#RTAH reader insert

[trevorcollumns]

A Good Sleep

Pairing: Trevor C x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 1800+

Warnings: swearing, a joke about a car crash

A/N: my first attempt at writing in 3 years, do me a favour and please let me know how I did lmao

—————

Seven goddamn thirty.

You click the B team office closed, arm the lock, and open Twitter as you shoulder open the door to the main office.

“Hey, I’m off now. I’ll pick up those SD cards in the morning - Trevor?”

You don’t see him at first, across the room at his desk, slumped over with his head cradled in his crossed arms. He hadn’t been one hundred percent today, but you didn’t realise it was this bad. The soft snores you hear tell you otherwise. You drop your bag on the couch and tread carefully through the trash pile at the back of the room. “Trev?”

He stirs and mumbles what might be a “what’s up,” but remains facedown in his keyboard.

“Come on, you’re going home right now.” You reach to place your hand on his back, but your stomach flip-flops at the thought, so you settle for the back of his chair. Swaying it lightly, you reach for his mouse to save his work and shut down the computer.

Trevor rouses to swat at your hand clumsily, “S’fine, Y/N, I just- I gotta finish this.” He sits upright and stretches, and you have to bite back a smile at the face he pulls. However, when he slumps backwards into his chair and rubs at his face, you frown at the bags under his eyes. Looking up at you, he gives you a dopey smile, “Is it that bad?”

You open your mouth to kindly object, but Trevor laughs at bit, and you do too. “Yeah, it’s that bad,” you admit. You know you have that stupid kind-of-fond, kind-of-pitiful smirk going on, but you let it stay there. “These emails will be here tomorrow, and you need sleep. So do I. Go home so I can sleep in peace.”

“Ah, well, I wouldn’t want to keep you up at night,” Trevor teases as he stands up.

Heat creeps up your neck and cheeks - oh please, like you don’t already . He yawns and stretches again, and you have to turn away your face as your blush deepens. You’re searching for something to say when he drops his stretch and claps his hands on his thighs.

“Fuck,” he sighs, his shouldered slumped and eyes trained unfocused on the floor.

You smirk again, “Fuck?”

“Yeah,” he smiles at you sheepishly as he collects his stuff from his desk, “Thanks for checking in. I would have been here all night.”

“I’m sure. And it’s no worry.” You regard him as he rubs at his face again, “Are you alright to get home?”

Trevor jingles the keys hooked on one of his fingers.

You laugh. “No. No, you cannot drive like this. Not in this weather.”

“I’ll be fine, I’ll just-”

“Nope. You’re ten minutes from mine. If something happened to you, I’d never sleep again.” You make your way back to the other side of the office, grab your bag from the couch and hold the door for him. “Let’s go.”

You watch him process your words for a beat, then pocket his keys and follow you to the door. “Yes, ma’am.”

The walk to your car is comfortably quiet, albeit the slight drag of Trevor’s feet and the little yawns he tries to stifle. You steal glances at him, disguised as concern as he lags behind you a little through the corridors of Stage 2. You’re unable to help yourself - Trevor is stunning twenty four hours a day seven days a week, but you’ve never seen him so sleepy. His mussed hair and heavy lidded eyes have you blushing for no good reason, and pushing away some persistent thoughts.

Outside, it’s well past dark and freezing, and you both pick up the pace as you dig your keys out of your bag. Your car isn’t far, and Trevor laughs as he moves a plate with the crumbs of this morning’s breakfast from the passenger seat before he climbs in. “Relatable,” he grins at you.

“Gotta do what I gotta do to be on time. Can’t let the boss down.” You flash him a teasing smile, turn on the heating, put your car in gear, and head for the gates.

As you do, Trevor scoffs. “Impossible.” He fiddles with your stereo, and your playlist from this morning quietly fills the silence. “Good stuff,” he murmurs and sinks into his seat, head back and eyes closed to the street lights now passing overhead.

“Big weekend, then?” you query.

He turns his face towards you, eyebrows raised in question. “Hmm?”

“It’s Monday and you’re dead to the world, Trev.”

“Oh,” he laughs, “I, uh, guess I got a little too invested in Hell’s Kitchen reruns last night.”

You look at him incredulously. “One half of me wants to say fair play, the other half wants to say you’re an idiot.”

“Fair play.”

You laugh, a good proper laugh, and Trevor does too, and you feel good - light, and giddy. The laughter is passing when you feel his gaze on you. Still giggling, you tear your eyes from the road to find him watching you with another dopey smile. “What?”

Trevor starts a little, like you’ve interrupted a thought. A beat goes by, and his smile returns. “You’re the prettiest Uber driver I’ve ever had.” He looks pleased with himself for the joke.

Your grin falters for a split second while you internalise the remark. “Mm, good one,” your grin returns, but your knuckles are white where you grip the steering wheel.

“No, really. I, uh, I mean it.” This time when you look at him, his smile is gentle and ernest.

“Oh.” You’re taken aback, and the shade of red you’re sure you’re turning is mortifying, but you glance back at him nonetheless, “Thanks, Trev.”

“Any time.” Trevor says confidently. When you look at him again, he’s staring out the passenger window. It could be the brake lights from the car in front of you, but his cheeks seem to glow just as red your own.

You let him dooze the rest of the way.

With your quiet music and Trevor’s low breathing, you find yourself on autopilot, reliving his words and chewing your lip until swells. Are you overthinking it? Could it really be that simple? Your crush on Trevor had been with you so long it had become more a casual avocation than the pining it had been. Sometimes you thought you’d worked past it - for the better. He’s your boss now, after all.

And now, this. Fuck.

You’re surprised when you find yourself pulling onto Trevor’s street. You shake his shoulder gently, “Where’re we at?”

He rubs the sleep from his face, answering you through a yawn, “Uh, it’s right up here on the left.”

You pull up outside his place, familiar from the time or two you’d visited for game nights. You leave the engine running.

“Well, goddamn, were you right about me not driving home, huh?” Trevor unbuckles himself and gathers his things in his lap. He’s smiling at you, cheeky again.

You hum in mock contemplation. “I’d say you would have been a goner around about the North Loop.”

“Hey now, I would have gotten further than that.”

“Dead meat either way. You were out like a light.” You’re smug, and you can’t help it, “Good thing I’m a good person.”

He opens his door, “You’re an amazing person, actually.” And he’s out on the street and coming around the back of your car before you can get a word in. You’ve barely closed the shocked little ‘o’ on your lips when he’s tapping your window. Cheeks still pink, you wind it down for him.

“An actual saint,” he continues, “I owe you one. Thank you so much, Y/N.”

