which falls easily to his side again as he curiously watches you go. Heading toward that counter of tools at the cabin’s furthest wall, fetching a half-spent roll of duct tape from off its length before returning. All while Gary sputters and shouts and Brian quietly observes you, his focus glued to your every intent, heedless to all else inside that room with you.

You can’t rip off a strip of duct tape fast enough before you’re slamming it over Gary’s objecting mouth, his protests continued regardless in a stream of angry, muted sound, eyes wide with fearful spite as he glares at you.

Ahh…

Silence.

Well.

Sort of.

Still. He won’t be making much of a racket for very long.

“Hand me the blowtorch,” you say; a command to your murderous teacher turned murderous assistant now that you’re at the helm. And as Gary’s eyes nearly bulge from his head in how intently he stares up at you, falling eerily still and silent from what must be the shock of what he’s just heard, of what it could mean for him, your vengeful gaze never wavers from his.

Stepping up just a bit from behind you, Brian chuckles as though at the show of it–you and Gary, watching each other like that. Fiendishly amused by this entire ordeal as he hums, “You sure about that?” Which at once grabs your attention, as since when does Brian Moser second-guess the murderous or morally reprehensible intent of anything?

Your gaze whips back at where he stands, firmness formed before flickering reservation.

“Don’t I look sure?”

Above that scarcest curve to his devilish lips, his dark gaze is slow to appraise you. Assessing you, head to toe, as his sturdy arms are folded across his chest.

“Oh, you do,” he affirms with a lilt, dark eyes returned to yours. “But I know a thing or two about your weapon of choice, and I think you’re underestimating just what a blowtorch can do.”

AKA, he doesn’t think you can handle it, and you feel your jawline further grit.

All the more reason to prove him wrong, then.

“If I am,” you say, “there’s only one way to find out.”

He studies you a moment longer, while amusement feels to curl along his every dangerous edge. And then he just kinda shrugs, very Dexter-like, as if to say ‘I tried.’

“A trial by fire, then,” he too-readily concludes, “and with fire, no less; how poetic.” And then he's turned to fetch your torch without another moment's hesitation. Which, in itself, you admit, is somewhat alarming, seeing as how you’ve perhaps never successfully convinced the man of anything before, but you’re not about to back down from lighting Gary up like a firecracker when you have something to prove, especially not after insisting.

In fact, Brian’s so precipitously on board with this little torch-led plan of yours that he even whips out his phone from the pocket of his dark slacks as he goes, flipping up its screen as he taps away at the keypad for what you soon come to hear is a song.

“How about a little music to set the mood?” he muses, blunt thumb tap-tap-tapped across his phone, whilst his other reaches for that cobalt-tanked torch from where he’d previously set it.

He sets his phone aside on the counter’s plastic edge as he works with both hands to ensure your torch’s canister of butane is appropriately configured—how thoughtful of him—whilst a jaunty little tune titters out of his phone’s shitty speaker, chorusing the kill room in trumpets and guitars.

Your expression couldn’t possibly fall more unenthused when you hear it’s Johnny fucking Cash warbling a fucking Ring of Fire.

“No.”

It leaves you on reflex; like a gag. And as Brian saunters smoothly back to you with torch in hand, his gaze holds a low glint of play. Completely ignorant to a panicking Gary, whose wide eyes follow after his movements as best they can from where he’s strapped.

“No?” he wonders vaguely, your weapon offered in a leisured hand.

You take it–gruffly–muttering, “Turn that shit off.” To which his brows tug into a fetchingly baffled crease.

“What shit?” he asks, oblivious as always to his countless misdeeds.

“The music,” you grouse the obvious up at him. “Would it kill you to take this seriously?”

His eyes darkly sparkle as he grins. “Only one way to find out,” he echoes you, before rolling his eyes at that tightened scowl you’re wearing. “Oh, c’mon sourpuss–you can’t barbecue someone alive without a little ambiance.” His lips purse as though with thought. “But we’re being rude–how about we take a vote?” And, with a glance down at Gary sweating bullets beside you, he mildly ventures, “Help me out here, big guy. You don’t wanna be charbroiled alive like a fucking hot dog without some music to set the mood, right?”

You don’t know why you’re entertaining this. But, still–you stand there, entertaining this handsome asshole, waiting just like he does. The two of you watching Gary’s frantic gaze further bulge as he screams and writhes on that table, every sound he makes blunted by tape.

Brian nods down at him as though considering all those voiceless things he’s saying.

“Mmhm… Mmhm,” he hums in supposed agreement. “Honestly, Gary, I couldn’t have said it better myself.” And, turning to you, he lifts a subtle brow at how you cluelessly stare at him. Because of course you don’t understand gagged nonsense. But, lucky for you, Brian’s here to translate the language of muted screaming for you.

“He said–for a final time–to stop questioning myself and my methods,” he so-helpfully fills you in. “And maybe you’ll listen to him more than you listen to me.” To which he shrugs. “Unlikely, but–I’ve seen more impossible things.”