“My pleasure. The pictures I may have snapped on the way make it all worth it,” you tease. “Very cute.”

He cringes, “Yikes. Did I drool?”

“Just a little.” You grin and lean towards him, against your door.

“How charming of me.” He runs his hand through his hair, a habit you could never look away from. His tired eyes catch the warmth of the streetlight, and his cheeks are flushed from the cold. His breath clouded by the frost about his head make you think of a halo - you smile at him softly.

“What?” His smile is nervous.

You almost don’t say it. Instead, you steel yourself, swallow what feels like your heart in your throat, and say brightly, “You’re the prettiest passenger I’ve ever had.”

Trevor’s surprise melts to something softer as he looks at the ground, then back to you, “You’re a dork.” It’s that dopey smile again.

You give an exaggerated shrug, “Yeah, but I’m right, so…”

He laughs. He’s shivering now, even in his coat, and it’s well past eight thirty. You’re about to say goodnight when he speaks.

“Do you want to get lunch together tomorrow?”

“I, uh - like, lunch lunch?”

“Like a date, yeah, if you want.”

Your heart’s in your throat again, beating ten million miles an hour, but somehow you manage to get “I’d love to,” around it.

Trevor laughs with what sounds like a little touch of relief, “That’s that, then.”

“Sure is,” you smile, thankful that you at least sound like you’re not losing your mind. “Hey, go get some sleep. You need it bad”

“Yeah, sleep sounds good.” He runs his hand through his hair once more before shoving it back in his pocket and stepping back onto the curb, “Have a good night, Y/N.”

“Back at you!”

You watch him turn and make his way across his front yard. He gets halfway before he stops and turns back, shaking his head.

“You alright?” you call.

“I forgot something.”

You look over your shoulder at your passenger seat, which is empty. “Trev, I think you’ve -”

You turn to lean out your window to him again, but Trevor’s already there, taking your face in his hands and kissing you squarely on the lips. In the moment it takes you to process what’s happening, you feel him start to pull away. Before he can, you wrap your hand around the back of his neck, and place the other on his shoulder, anchoring him right where you need him. You feel his smile against your own and every part of you is humming. You deepen the kiss, until you feel his tongue swipe gently at your bottom lip, and you want to, you so badly want to open your mouth to Trevor, but now’s not the time, so you don’t. You pull yourself away to look up at him. “Was that it?”

He’s breathless and flushed and starry-eyed, a mirror image of yourself. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “That was it.” He strokes your cheek before he takes his hands from your face, and you do the same. For moment, all either of you can do is stare at each other, short of breath and beaming. Trevor takes a step back onto the curb, but his gaze doesn’t leave your face, your dopey smile. “Night, Y/N.”

“Have a good sleep, Trev.”

[chezzkaa]

Numb pt 26

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Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 2100+

Date posted: 20 Jan 2018

A/N: Y’all can thank @trevorcollumns for this part actually being completed. She’s become a nagging motivation and I love her to pieces for keeping me inspired with this fic. She refuses to let my interest move elsewhere, and I’m really thankful. Cya soon, my bitch. You can nag me in person soon! 

The skull stares at you. It’s black empty sockets screaming with a loneliness that is not only striking, but fearful. Like the creature it once was continues to lament over its last moments alive. Jaw dislocated and limp, but cries so loud they’re deafening.

Ryan is right, the remnants of the animal before you hadn’t fallen to an ordinary predator.

The grooves carved into it’s features wander like footpaths traipsed through familiarity, smooth and deliberate when unwrapping the skin from bone. Intelligent. Not clusters of claw marks in sets of threes and fours, and not the aftermath of clumsy teeth trying to keep a hold - but created with a precision that you just can’t place.

Can’t place, at least, until an outstretched finger touches the bone. All at once the base of your skull is left searing, a prickling pain that glides smoothly up the centre of your head, right over until coming to sting at the bridge of your nose. Along with it comes a heat that circles your neck, the hollow of your throat closing with the pressure of unseen fingers.

“Fuck!” You recoil instantly, shuddering and hoping to pass the discomfort off as a reaction to the cold. The word slips from your lips before you can catch a breath, Ryan placing a cautionary hand against your lower back to stop you from toppling out of the crouch you’re folded into. “You’re right, this isn’t an animal… But why wouldn’t whoever it is take the head?”

“Y/N, come on.” Ryan gives you a concerned look. “Why’re you freaking out? I was kidding about the murder mystery thing. It’s probably just left over from a camper who needed a good meal.”

“In this weather?”

He doesn’t have a response.

Letting the hand he has against your back guide you into sitting, your legs guard the sides of the skull. You can’t help following the grooves; pressing their image against the memories you have of those adorning the window frames of Motbury, and decorating the bodies you’re now too familiar with.

“Why,” you ask again, reaching out to the bone again and pulling it into your lap, “would someone meticulously remove the head of a creature, skin the skull, and not take it with them? Surely a hunter wouldn’t chop off and clean the head before taking the body away. That doesn’t make sense.”

He struggles, uncertain of what answer you might possibly want. Taking the skull from you, Ryan turns it over in his hands, examining the clean separation that had seen it removed from the spine in the dimming evening light. “Well,” he says, “maybe he didn’t need it.”

-

 The feeling of cobblestone pounds against the soles of your feet. Hard and aching in the cold. Bitter with every slap of your shoes as you run. The orange glow of streetlights trace the path you carve through the town, chasing the shadows you leave behind and playing in your hair. Scampering between your legs and leaping across the stone you bound over. Glinting against the black ice that has already managed to trip you twice, ground kissing the skin it’s left bruised across your hip and thigh.

Ryan’s confusion still rings in your ears. His alarmed expression, of which you had left in the snow as you’d rocketed to your feet and started moving, haunts the darkened spaced between houses and shop fronts.

“What, Y/N? What’s wrong - wait, where’re you going? Y/N, slow down. Y/N-”

He’d snatched out, crumpling to his knees as you’d darted away.

Instead of explaining, you’d thrown him an incoherent response and reminder for him to join dinner that night with nothing else on your mind besides racing thoughts and a need to find Detective Dooley. To hurl definitive evidence at his feet and demand that he acknowledge the grooves that match those found clinging to buildings. To force him to address the links exposed by the timeline you and Michael had slaved over. To make him see, once and for all, that the removal of the head and the slaughter of animals oh so long ago has to mean something. It just had to.

 It had to.

 The skull, minor in its existence, brings the three factors they’d been scratching their heads over together with clumsy a bow. Solidifying the concept of a copycat killer so much so that Jeremy will be unable to argue, and parading the fact that that whoever had been killing livestock hadn’t upgraded to children, but had kept a clear line between those he hunts. One for food, and one for fun.