And you’d thought your expression couldn’t fall flatter. But it must, such is his barest, cheshire grin.

“Whatever,” you relent at length, seeing no point in arguing with the inarguable. Blowtorch tightly gripped within one hand, which feels somehow heavier than it should be at your side, while your other hand’s held out to him expectantly. “At least toss me my visor. I don’t want any sparks flying back at me.”

Does a blowtorch spark as well as flame…?

You don’t know, but you’re not about to ask him; not while he wears that clever smirk of his. In any case, you think it’s likely advised to wear a visor whilst flaunting flame around, especially when you barely know what you’re doing.

A larkish glimmer hints his gaze as he turns away obediently to fetch it for you—which, again, why is he suddenly so helpful? Elegant shoes softly twisting tarp against wood as he plucks up your visor from amidst his meticulous showcase.

“I should have bought you a welding mask,” he observes, turning back to you; clear-shielded visor brought in his elegant hand. Regarding you as you take it from his offered grasp–that way you try not to touch him, how you fidget uncertainly in adjusting its fit ‘round your head.

He steps a bit closer to help, unprompted; taking upon him the task of fitting your visor snug around your brow from your tenuous hands, and you can’t help that little thrill which spears through your pulse when his fingers barely brush against yours. Your hands falling like anvils to your rigid sides just to avoid that ever happening again.

“And better gloves,” he remarks as he helps, making no note of your awkwardness. And, finished adjusting your helm, he backs up a welcomed step to take in the full sight of you, as though ensuring you’re really ready for this. “As fetching as they are, latex isn’t exactly flame retardant.”

Wrangling your pulse under control again, you waggle a few gloved fingers at him as though showing off a freshly-painted manicure, fawning candy-sweet, “Gee, you like them?”

When he hums a little laugh, the black pools of his eyes inadvertently draw you toward them.

“Don't let it go to your head,” he says, with one brow archly hinted. “I’d so hate to see how effective you are without modesty holding you back.”

With that, he leaves you center stage. And it truly feels like a stage. One with a spotlight on your head, aware of your every intention, your every probable mistake. Especially as Brian wanders off around that table. Leaning idly back against the showcase of tools as it stands at his back; that counter’s ledge his standing seat as he takes his place as your audience.

His muscled arms fold loosely across the breadth of his sturdy chest. Dusk-hued eyes nearly alight through the relative darkness that clings around the light of the stage. Hawk-like, in how he watches. His interest trained to your fingers as they tense around the handle of your torch; to their anxious adjustment of your visor he already assisted to place. And it’s the best seat in the house, really–where he stands there, watching you. Enjoying this little show of life-and-death you’re about to put on for him, as though performed with him in mind.

…A performance of which you’re apparently stalling, seeing as how his smirk as you go on standing there just staring at him slowly curves his lips more and more, until it eventually snaps you out from the spell of him.

“Don’t tell me you have stage fright?” he smoothly wants to know from where he leisures, and for all your righteous rage and your indignant fury you still can’t shake how your nerves snake their way in your gut whilst you toy that deadly instrument between your latexed hands.

You can do this… There’s no question of if you should. There’s just some part of you that fears what may happen as a result.

‘Don’t think,’ the memory of Brian’s words tells you, ‘let instinct control you,’ and though you hate how effective his advice, you still do your best to hearken to it.

The sapphire steel of that butane is cold through the thin, rubbery membrane of your gloves. And as resolve and reformed anger knots the muscle of your throat, you work up the nerve to test its trigger—though it doesn’t do a thing when compressed. No flames, no sparks–nothing.

“Adjust the valve on the back,” your murder guru helpfully informs, like he’s the devil at your back, so you do; rubber-coated fingers twisting the blue, plastic hinge near the top of the butane’s tank until a soft hiss of gas feeds the air from the length of its nozzle.

Biting the inside of your cheek, your finger slides forth again to test that trigger, pressing down, and you don’t have to hold it. The very second it’s depressed there’s a sharp, metallic snap which echoes sharply off the plastic-covered walls—a sound that has both you and Gary flinching, has your heart-rate jolting in your chest as teal and ocher flame hisses forcefully to life from the length of the torch’s silver nozzle, so angrily seething from its instrument in your hands.

You cannot move. Staring as though mesmerized–a vengeful moth to vicious flame–before Gary’s muted screaming behind his duct-tape gag pulls your slow attention. Your eyes as cold as that butane tank gripped so tightly in your hand.

To be honest, you’re not sure what you’re doing with this whole ‘blowtorch a pedophile’ thing, where to start–have I mentioned you’ve never done this before? But as said pedophile’s anxious, tied-up form starts thrashing and kicking with renewed, frantic effort to somehow detangle himself and run out into the swamp he’s not even aware he’s swallowed up in, his bare and kicking feet seem as good of place as any to make him hurt. After all, you don’t want to kill him. Not yet. He has to suffer like Ava did, first. Worse, if you have any say in it, and you do–you have all the say in it. Can deal with this trash however you like.