It isn’t much, but it consumes you. Taking over your being and vibrating in your limbs, stretching tight across your icy cheekbones. But it’s more than the relief of a definitive copycat that spurs you on. Ryan’s comment had stirred something inside you. Flipped a switch and brought blinding possibilities you hadn’t yet considered.

 If the killer didn’t take the skulls of animals because he didn’t need them or want them - he must have had a reason for collecting the heads that he does.

 Your rampant thoughts, along with your being, collide into the figure in front of you. So dizzy in your mind that it takes you a moment to register the shock, the man is already grunting and skirting past. Swallowed again by the night. A shake of your head sees the panic dislodge and recognition take its place.

“Jeremy?” you call, waving a hand above your head and stumbling after him. “Hey, wait up. You’re just who I’m looking for.”

He doesn’t. Instead his head tucks deeper into his coat, shoulders hunched. The quickness of his pace is hard to match, but you manage.

"Slow down, J, I need to talk to you," you plead, catching his arm. But he still doesn't stop, shaking free and powering on into the snow. Recoiling, stung, you jam your hands into you pockets. "Are you kidding me? C’mon man, stop messing around. This is important."

“Then why don't you go and tell Ryan?”

The words burn, lashing out and leaving your skin raw.

“Excuse me?” you demand faintly, “what does Ryan have to do with anything?”

"I just figured," he starts, finally facing you with an expression set in stone, "that considering how close you've gotten, he's all you need."

“I'm trying to talk to you about the case, Detective. You know, the one where kids are dying? And you think now's a good time to go digging around in my personal life?”

"Why not?" he asks hollowly, and you take a step back. “Why shouldn't I treat you like everyone else in this town? I’d be covering all the bases like you want me to.”

“Jesus Christ, Jeremy!” you snap, infuriated at the man who cowers from your anger for a brief moment. “What the fuck is your problem? Just because you fancy Ryan doesn’t mean you get to be an ass to me!”

“Fancy Ryan?” He almost laughs, but stops himself, instead settling for bewilderment. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Stop it.” Your eyes narrow at his defence, in no mood for his denials. A sharp gesture of your hand cuts his confusion, letting it fall noisily to the floor. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” You’re seething, body desperate to pace and yet feet remaining rooted to the cold, frozen ground. Through the dark you struggle with his expression, equally hurt by his scowl as he is with your own. “Jon already told me that you’re interested in him. Which is fucking fine, and I get that you’re hurting in this situation. But don’t you dare go around being an absolute asshole to both of us, just because you can’t get what you want. We have a job to do, and I’m your friend.”

He’s shaking his head, eyes wide and mouth pouted open. This time he can’t stop the laugh, harsh and mocking in the night’s biting air. “You’re kidding? You think I don’t like you guys hanging out because I’m in love with Ryan?”

You stop, accepting his simple explanation with a tight nod. You resist the urge to shuffle guiltily, uncomfortable with confronting his feelings with such volatile accusations.

Jeremy’s jaw sets, fists balling by his side while he turns bitter. “Oh, you’ve caught me. I’m interested in him, alright? Really really interested.”

A rattling sigh bounces from your lungs, falling flat in the snow. You knew this would be inevitable, and sucking in a breath and as much confidence as possible, you start the conversation you’d rather not have. “Look, Jeremy, Ryan and I-”

“I’m interested in him because he’s a person of interest, you fucking moron.”

The words stop, clinging to your tongue and scampering back down your throat before you can comprehend his vicious growl. “A person of interest? You mean-”

“I mean that you’ve been trying to date a god damn murder suspect.”

“Oh.” The shock expelled from your lips forms with a gentle pop, and with it his expression softens. Regretfully he gathers his apologies, rubbing them comfortingly into your arm. Tears well, but you don’t let them fall, feeling them thicken in your throat. “Wow J. I- I just… I can’t believe this.”

“I know, Y/N, it was hard for me to accept too, but-”

You jerk away, skin stinging from his touch. Recoiling, a few stumbles steps see the fountain greet the back of your knees, accusations like daggers. “I can’t believe you’d think your closest friend could be a part of this. That he could hurt children. After losing his own, for god sakes. What the fuck is wrong with you? It’s like - It’s like you don’t even know him.”

“Yeah, sure, lost his own, wha- you’re not listening, are you? Because you just obviously know him better, huh? All that time you’ve spent together, all those nights stumbling home arm in arm - yeah, I fucking know about that because we’ve got men watching his every fucking move so he doesn’t kill another kid - it must mean that you know him better than me? Bearing in mind, Y/N, you were the one that dated a god damn serial killer and refused to accept it, not me. And it got people killed.”

Your spine straightens, bite so lethal he shrinks away. The sharp breath sears through your lungs, mind reeling from the night that haunts your dreams and forced you to run from all that you love as he jams it into your hands. It’s your turn to ball your fists, clutching your coat close with the enraged whip of wind. It takes all you have not to launch across the space and punch him, to refrain from falling to your knees and screaming like there’s no tomorrow.

When you speak your voice is low, far more threatening than intended, but appreciated all the same. “Yeah, I guess I do know him better.”

Jeremy wants to snap back, but you don’t let him.

“I must do, because I know what type of person he is, Jeremy. And he’s a damn good one. And I also know what obsessing over a case does to people like us. I was too blind to see Charlie for who he was, because I was too busy focusing on someone else. Someone innocent, remember? I chased him to the point where he couldn’t handle the hounds and killed himself. Do you remember that, huh? Remember when we charged into his apartment and found him hanging, then got the call that my sister was dead all in the same hour?”

Jeremy doesn’t speak, as frozen as the world around him. If he could swallow his comment, he would. He’d forgotten the raw hurt, the agony in your eyes whenever you’d talk about your sister - and hadn’t realised it was still as fresh as ever. He can’t look at you anymore, glaring at his fingers as they slowly blotch purple. And you don’t look at him, either. Can’t stand his guilt, can’t stand seeing him the way he was all those years ago, watching your sister’s blood coat his hands after he’d done all he could to save her.

“I won’t let you make the same mistakes I did, Jeremy. I won’t let you drive yourself, or Ryan, into madness, just because you don’t know how to stop and see a bigger picture.” You turn to leave, stopping only to spit your final remark into the street you’re desperate to escape. “Oh, and once you’re done condemning Ryan you might want to talk to him, seeing as he’s just found the evidence we need to link the killer as a copycat to the Widow of the Woods story.”

[sarahinara]

I have this weird little headcanon that living as a civilian in achievement city isn’t... that bad? like,

the fahc are borderline insane with the heists they pull, stealing from every bank in the city and getting away in absurdly painted cars. decked out in weird outfits that are always so pristine despite the fact that they seem to wear it all. the time.

it becomes normal to hear laughter on top of the engines of motorcycles, or to see a helicopter swerving madly in the sky as it threads through skyscrapers while getting away from the police.

achievement city’s organizations, the little ngos that try to make it better, receive donations on the regular, any truly innocent person doesn’t stay missing for very long - always returned home with an unbelievable story to tell

(it was the vagabond, I swear - skull and all - he came for me)

you see the golden boy shopping at calvin klein and all he does is hold up two shirts when you stare, asking which looks better? before you hear sirens in the distance. he says I guess both is fine, shoving them in his bag and escapes out the back door, slipping a few hundreds into one of the retail employee’s jean pockets on the way

a mugger pushes you into an alley with a gun to your back and you barely get a word out before you hear a knock that shit off and they’re shoved off you by the jersey devil, more annoyed than anything else. the mugger gawks and runs off and you’re still frozen as the curly haired criminal brushes off your shoulders with a stern stay safe out here

you’re sitting under a tree at the park one afternoon and the kingpin walks up to you, asking mind if I join you? you nod meekly and he plants himself down beside you, pulling out a book of his own, occasionally asking what was happening in yours and leaving you with some recommendations when it was time to go heist

a job is pulled off near your work and roads are crammed with police and traffic, every person within a 100m radius being questioned. the next day you walk in to a fully catered lunch, a small note placed on top reading sorry about the mess - beardo

the self-proclaimed rimmy tim shows up to the bowling alley, cowboy hat and all, and smiles kindly to the teenager working behind the counter while paying for a game. he grabs the lane next to you, saying watch this, and throws the ball in the gutter

and it really was the vagabond breaking down the door that locked you in after what seemed to be like endless gunfire from the main floor, cutting off your restraints and letting you hold onto him on his motorcycle as he drives back to the city, stopping in an abandoned parking lot and offering to walk you home from there

because it’s an unspoken rule of the underground to keep civilians out of it, and you better believe that ramsey enforces it. the little boy who grew up watching the people he knew disappear, swearing on his heart that he’d do whatever he could to change that, even if his methods were a bit unorthodox

then when you post it online later, you get the expected amount of disbelief and yeah right’s, but then you get a comment - fun, but maybe let’s not do that again - v

[roosterteethinserts]

Jealousy

AN: Oh my god I didn’t realize this took over a month for me to do, I’m so sorry to the anon that requested it *cries*. Hopefully this is still good for you. (I don’t have any requests now, so send them in, but I’ll be busy with school soon so I’ll try to get them out asap) Enjoy!

Pair-Michael x Reader

Word Count-2239

Warnings-jealousy, mentions of in-game death (gta to be specific), fluff

Summary- During a let’s play, Gavin and Y/N get too chummy to Michael’s liking and Michael is jealous for the video. It’s made up after a nice lunch and assurance that Y/N only likes Michael and not his best friend. 

The loud noise of Achievement Hunter introing their newest GTA video filled the room. It was rare for me to be actually in the game doing this and not listening to them intro it through my headphones while editing or from the other room. It was louder than I expected and more distracting from my concentration of not trying to die while Ryan and Gavin drove around the people on foot.

"Hey Geoff! What are we doing?"

Jack was almost instantly answered with Geoff saying, "We're just going to mess around with some of the new vehicles that recently came out."

He added, "So let's say who's here. Geoff."

"Jack!"

"Ryan!"  

"Michael."

"Gav."

I smiled and exclaimed, "And Y/N!"

I made myself jump in the game as I did it, almost getting hit by Gavin's car in the process. I saw Michael from a distance drive towards us since he went to pick up one of his cars so he can drive to get one of the new vehicles.

"Jeremy isn't here so we decided to let Y/N come in and take his spot. They had to fist fight the other editors, but they were crowned champion and able to take his seat," Geoff jokes.

Jack asked, "So who's getting what? Are we going to have a goal or something?"

Gavin exclaimed, "I want to get the new plane and fly it around. Does anyone want to come with? Y/N?"

I shrugged, "Yeah, sure. You're always the center of chaos and I think I'd like to have another perspective when something goes wrong."

I got into Gavin's car, knowing that he could possibly kill us even when he's driving. Luckily, he safely drove us to the airport and parked right next to the new plane.

I got into Gavin's car and exclaim, "To the airport!...Hopefully we won't die."

Jack laughed, "Famous last words from Y/N, 'Hopefully we won't die'."

We got into the plane, Gavin getting in just a few moments before me, so he was the pilot.

I joked, "Gavin's flying. Hopefully he won't crash into something."

Gavin pouted, "I'm a good pilot, Y/N! Just trust me."

We take off and soar through the sky. I sit in the passenger seat and look around, listening to Jack and Ryan talk about one of the many things in GTA that came out. I mostly spaced them out since I don't really play GTA so I'm not that interested in hearing it. I noticed that he was flying towards the race track, which is where everyone else is going towards.

I asked, "Hey Gav, quick question. Where are you flying?"

He laughs, "Don't worry about it. We're just going to fly by to show it off."

It didn't take long for us to see everyone and their newly customized vehicles. I laughed at the color that Geoff chose which was magenta, standing out against the blues and blacks of the others.

I didn't notice Gavin's flying because I was questioning Geoff, who just shouted, "It's a cool color, okay?"

I shrugged, "I wouldn't have guessed that you'd want a pink car, is all."

The next second later, I noticed one of the many light poles on the outside of the track. The only reason I did was because we hit the wing of my side of the plane. I sighed as I hit respawn.

"Gavin, you killed me. I'm disappointed but not surprised. I kinda regret choosing to go with you to be honest. I have nothing left to contribute to the race."

He said with a playful smile, "That hurt, you saying that. It's all good, we're close to the airport. Do you want to get another one? We could get one of the new helicopters and watch them race."

I thought and told him, "I'll fly it, but yeah sure. That sounds good."

Geoff told us, "Tell us when you're overhead. I'm almost there to the track."

The both of us talked to each other about something Gavin was curious of, specifically something about my life. We both faced each other in real life, having a real conversation about something embarrassing that happened when I was in school. The others chimed in their opinions at times, but it was mostly Gavin and I. It really showed that Gavin and I were pretty good friends around the office since we were both joking and making fun of each other.

I could tell Michael was mentally shut off during that time, silently getting his car and trying to ignore the both of us. It wasn't showing much in the video since everyone seems to be talking, but I can tell from a mile away that he was jealous. Sometimes when Gavin and I were hanging out too much with each other without him, he'd get jealous since his two best friends were interacting without him. It was something he did at times like these when he hasn't hung out with me in a week or so and I'm talking to Gavin when I could talk to the both of them.  