He can never truly pay for what he’s done. But he’ll sure try. You’ll make him.

The shine of flame bounces off your face shield as you lower it down across your face. Ignoring Gary’s cries just as you do some faint warning in your heart which whispers that what you’re doing can never be undone, that it may scar itself to your psyche forever.

You ignore it. Ignore him. Walking down the length of that heavy, shrink-wrapped table, booted heels dragging ground as Gary’s fearful eyes fight to follow you. That band of tape across his brow further digging into his skin.

For whatever nerves remain lodged in your throat, you still sound surprisingly calm when you talk to him.

“This little piggy went to market…”

Some part of you’d like to think that in any other moment, any alternate segment of life, you wouldn’t be this monstrous thing that's found you now. This creature you almost don’t recognize. But here you are, and you don’t care this bastard’s terrified, that he’ll soon be suffering and you’ll be its cause. It’s the opposite of that–some rage in you likes it–and really, he brought this all on himself.

You let that angry flame hissing out of your torch’s nozzle warm the air by his panicking feet. Nearly numb to his voiceless shrieks and wretched sobbing as he tries more and more to pull away from both it and you.

“Which piggy should we start with?” you ask above Cash’s Ring of Fire. And as your stomach knots up, you won’t let yourself continue to second-guess this. Forcing yourself to act, to get it over with–he deserves this–driving that angry flame to the bottom of one of his writhing feet.

Those cries of your niece, still an unwanted echo in your head, are replaced instead by the way Gary harrowingly screams, and it’s your therapy, your drug, your rehab–not quite absolving those unspeakable things he’s done, but smears their weight, makes them harder to hear, harder to see replaying over and over in your mind like they have been since you saw those fucking tapes, and your grip further strangles the torch’s slender tank within your hand as the hungry teeth of flame dig further into the bottom of his foot, making a meal of his sensitive flesh. The sounds he makes so physically raw, so pain-stretched, that for a second you nearly pull back just because you’re so overwhelmed, but you won’t let this stop, instead you forge deeper–pulling those screams from his lungs like he’s an apple-mouthed pig being roasted alive, and he is a fucking pig–and the smell…!

The motherfucking smell–!

You’ve barely been at it at all, roasting this sick bastard’s feet like you’re welding a seam, when you abruptly recoil–jerking back with that flame still burning air as you stumble away from him, stomach twisting as you fight not to throw up, a retch echoing off the inside of your mask.

You’re barely cognizant enough to flip that hissing flame off before slamming your face into the crook of your elbow to try and block that horrid fucking scent, only for your face shield to block you before you’re ripping the damn thing off. Hear it clatter against the ground as you smother your nose in your arm against the searing stench of it.

The blistering perfume of burning flesh assails the entire room; your eyes a watering mess whilst you fight how you’re gagging. And through your nauseous fit, Brian’s low thrum of laughter eventually simmers its way past your ear, strumming past your reeling mind enough to raise your piercing glare at him from behind your half-smothered face.

He smiles across the table at you from where he’s contentedly perched, arms still folded in his half-lean against the counter. Dark-spun eyes briefly closed as he savors the acrid smell lingering through the room.

“Mmm,” comes his melodious hum, watchful gaze lowly flickering. “You’re quite the chef. What’s for dinner?” His smile crooks at one end at whatever your half-smothered face is doing. “I’m starved~”

Your stomach once more turns against you at the mere prospect of food, and thank Gods you skipped dinner, and also fuck him–!

“Shut up–!” you manage to get out without gagging into the crook of your arm, whilst he flashes that jackal smirk of his across the kill table and a still sobbing Gary.

“I tried to warn you…”

“You could’ve warned me in more fucking detail!”

He barely shrugs. “Yeah, well–I thought this lesson might sink a bit deeper if you found out yourself that Gary smells like pulled pork when he’s roasted.”

And you can’t help it–you’re already picturing how he wolfed down those pulled pork sandwiches earlier–forced to smother your face that much fiercer inside the safety of your arm as he cunningly smiles.

Your arm gaiter crinkles against your nausea-flushed skin. “Fuck you!” And though you can barely make out your own words with just how badly they’re muffled, the corners of Brian’s eyes still softly crease.

“Fuck me?” he chuckles back, mischief glimmered in him. “You’re the one who insisted on the blowtorch.”

Daring to once more breathe the air in the room, your elbow drops from your tentative face just enough to test the scent of it, which is still pretty bad, but… you’ll live. All whilst you’re mumbling, “You’re a horrible teacher. I dunno why I listen to anything you ever say.”

He gives a sharp, satisfied little smile. “And yet a lesson was learned, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I agree you’re an asshole.”

His amusement never ceases to have its way with you. “Careful. Or that smart mouth of yours might land you in detention.”