The helicopter was quick to get to the track. I told everyone that we were here and the race started after a countdown.

Gavin acted like a reporter, announcing everyone's places as they take their three laps around the track. I kept towards the center of the track, high enough where everyone was visible. Since there were light poles around the track, I tried my best to be careful of them. It didn't last long though, since Gavin took out a grenade and threw it at the car in first, Ryan's, when he was almost at the end of the race. Ryan's car ended up being wrecked from the explosion and he lost being in first.

Laughter erupted from the crew as Ryan yelled out, "Gavin you bastard! I was about to win!"

He retaliated by shooting a rocket right at the helicopter before Gavin could utter out an excuse once he showed up to the track after responding just out of it, causing the helicopter and the both of us to explode. I just silently hit 'respawn' and called one of my cars to take me to the track, which was a little ways away.

I got into one of my character's cars after getting it. I stayed silent as I drove, trying to let everyone get their arguments out of the way.

Gavin yelled, "Why did you rocket the both of us, Ryan? Y/N had nothing to do with this."

The other three cars were driving around aimlessly, trying to yell at both Gavin and Ryan about what happened.

Ryan points out,"Well, I wouldn't have shot my rocket if you didn't destroy my new car."

I told them, "What's done is done, boys. I'm not even phased anymore. I expected this to happen basically since I went with Gavin and he had nothing else to focus on other than causing trouble."

Jack laughed, "Well, before the video started you wanted to come with me and Ryan and get the new car so we can race it, so you're the one who caused it since you changed the plan. I don't know how you would've liked coming with us since you don't have enough money for the cars."

Gavin exclaimed, "I'm going to the beach since there's a new boat and I bought one."  

Michael laughs as Gavin runs towards the cars, "Gav, why don't you come with me and we can go together? We'll go Team Nice Dynamite style."

Gavin smiled, "Yeah boi! Come pick me up."

I could tell Michael was trying to separate the two of us. I didn't really care, wanting Michael to be happy more than anything.

Geoff suggests, "Why don't all of us go to the beach and we'll end the video after Gavin shows us the new boat? I gotta head to a meeting in fifteen minutes."

"Yeah sure, Geoff. Let's go."

Since it was the last video before lunch, I knew that Michael would want to get something to eat. Usually, I have to get him lunch with the rest of AH, usually something suggested and Steffie ordered ahead.

"Hey guys," Gavin asked, "What do you want for lunch?"

Suggestions were thrown around the room. Usual places like Rudy's or Pete Terry's were said, but nothing was conclusive. One person didn't want something, then everyone didn't want that since they had it yesterday for lunch.

Eventually, Michael just said, "How about we all go out and get our own? Ryan and Jack want Homeslice and I'm not feeling it. Plus Geoff won't be here so unless we're filming a four-person let's play I want to go out."

Gavin asked, "What do you want, Michael?"

He shrugged, "Could go for some Torchy's right now."

Gavin debated the two while I asked Michael if I could take a ride with him, eventually asking Michael if he can come as well. Michael agreed and that was the end of that conversation.

Everyone ended up at the beach in-game and Gavin showed off the boat after apparently killing some pedestrians. The video wasn't something different of AH; Michael and Gavin tried to shoot everyone off the boat, Ryan murdered the citizens then turned to killing everyone else, Geoff and Jack ended the video, and I just watched as it all went down, glad that the video was over.

Geoff stood up once the video was over, "Welp, I gotta go to my meeting. I'll probably be back in two hours if I'm back at all. Trevor said that you guys don't need to film anything, but you can if you want."

Everyone packed up after saving their files and sending to the main folder of unedited footage. Michael, Gavin and I went to lunch quickly after, all hungry. Gavin goofed around with Michael, who seemed to perk up at his friend's antics. I smiled as I watched Gavin and Michael play around, happy to see Michael happy.

I drove the three of us to Torchy's, Gavin and Michael arguing about something Gavin said while getting into the car. It didn't take long to get there so the argument was quickly ended as I pulled into a parking space.

We ordered our food and sat down at a table. I could tell Michael was still hot from filming but I wasn't sure how to ask him about it.  

I just asked, "Michael, are you okay? You didn't seem yourself when we filmed."

Gavin added, "Yeah, Michael! You usually don't sit there and not speak much in a video."

We ate as I looked at Michael, who looked to be contemplating telling us the truth.

He just quietly said while staring at his food, "I don't like seeing you being chummy with Gavin. It seemed like you like him more than me, is all."

Gavin outright laughed at Michael's statement, causing Michael to look up from his food with an annoyed expression.

"You must be joking!"

Michael shook his head, "I'm not...I know it sounds stupid but it hurt to see my favorite boy and my favorite girl having fun without me."

I felt my heart melt at his confession. It was seriously some of the sweetest things he's said to me, even if it was his jealousy that made it.

I smiled, "You don't have to worry, okay? I'm not going to date Gavin, even for a million dollars I wouldn't."

Gavin agreed, "She's like a little sister to me. I wouldn't date her for any amount of money."

Michael nodded his head. He looked relieved after we said that, his jealousy seemingly gone from his mind. It took only a few minutes before he started acting like himself, joking around with the both of us. The rest of lunch wasn't that eventful since it was normal.

We went back to the office after lunch, getting back before the others. Gavin and Michael took their seats in the main office, turning to me.

I told them, "I'll go back to my spot. It was fun to film and go out to eat."

Michael smiled, "Yeah. I'll see you after work, yeah?"

I smiled, "Yeah. See you!"

I went to kiss his cheek, but Gavin stopped us by shouting at us that it was gross, making the both of us laugh. I quickly pecked his cheek and left before Gavin said anything, rolling my eyes at the Brit.

Going back to work, I finished the video that I was editing before I filmed. I couldn't help the smile that grew on my face whenever I thought about Michael being jealous.

I mean, it was cute to think of him being jealous of someone being with me, but Gavin? Gavin definitely wouldn't try to date me since we're friends, especially since it'd be weird to date his best friend's girlfriend. He wouldn't be able to get away from Michael if he tried that since Michael wouldn't let that happen ever. I'm flattered that Michael would even think of Gavin as someone that might think of me as someone that he'd want to date, but Michael is the only one that fits my type. I'll have to make it clear when I see him next that he's the only one for me, even if it takes more convincing.

[youtubeimaginationstation]

Friday Night

Pairing: Trevor Collins/Reader Rating: G Word Count: 835 Read it on A03: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11421291

Fridays were normally your favorite day of the week. You got off of work, came home, changed into the comfiest clothes you owned and let the stress of the week roll off. That and you got to spend time with your boyfriend Trevor. Seeing as he was the supervising producer of Achievement Hunter even his evenings were packed to the brim with emails, phone calls, and the occasional drunk Facetime from Geoff when he had a brilliant idea. You were used to sharing your time with the Achievement Hunters and you relished your time with him when you could get it. Fridays were always when you and him set aside time to make dinner and play some kind of multiplayer or watch a movie.

This Friday though when 6:30 rolled around Trevor wasn’t home. No text message telling you what was happening. No phone call to tell you he was gonna be late. Nothing. You tried not to let it bother you, figuring he was finishing something up at work. He’d be home soon. Instead you turned some music on and started prepping for dinner, dancing around the kitchen and making a marinade for the chicken. This was typically something the two of you did together, but you knew that you were going to be getting real hungry soon so prep made sense.

When 7:30 came and went you sent him a quick text message that everything was ready to get made when he got home and that he should let you know when he was on his way back. You turned on the Xbox and settled in for a few rounds of Rocket League to pass the time. And time passed. And passed. It was 9:30 when Trevor finally shuffled in through the door. You looked up from your spot on the couch, and one look at the exhaustion in his face had you dropping the controller and hopping up greet him.

“It’s a bit late isn’t it?” You started, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. There was clear tension throughout his whole body so you just pulled him over to the couch before he could even really reply.

“Everyone was all over the place today. I really didn’t have much of the team, it seems like everyone had somewhere else to be today. I really needed at least two of the guys to come in and film in this one game… honestly I can’t even remember what game it was because I didn’t end up getting anyone to fucking play. And then for some reason a ton of our scheduled uploads just disappeared. I had to reupload those after pre-filming On the Spot for next week since Jon is going to be out of town.” Trevor grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face while you fished the Chinese take out menus from the drawer and grabbed your phone to order his favorites. “And of course as soon as I needed the internet to be fast it just fucking wasn’t so those hour long reuploads took forever.”

You nodded along and raised a finger to quiet him while you called in your orders. As soon as that was done you tossed the menu and your phone onto the recliner in the corner and nearly climbed on top of him on the couch. He huffed out a laugh as you wrapped yourself around him and nuzzled against his neck.

“Hi Y/N.” He said quietly, pulling back to give you a quick kiss on the forehead. “I’m sorry I was so late. I know Fridays are our thing.” His shoulders slumped under your arms and you just shook your head, kissing him quickly.

“Hey, you’re here now. Friday isn’t over. We’re just starting a little later. No big deal.” You said, then kissing each of his cheeks bringing a small smile to his face.

“How did I get so lucky?” Trevor asked, resting his chin on your shoulder and you just shrugged, curling in a little closer on him. You didn’t realize how long you’d been sitting there until the doorbell made you both jump and you hopped up to grab your wallet. You returned with two armfuls of food to Trevor setting things up for Mario Kart. You raised an eyebrow at his choice and he laughed.

“We don’t do any Nintendo in the office and this requires no thought.” He explained and you just shook your head.

“No thought? Trevor I’m gonna wipe the floor with your ass when this is done.” You teased, setting up the food on the table. He tackled you to the couch, peppering your face with kisses.

“Yeah right. I’m gonna kill it.” He said and you bopped him on the nose.

“Put your money where your mouth is Collins, you’re going down.” You said laughing and he pulled you up into a kiss.

Maybe it wasn’t exactly how you planned it to be but Friday’s were always going to be your favorite day of the week.

[ragequilt]

@unintentionalgenius tagged me to do this and I simply cannot resist them SO

1. How many fics do you have on ao3? - the answer is 13 and I find that alarming. I thought it was like... 6.

2. What’s your total ao3 word count? - cannot believe I’m doing math at 9:18 am uhhh 140,834??? How is this number so high??? I truly don’t understand.

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos? - ‘someone who’ll set my heart free’, the hades game sickfic I did not expect to still be getting kudos on to this day, all three of my Spencer Reid/Reader insert fics from 2015, and then ‘to grow a winter garden’, last year’s Jaskier/Reader fic and my longest baby to date!

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? - Generally, if it’s a comment with some depth of its own, I will! Otherwise I feel like the commenter and I will get caught in a loop of just sending love to one another (which is lovely but not Productive.) My fave comments to reply to were the ones on ‘to grow a winter garden’ — the demisexual reader character did a lot for a fair handful of people and that really means SO much to me to have done that at all, so. They get my wordvom.

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? - HAHAHA I am physically incapable of writing Angst I am so sorry to everyone ??? I can’t even answer this it’s out of my wheelhouse. (that being said I think ‘come out, level up’ is going to have the angstiest scene / arc, but lord we ain’t there yet)

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending? - ohhhhhh boy. what a Question for the me. Probably ‘to grow a winter garden’ but like, it’s complicated-happy (as is the nature with Jaskier, I think, love him.)

7. Do you write crossovers? If so, what’s the craziest one you’ve written? - no, but I am a SUCKER for a fusion fic. See the BNHAH au, the BNHA x Boyfriend Dungeon au, the scraps of YYH fusion fic I write for every fandom I lay my hands on... alas.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic? - hmmm yes some little baby person decided to send me tumblr askbox hate over my writing for winter garden, instead of closing out the window like an adult, but nothing Big (oh also my ex boyfriend in 2014 hated the RTAH reader insert fic he INSISTED I share with him... yes I’m still mad fuck you man)

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? - okay the technical answer is yes but really I just wanna know about the different kinds of smut. Like, what does this mean? I’m worried about smut genres now what am I missing here

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen? - if I have I don’t know about it!

11. Have you ever had a fic translated? - no way I’m not that big of a deal

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before? - I am effusive sounding board for @unintentionalgenius and I would be miserable without them in my corner as well... and I was beta/and everything else for Wes (Cruel Fate, Kind Destiny), but I don’t think I could actually coauthor something with someone.

13. What’s your all time favorite ship? - oh my god you can’t just ask someone what their favorite ship is. lord let me think... (ten literal minutes later) I can’t possibly pick, like. Whatever @suzukiblu does I’m invested in, same frankly for surveycorpsjean, but like... I can’t simply Pick.

14. What’s a WIP you want to finish but don’t think you ever will? - y’all if I had a better naming scheme I would simply include a screenshot from my scrivener here because the answer is ALL of them. that being said I Do need to finish the Jaskier POV of winter garden.

15. What are your writing strengths? - I think my sentence flow is good, structurally! Everything else is garbage tho sorry.