You roll your still-stinging eyes. “Do I have to remind you you’re not an actual teacher?”

“Aren’t I?” he asks with subtle play. “You seemed so assured I was a bad one…”

Why are you even arguing with this insufferable ice truck freakshow?

“You’re having far too much fun with this,” you grouse at him, stomach finally settling, and see his feline mirth.

“I admit,” he says, deep voice threaded with darkened levity, “it is a tad amusing just how bad you are at this…”

You glower as he so adorably smirks, like he’s some fucked-up murder ken-doll with you his unfortunate, barbie victim, and did I mention fuck him? And you’re about to argue further about what an ass he is, when instead he once more speaks.

“Seems a blowtorch isn’t your thing, my woeful student,” he says, and your lashes weigh flat; too aggrieved and presently nauseated to be anything more than a brat to him.

“Then why don’t you just hand me something else to torment this fuck with?”

He lightly smiles, not glancing at all those tools behind him. His focus—as ever, it seems—hinged on you. “What would you like?”

And though your gaze steals across all those neatly placed tools laid out beside him, their sheer magnitude is so overwhelming you can’t seem to choose. And before long, you’re once again mulishly glowering across that small room at the nefarious tower of him. “Whatever you think is best, Professor Fuckass.”

His eyes crinkle. “Well would you look at that,” he lightly observes. “A nearly respectful nom de guerre...”

“I wouldn’t get used to it.”

“And, what is this… the second time in one evening you’ve sought my advice…?” His disbelief of this is far too clever, and though you suspect it’s all false, that way his dark eyes drag their way down your features still invokes very real, very unwanted heat wherever they touch. “Fascinating.”

The desire to just walk up and punch him has your hand aching.

“Just hand me something!”

Lowly chuckling, he gives a little nod of his head toward those tools at his side; jaw-length, raven curls lightly bouncing.

“Well,” he says; the sage professor once more. “As luck would have it, I have just the hardware in mind, my lovely pupil. Something to appropriately lull your wrath. Feed all that hungry retribution I find, more and more, I’m so beguiled by.”

You do your best to ignore what his toying flirtations unfortunately do to you, your heart pathetically squeezing. But you can’t deny you’re curious as to what tool he seems, already, to’ve chosen for you. Enough that you swallow down that tempting ‘you’re a self-serving vapid weirdass fridge-loving manwhore’ comment that so gracefully traces your tongue. Instead watching, with wary intent, as he pushes off from his casual lean upon the counter. Unfolding his strong arms as he turns, disregarding you, to walk down its tool-laden length.

His roaming fingers lightly trail across its tools and supplies all displayed there, passing from tool to tool, as though searching for just what you need. Slowing, as though to contemplate the merits of each as he goes, until at last he hums in presumed confirmation of what he’s claimed to have already known. Reaching to select something you cannot see around the silhouette of his tapered waist; plucking it up in one hand before bringing it toward you.

His gaze wraps you up in its darkened tide, his focus never strayed in his approach. Almost like he’s playing chicken with you–intimidating with just a glance, daring you to run–and so you refuse, though it picks up your pulse.

It’s only once you’re swallowed beneath his height that you realize he means to slip behind you, and what is with this motherfucker and his apparent penchant for standing outside your vision—?! And though you swiftly turn to cut his antics short, he takes you by the waist just as suddenly–firmly pivots you around so that you’re facing away from him, again.

You’re about to punch him in the throat when the flat plane of his stomach brushes warm against your back, which inexplicably stifles you. And, okay, not inexplicably, not exactly–he’s fucking hot, okay? And why is he doing this to you? All this, while a disquieted, “Brian, wha—?” actually withers and dies in your throat.

His words find the back of your ear. “Stop questioning me.”

And as you falter, too derailed to really fight, his hand takes a hold of your elbow from where he stands against your back. Travels warmly down the length of your arm to your wrist. His touch weaving like fluid in how he takes that ill-used blowtorch from your tentative grasp, resting it just before you on the ledge of the table. As, into your palm, he transfers the cool, silver weight of whatever his chosen instrument. Gently closing your anxious fingers around its rubber-laced grip. And you glance tensely down to see some sort of saw in your mutual grasp with a jutting, three-inch blade at its tip.

No—not some sort of saw. It's the one he specifically chose for you back at the hardware store. Like he always suspected your night might lead to this.

A reciprocating saw.

‘A Moser favorite’, or so he’d told you.

Something about that ties little knots near your navel, and if he notices, he’s disinclined to say. Instead instructing you in a bearish rumble so near the side of your head.

“This,” he says, manipulating your hand in the relative vastness of his own, “is a reciprocating saw.”

He’s perhaps more serious than you’ve before seen him. As, with the guidance of one firm finger, he smooths your latexed fore down the length of the saw, past its secondary grip. Down, across the flat of its steel-carbon blade, tapered thin and half-lined with teeth. And even as unsmiling as he is, you still swear he pauses just a moment to breathe the scent of you in, though you really can’t be sure. “The one I told you about.”

His proximity, his touch–it all ensures you’re paying very close attention to everything he’s saying, and perhaps that was always his desired effect. To have you held in the heart of his hand, strung listening on a knife’s edge like this. And you have to hand it to him–it’s a pretty damn effective educational technique, if also dreadfully distracting. But what is Brian if not dreadful and distracting?

“Its blade pistons back and forth very quickly,” he continues to instruct, your mind highly attuned to how his words jaggedly pour against your ear. “Whatever it touches will cut. Will slice quite easily. Or else carve through with enough firm insistence.”

The heat of his body against yours is far too intoxicating. His thumb grazing the delicate skin inside of your wrist as it traces the band of your glove.

“So make sure that something isn’t you,” he lowly says beside your temple. “This is where control is your ally. Control of yourself, if only just. It’s a dangerous tool, this weapon, so be measured. Be present. And, above all else…” You hear the fatal softness of his smile so near your crown. “Have fun~”

When he shifts away, you somehow feel colder at the loss. Watching with indescribable, flickering tension as he strides back to his spot in the rafters, with you left struggling to dislodge how tightly your jaw’s been wired shut.

This fucker has way too much of an effect on you.

His aura’s a wolf’s as he folds his lengthy arms again, settling back in how he watches. Avid light burning low in his gaze, two darkened embers, and he seems quite keen on this show you put on. Eager not to miss a single scene. A hungry witness from his leisure, and it takes so much longer than it should for you to somehow loose his gaze from how it slides inside and carves his name under your skin.

Stooping down to fetch the faceguard you’d previously tossed amidst your nauseous fit—which was all his fault, by the way—you strap it back on your head, its visor glancing against the light in its angle away from your face. And as you steady a trembling Gary within the crosshairs of your vision, that chosen hardware’s handle is throttled in your grip.

He sounds to plead with you from behind that haphazard gag of tape, his bugging eyes imploring. And as you stare down at him assuredly pleading with you, something stirs more and more in your chest. Something which fades all else in this room to hushed, pulsing darkness. Something sweltering, a discomforting comfort that slithers down the length of your spine, coiling low like an asp in your gut.

This thing in you, so much like hate, like loathing… it's given breath as you eye him. Fawn-legged with a stumbling, newborn uncertainty as it breaches some oil-slick surface, staining all of you greasy and black, and all you know is you can’t push it back.

You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at that rot that is Gary, but eventually you reach for that strip of adhesive strapped across his wordless cries, ripping it off him as he sucks back a painful, startled breath.

He doesn’t hesitate to degrade all that supposed morality some part of him still seems to insist he has, and yet having his foot burned like forgotten French toast has kinda put a dent in all of that.

“Pl–please,” he snivels up at where you watch him, that pulse in his throat skipping fast. “Stop– please, I didn’t–I didn’t mean to do anything, I didn’t–! Please stop, please don’t–!”

That thing in you. It leaks more and more as he talks. Acidic; sharp across your insides, corroding everything that’s touched.

“Please le-t me g-go! Please–! I didn’t–!”

“Do you think you deserve forgiveness?”

The question catches Gary off guard, such is its measured calmness. Himself blinking fast, rambles halted in his throat, before he’s gushing in a string without breath, “Y-yes! I–I do! I– pl-ease, please, I didn’t–I didn’t mean to do what I–wh-what I did, this is-n’t, it isn’t–I didn’t–!”

The longer he goes, the less sense he makes, until you’re left there wanting to slap him across his sputtering face as if it will bestow him any clarity.

And it bothers you, you find. How, after all this time in this room together, after all these things he’s rambled on and on about, he still hasn't said those two important, near-magical words:

I’m sorry.

Hasn’t even attempted to lie them. Like the thought never once crossed his mind.

He should really say he’s sorry, shouldn’t he?

You’ll make it easy for him. After all, you’re here to help where you can. To make things right.

“Are you sorry?” you prompt to this end, very simply. Head scarcely tilted to one side in how you watch from above, and see his naked body twisting beneath that plastic as though still trying to flee you, as if he still has a chance to make it out.

“Ye… Yes–!” he stammers, failing to convince as the words seem to burn his own tongue, yet still he scrambles for it. “Yes! I am!”

You watch him for a slow and silent moment, and nearly hear his rabbit-heart, so much faster than your own.

“How sorry?” you ask, and see him hardly halted from persuading.

“S -s- so, so sorry–! I’m so sorry, I–I–this was–I w-wasn’t–!”

He’s rambling again. And, unamused, you soon cut him off.

“You see,” you say, watching him, “I just don’t quite believe you, Gary.” Your lips lightly purse as you hang there like a guillotine above his sweating, taped-down head. “Maybe you should try again. Try harder this time. Really convince me.”

As he eyes you from where he’s fastened to that table, his forehead struggles beneath adhesive to crease, while the uncertainty of his drawn-on silence has you once more calmly prompting, “Go on.”