16. What are your writing weaknesses? - all of it. but lord don’t get me started on character voice I CAN’T DO IT why CAN I NOT DO IT

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in fic? - @unintentionalgenius summed it up well but like — if we aren’t supposed to know what they meant, it gets a one off narrative line. If we are supposed to know what they meant and it’s a whole sentence, we mention that they’re speaking <x language> and write it in the language of the rest of the fic. If it’s a one-off word NBD.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for? - on ao3? Naruto, I think. In general? Harry Potter, aged 13.

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to? - honestly even if I haven’t posted it, my scrivener is full of where my id has leaked. Most stuff I either don’t care to write or I just do it. Maybe kacchako, though, I just love them.

20. What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written? - oh boyyyy I feel like I want to say ‘to grow a winter garden’, just bc it wrapped up so well, but there’s so much in the works for ‘come out (level up)’ that I just can’t discount it. Y’all I can’t pick like that. :(

@ofmermaidstories @cat-slippered @bobawithpomegranate y’all I would love to see your answers!!

[michaelsgavin]

I feel for you. I've been an rt fan since 2005 and as soon as ryan popped up he was one of my faves. This is so awful and disorienting and disappointing. I've consumed a lot of rtah fan content (inc reader inserts) and I can't imagine being a creator right now. 💜

oh god that’s even longer than i have.....sending good vibes to you too, it must be even more difficult for you to separate the nostalgia and all the goodwill built up over the years with this disappointing event ;;

and yeah currently i have no idea what i’d do with all the fics and gifs and graphics i’ve made of him—i would be lying if i say i don’t regret ever making them at all, even when there was no way i could’ve known. there are a lot of conflicting feelings i have to sort out later

[y8man]

Haha

Tip Of The Iceberg - Adam E x reader

A/N: haha this spun so out of control. first reader insert. after reading so much of roosterteethrambles‘s work, i felt really compelled to do this. Concerning my mute character, please let me know if I’ve made any horrible mistakes!!

Word count: 685

Summary: Adam E x mute!reader. “Take the first line of the last paragraph on page 51 of any book and start with that. [Enders Game]”

You didn’t look up. You acted, in fact, as if you hadn’t seen the message.

“It’s not gonna go away just because you’re not looking at it.”

You glared into the shadows that engulfed the front of the room. With a sigh, Adam slid from his sleep niche and approached the drawing table. “You have to do this, no matter his terms.”

With a clatter of ink pots, you slammed a clenched fist down on your papers. “Wants job no charge!” You signed with gestures slurred in frustration.

“Beats paying the bail, if you ask me.”

Heat pricked your ears. You’d had this argument many times in the last few hours. Adam knew how you felt about the General of the City Guard and his offer. “Rather rot in jail than-“

“-Than take Haywood’s contract or pay the bail; I know. But if you don’t take this,” he waved the offending papers in your face, “you won’t be rotting in jail. You’ll be rotting under it.”

“Occupational hazard,” you waved smugly.

“You’re unbelievable,” Adam sighed, but you could see the twitch of his lips beneath his unruly beard. “It’s your decision, [Y/N], but I need you to know that if you’re going to wind up in a cell or on the gallows, all I’ve got left is this here hole-in-the-ground of a hideout and my cut of the Guild, which would fall apart without you anyway.”

You rolled your eyes. What a sap.

“Yeah, I thought so.” He placed his large hand over your small fist where it was planted on the table top, “Please; just don’t take this lightly. I’d hate to lose you just because you won’t take that stick out of your ass. If not for yourself, then please, do it for me.”

You screwed your face up. How very Adam to crack a joke and deliver a eulogy at the same time. You watched his back as he returned to his niche in the basement wall, and considered Adam’s life without you, and yours without Adam. Both were very cold, very silent.

You studied for the umpteenth time the papers sprawled before you.

‘The enclosed documents include copies of every known felony committed by [Y/N]. This is just the tip of the iceberg.’ 

Your précis of “known felonies” ranged from simple grave digs to crown jewels, and everything in between. Of all things, you’d been caught lifting silverware from a damn farmhouse south of the city.

‘Further investigations will be held. All findings will precede to the High Court. You will face a trial and a punishment fit for an outlaw of your stature will be arranged.’

An outlaw? As of eighteen hours ago, your criminal record didn’t even exist. General Haywood found one scrap of foul play on you, and suddenly you became the suspect for every unsolved burglary case in the country. Not that he wasn’t wrong, of course. “Burglary” was your part, “unsolved” was Adam’s.

‘Considering your probable need of immunity, and a personal matter of mine that I would have resolved, I believe we can come to an agreement. Take my offer, [Y/N], and the High Court will never know your name. Refuse, and we will proceed with your unfavourable trial. The enclosed documents also include your blackmail. - Haywood’

Adam was the very contrary epitome of “no honour amongst thieves”, yet he would ask you to take Haywood’s corruption with grasping hands? If not for yourself, then please, do it for me.

He still didn’t know the job Haywood had offered you. You couldn’t bring yourself to show him. No pay was never your problem. That was just the tip of the iceberg. If the contract had been for another royal heist you would have signed it and sent it back hours ago. But there it was, “assassination,” written in big, arrogant cursive. A deserter hiding deep in the Outlands, a “backslider” becoming “more trouble than she’s worth”. Murder was a field you didn’t deal in, a place you always swore you wouldn’t go. For yourself? Never. But for Adam?

You looked up. You’d take it.

[transvavsquad]

Do the fibonacci numbers on the writers ask

1) How old were you when you first starting writing fanfiction?

I’d say about 12 or 13, maybe younger? That’s when I first remember it all, though, so.

2) What fandoms do you write for and do you have a particular favourite if you write for more than one?

RTAH, X&V,,, i’d do more with bnha but like i’m kind of afraid of touchin that oof

3) Do you prefer writing OC’s or reader inserts? Explain your answer.

I prefer writing OC’s. I’m... more comfortable writing a solid character, rather than writing as the point of view as someone I don’t know.

5) If you had to choose a favourite out of all of your multi chaptered stories, which would it be and why?

‘All of them’ i have One and it’s Infinity and i’m actually really proud of how it’s going. I didn’t expect it to go on this long, or for the reactions to it, but I’m glad it’s going so well.

8) Where do you take your inspiration from?

You guys! All the anons and all the people I’m friends with that read my stuff,,, it’s a lot of help and a lot of fun to talk to people

13) Who is your least favourite character to write for? Why?

Honestly, Geoff. I’m always.. unsure on how to write him. It bleeds a little into Jack too, I can really only hope I’m doing my best with either of them

21) Tell me about another writer(s) who you admire? What is it about them that you admire?