He’s really struggling to get the words out, like he isn't sure which words are keys to let him slip on by.

“I–I’m so, so so-rry,” he tries again, tape twisting at his brow with the effort of meeting your watchful gaze. “I-t wasn’t–wasn’t wh-at I–I d-didn’t mean for–I didn’t–!”

There he goes again, meandering, not really accepting blame for anything he’s done. And your contemplative hum interrupts his nonsensical warbling as your fingers tread down that heavy handle of the saw in your grasp, so weighted at your side; tensing in a row, once then twice, pinky to fore.

“See Gary,” you softly tsk your tongue, “I’m still not quite convinced.” Your tone is that of both you and he being caught in this predicament together, and together must solve it. You’re here to help.

He doesn’t say anything, his chubby jawline quiveringly tight, and so you rev the engine of that saw in your hand a bit, just to hear what it sounds like, just to loosen his blathering tongue, which briefly snarls as its trigger’s compressed. So sharply it even startles you, though you tense against showing it. See him whimper aloud as his interest jolts to that tool in your hand, alarum stripped toward some free-fall ledge.

“Maybe it’s something about your face,” you say as that engine’s snarl fades, seemingly oblivious to it; your eyes on your prey. “Or maybe it’s the way you looked while you were raping my niece in that video you were dumb enough to take. But you just don’t look like a trustworthy person, Gary.” You tilt your head again. “How many times have you watched that, by the way? I couldn’t really stomach it even once, myself.” You hum, so soft, so thoughtful. “I might have to scrape through your contacts just to see if you sent it to anyone else.”

His eyes are tethered to that reciprocating saw as though fixed to an oncoming train, with him tied on its tracks. And you lift its heft above one shoulder, your elbow casually bent as you rest its weight just beside your head.

“But, maybe I’m biased as far as apologies go,” you continue. “I do have a horse in this race, after all, so I’ll give you one more chance.” You eye that way his gaze is so craned in his skull, glued to every shark-like tooth of your blade. “Tell me how sorry you are. Tell me all about how you’re a changed man. Tell me you’re better than this, that accidents happen. I’m sure you’ve got a good excuse in there somewhere, and I’m anxious to hear it.”

Twisted with dread that he can’t seem to swallow, he wriggles with words when his body’s wriggling won’t free him.

“I di-dn’t mean to!” he near-implodes, growing louder the more cracks in him leak composure out. “It’s not my fault! I-I’ll tur-n myself in–! I’ll–I’ll do whatever you want—!”

You purse your lips again, intrigued by this offer that soon has you prompting, “You will?” with mild contemplation.

He swiftly nods his taped-down head. Tries to, anyway, against how tightly Brian’s strapped him.

“Yes!” he chokes out, “anything! J-ust let me go!”

“Well…” you muse, amicable. Fingers thrummed along that handle in your hands again. “…Alright, then.”

You’re not fully sure what’s in control right now, but any restraint you once had is sheared thin beneath what furor ricochets in your head, too volatile to rule, too violently blurred to make any sense of. And as you reach up to lower your visor down across your face, Gary’s eyes are trembling wider. Your features surely masked from him in a sheen of reflective light as you venture, “I bet you’ve probably been wondering why you’re strapped to a fucking table right now.”

You lower the saw to his neck, as though its blade is magnetized, drawn to that artery of his throat as it races to get away from you, and all the while he’s sputtering, “W-ait–! Wait–! I–!”

“Well,” you muse over him, weighing his skin with the jagged heft of that narrow blade, and feel him choke back a breath beneath it. “I wanna show you. And when I’m done… I’ll let you go.” Your eyes crease with a smile that never really comes. “Promise~”

Gary continues to cry, continues to plead, but you can no longer hear him above that fire which billows smoke thick up your throat, so fueled by the need to scrape this sadistic, child-eating fuck from the sole of existence. And you’re sure he’s screaming as you further dig that shark-toothed blade against his panicked pulse, but you can’t seem to care, can’t seem to help yourself, and all you really hear is your finger pull that trigger. Hear it floor to the hardware’s hilt as its motor kicks once more to life; a growling beast whose vicious, mechanical chugs bounce off the plastic-coated walls, and it was supposed to be slow, supposed to be drawn, his suffering, and yet you’re not really here, not anymore—not that version of you that you’ve known.

He’s far more fragile than he seems. And the second you start is the same that you’ve clipped through that wild, pumping artery.

Red.

First a mist torn with teeth, then a flurry–

Red.

It slices you just as it does him; a ruby-wet, violent slash sprayed across your visor.

Red.

Ȓ̷̨̢̢̘̲̤͚̩͎̻̙̙̜̟̣̪̫͉͉͔͓̠̜̻͚̺͉̳̜̘̜̳̫̲̩̘̗̰͖̰̯͖̥͚̃͛̾̐́̐̆͊̓̂̍͘͘͜͝e̸̡̡̢̠͎̽̓̀́̇̀͗̇͊̓͌̆̄̆̒̈́̈́̃̔̒̊̍̈́̐̍̉̌͛̇͘͝͝d̶̥̮̱̱͚̣̞̣̉̅̑̀̇͛̐͒͑͂̔̇̊͆̍̈́̉̀̿͂̎̓̀͑̌̉̓̽͜͝

The color eats into your vision, and it’s all you see as you hold that saw inside him with both bloody hands, force its blade to dig deeper; a pistoned edge through squelching, ruddy meat as you squeeze that fucking trigger ‘till your hand’s numb and garnet splatters pulse in waves from his convulsing throat all across your mask, your naked throat, your gaitored arms, your aproned chest, so slick and offensively warm and there’s so much, too much when there shouldn’t be, you need to slow down, you’re going to fast, you shouldn’t–

Your wrist which holds the trigger is painfully twisted as your saw-blade hits bone, but you grab on firmer with your other hand and just keep on pushing—slave as you are to that saw-blade, to its hunger manifesting yours as it tears and cleaves and consumes beneath the waterlogged-snarl of its engine–

So.

Much.

B̷l̵o̵o̵d̷.̶

More than a person has to spare then go on living, but you can’t comprehend it, what’s false or fact; some part of you’s slipped beyond grasping. Left with nothing beyond what red-hot, feverish urgency compels you not to stop, forces your hands from ever resisting–you just keep sawing as all of you’s tremblingly tense, and all of him’s twitching like some death-spasmed insect beneath all that plastic the further you rend, and you just keep going, keep dragging that teetering blade ‘till you can’t even see–your mask transformed into a bridal veil of red, dripping down to that pool which steadily grows beneath your feet, your very vision spilled with it; red, red, red and you can’t fucking stop, the blade’s in his chest now–you’ve dragged it from his throat to his ribs, spilling the warm, sanguine cavity of his insides open as the plastic which shackles him splits just like the cage of his heart when you lean with more fury on that scarlet handle, so slick in your uneasy grip. A fuse so-ignited it defiles you, infects down to your marrow, that same marrow you shatter in him as you just keep sawing and splitting and tearing and you won’t ever stop and–!

Something’s tight in your airway, you can't seem to breathe; forced into adjusting your vengeful, impatient grip on that saw handle’s wetness and you have to keep going, you have to make him pay–scarcely sparing a second to swipe against your blood-shattered visor with the back of an unsteady hand, which only stains it further, you can still barely see, and yet–

And yet you still see it.

See him.

For just a second, you pause–your breath erratic in your chest, your blood-greased finger slipped from off the trigger–as you see Gary on that table.

Lying there.

Unmoving.

Blood pooling thick off the sides of that table’s every shrink-wrapped edge. A wet sack that used to be human. A molten mess of naked, ribboned flesh and entrails with its heart carved halfway out of what used to be his chest, as though some great and thirsting beast tore its claws through what was once living, and–no– no, no, he–!

He can’t be dead yet–! He–!

He hasn’t suffered nearly enough–! Not nearly as much as Ava has, and–!

He can’t be fucking dead yet–!

He hasn’t earned it–!

Hasn’t nearly paid his impossible debt–!

Rage wraps your mind in its vice. Blinding. Suffocating. And that sound which tears up your throat, scrapes your airway raw, is strangled by frustrated hate. And the second you floor the trigger once more is the same your other hand slips on the saw’s foremost grip, slick on the carnage which coats it–your fingers nearly tangled with its angrily snarling blade as it pistons back and forth without bias of what it might cut through, but you don’t care, you don’t fucking care, you don’t–!

–You don’t notice how Brian means to disarm you until he already has.

He comes up from behind in your blindness, and the second he’s there he’s seized your trigger-bound arm from behind and is wrenching it back. Stripping that heavy, bloodied blade from your red-slicked hands as its engine sputters and fades without you there to compel it, and you’re too overcome by the unthinking need to punish the already dead to keep it from being stolen; to keep it firm in your vengeful, scathing grasp.

You’re a fox in a trap. So intent to be free that you’d gnaw your own arm off. Completely mad and mindless with fury and anguish and so many awful things, so many glancing emotions all firing and misfiring in your heart and in your head and you’re–

“Get the fuck off of me–!”

You barely recognize yourself; savagely twisting against his tightened grasp to be free–hearing the grisly tool he stole from you be tossed aside before he’s seized and spun you in his grip, making you face him.

He’s saying something– loudly, you think–his lips are moving above how you glare, his expression stern, but you can’t hear him through wrath’s dominion–all you hear is your own viciously desperate screams lashing out at him like you’re some kind of rabid beast as you pummel and twist and–

“Let me–! A-agh–Get the–! fuck–! Get off me!”

He doesn’t listen, doesn’t care, and when you wrest one hand free enough to slap him, he merely flinches and lowly laughs–a mark of blood-slicked fingers sliding wetly off the high curve of his darkly-scruffed cheek, but he doesn’t recoil, doesn’t release you–

He seizes your offending wrist–brings both your trembling hands to the wall of his chest as he forces you more against that bloody table at your back, which tightly digs into the meat of your haunches; your heavy boots slipping in that steady pool of red which drips in streams from off its ledges.

“Easy there,” you finally hear him speak; his poise so foreign amidst your chaos that it offends you. “Hey, easy– Stop– Stop fighting me–”

It’s like he battles with a blood-drenched toddler, such is his strength above yours, but you can’t seem to stop. Your fruitless struggles eventually petering out like a flame in his storm till you’re wilting. And though you seeth and sharpened cries escape you as you struggle and thrash for release, you can’t escape him, you can’t even see–your visor so caked in sanguineous filth that it feels you can’t breathe.

A half-restrained sob leaves your chest as you continue to fight him, and his motions are coarse as he further restricts where you’d lead. Grabbing that gore-drenched faceguard from your head and tearing it off you, slinging it to the foot-trails of red at your feet, and you’re breathing far more fiercely as he takes your blood-stained jaw in the firmness of his grip, forcing your gaze up to his whilst you blink as though stricken.

His emerald-umber eyes hold yours with steady strings as he says your name, like your name on his lips were a disarming incantation, one meant to unshackle your mind from wherever it is, wherever it’s been, and you’ve never heard him say it. Your name; not before this moment. Your name, so deeply penned by his velvet voice, and it’s far more calming a hymn than any one word should ever be, the sound of it far more addictive…

“Calm down…”

His voice is hushed. Wrapping you in the silk of its stillness.

“There you go… Just breathe…”

There’s too much fuel in your veins; it's so hard to douse its voltage. But your hands clasped within his cease trying to flee, so tremulously halted, as he releases your face and holds them both against his chest, like he wants you to feel the measure of his heartbeats. And he’s a haven someone like him shouldn’t have, shouldn't be.

Blinking up at him with wild, wavered eyes, each breath you draw is shaken as, slowly, gradually, you start to settle, and he just as gradually smiles.

“You’re shaking…” he observes; large hands a solid anchor around yours, and they clasp just a fraction firmer around your trembling. And you bite your lip till it stings before you manage responding.

“I’m not shaking.”

His eyes lowly glint from above you. “Uh huh. And you nearly cut your own hand off, or at least a few fingers before I stepped in to stop you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Your teeth dig in your cheek again with the effort to steady your pulse, but still you argue back through your struggling, stubborn embarrassment, “No I didn’t.”

It’s all you say. Your only argument. Very convincing. And a sound like a low, wolfish chuckle is exhaled from his strongly-bridged nose.

“You’re the worst fucking liar. Are you even trying to convince me?”

Strung raw a million different ways right now, you merely glower, and as you try on instinct to pull away as though his comments have bitten, he softly laughs and pulls you into him. Wrapping one strong arm around you in some sort of embrace that leaves your eyes popping wide against his chest and your heart somersaulting into your ribs.

You hear his little hum within the warmth of his chest. A low rumble which vibrates through you as his long-fingered hand traces mindless, little circles across your back, as though tracing constellations.

“It wasn’t a bad performance, though,” he says, as though excusing his previous insults. And he sounds like he means it, like he’s praising when he adds, “You put on quite the show…”

He hums again, so warm and so deep. But this time it's different. No longer thoughtful or amused, but almost…

Rueful.

And then he murmurs against your hair, so soft and so low, “It’s almost a shame it has to end like this…”

There's something lurking in his darkness. Something strung on a razor's edge. And no sooner has this sentiment left his lips that he seizes a rough fistful of your hair at the nape, fingers harshly knotted as he jerks your head back to fully face the towering height of him.

A muddied gasp dies on your teeth at the shock of it, with you wincing less from the sting of his ruthless grip than from the blow of your whiplashed bewilderment, especially as something glinting and cold finds your throat. Its sharpness angled up beneath the fragile line of your jaw–a dextrous and small, slender blade, like that of a surgeon’s scalpel–held so precariously against your neck, a flirtation of pressure which indents without breaking skin.

Your heart leaps up in fearful confusion beneath that attentive, carefully wielded blade. Blocked from response but to stare as comprehension slowly tears the walls of you open, brick by crumbling brick, while he gently tsks his tongue down at you. So reserved in how he feeds you his disappointment, like you really should have seen this coming…

His dark-fire eyes slowly map you, trailed across those things you can’t say.

“Did you really think I’d let you live,” he wonders lowly, a roughened murmur, “knowing as much as you do about my brother and me?”

✧˖° author's note:

look. in my defense, brian’s always been planning to kill you.

also i couldn’t resist giving you this move dex would be so proud :')

one chapter left~ might take me a minute to post it, life's kinda kicking my ass, thanks for reading!

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

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