There is a very long list of writers I admire, and if I listed them all we would die, but I think Jos is a huge inspiration to actually a lot of the people in the community. Her works are both quality and quantity, and the length of each chapter doesn’t feel like anything is a filler, nothing feels out of place in her work. I hang on to every word, like it were an actual novel. 

34) What’s the harshest criticism you’ve gotten?

I don’t actually.. get a lot of criticism, I don’t think? I think the one thing I did get was a joke from a friend who said all my ocs were the same, which is like. True ghdfndh.

[chezzkaa]

Numb pt 27

Click here for more Numb content OR JOIN THE NUMB DISCORD

Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 2750+

Date posted: 27 Jan 2019

A/N: Hey all! I was originally going to get this chapter out sooner, but I got so caught up at AH Live that it had to wait. Shout out to everyone who freaked out at me about the last chapter - hopefully this one gives you some warmer feels. 

His flannel shirt greets your ascent along the path back home. Red against winter. Honey gold in the humming darkness. You want to call out to him, to tell him that everything is alright and apologise for bolting away; but you don’t trust your voice. Certain, in fact, that the sobs clinging to your ribs will tear their way from your lips as soon as you try to speak.

So instead you grant rejection and betrayal the time they need. Stinging your nose and quivering against your lips as you raise a hand to Ryan’s distant figure lingering at the top of the snowbank, waving him on. Motioning for him to continue and hoping more than anything that he will grant you the isolation your vulnerability needs.

He takes a moment. His expression distant. Watching you at the base of the path, your hand now pressed to one of the tattered trunks lining the ascent like a railing. His fingers twitch, curling into a loose fist before he takes a step back from you. Then another. Dragging his attention away and reluctantly disappearing like you urge him to.

In the dark you’re grateful, night having fallen fast over Motbury as though the sky were trying to hide the hurt you dress in. Unwilling, stubbornly so, to let Ryan see you break. Desperate, more so than anything, to avoid explanations. Knowing that as soon as you start unweaving the tale you tried to escape by moving to this town in the first place you’ll be unable to stop from unpicking yourself at the seams.

The bitter cold is thick against your skin, gnawing on your bones through the coat you pull closer. It sees your limbs stiffen and discomfort exude in steam from your lips. Still, despite the freezing temperatures desperate to claim your body, the heat of Jeremy’s words cling to your back as you keep pushing forward. White hot and screaming from the static shock you’d left him in, his feet rooted to the floor and expression one torn between anger and regret.

You don’t blame him. Not because you don’t want to; but because you can’t. You’ve been on the path Jeremy is spiralling down, you and the detective both have. Trapped in tunnel vision and bent on seeing one thing as another that you will it to be. Desperate to find connections when none exist, and far too eager to put a familiar face on a monster. Following a clumsy pattern that doesn’t make sense, and getting frustrated when the design is nothing more than a mess.

Your mess.

Last time it had gotten someone killed. Last time you hadn’t been able to save your sister or see your boyfriend for who he was around the target you’d painted on someone else's back - but not this time. This time you know better.

A storm is coming, you can feel it. Not just from the emotions churning in the turmoil, but from a glance at the clouds. Their anger so obvious you shy away from the sky.

Trying to put the past out of your mind, you submerge yourself in the calm scattered across Motbury. Taking in what you can of the stars as they guide you along the path you’ve walked so many times. Fresh air filling your lungs and washing away the panic that builds in your chest. Close enough to comfortable by the time the roof of your home stretches into view.

Ryan waits for you on the porch, doused in the light pouring from the windows. Caught in the same rich oranges and warm yellows painting the wooden beams and pooling across the snow. Everything about him screams nervously. Anxiousness set in his expression, knitted with the tug of his eyebrows and worn bags circling his eyes. Even the jitter of his hands, fingers drumming incessantly against his arm, tells the story of the panic and confusion.

Guilt knots your stomach, but the feeling doesn’t last long. Ryan drops his discomfort at the sight of you stumbling over to him, quick to smile and draw you close. The pound of his heart works wonders, his heat thawing your skin.  

“Y/N,” Ryan murmurs, his voice draping across your crown, “are you alright? You scared me half to death when you ran off.”

You hum in response, not quite ready to break your own silence. Instead you’re content in his arms until the moment drags on and he pulls back to gauge your expression. Offering him a smile, you lace your fingers through the hand he places against your cheek, the action easing the knot of his brows.

“Yeah,” you breathe, “I am now. C’mon, let’s get inside. It looks as though it’s going to storm.”

-

Lauren beams, brightening the room even more and eyeing your blush as Ryan skirts behind you in the kitchen. With a hand on your lower back, he leans for the tea towel on your left, laughing at the jokes pouring from Alfredo’s lips and soaking in Trevor’s half hearted complaints. You can feel your best friend’s attention, can practically see the knowing grin that adorns her face, but for a moment you can’t drag your eyes from the countertop.

“Those carrots sure seem interesting, huh?”

You scowl at her comment, forcing your gaze upward as Ryan drifts further into the space, smiling broadly before tossing the towel at Alfredo - who fails to dodge it. Lauren’s sparkling eyes meet yours, mischief obvious in the way her head tilts. You look to Trevor, already knowing the direction the conversation is heading, but he offers you an equally teasing expression from his position beside the fridge.

“But not as interesting as the new boyfriend.”

“Lauren, stop-”

She ignores you, and manages to avoid the ‘here we go’ Trevor throws her way as he places a drink in front of you before relocating to Lauren’s side.

“So,” she continues, whiskey cheering her on, “how did you two meet?”

“Oh my god, are you really going to do this?” The blush on your cheeks deepens, and you’ve never wanted to sink into a pot to hide more.

Ryan, however, doesn’t shy away. He moves back behind you, removing the knife from your hands and leading you to the side to take over. You want to argue, but the smile he shares is so genuine and caring that you allow the redirection. Instead you move to stand on the other side of the island, determined not to clutter the kitchen that Ryan and his assistant chef, Alfredo, have taken over.

“You know how we met,” you lecture her, stripping your apron and tossing it to Alfredo’s outstretched hand. He quickly dons it, eager and at attention. “You don’t need to hear it again.”

Lauren’s eyes narrow at you. “All I got from you was screeching and spam texts and ‘I fucked him’ freak outs-”

“LAUREN-”

“Besides, I wanna hear the story from someone in touch with reality.”

Ryan chuckles, warmth jumbling with the vegetables he gathers in his hands places on a roasting tray. “I might not be the best person to ask, then.” He glances up, cracking a smile. His own blush shimmers across his cheeks at the sight of your now beetroot complexion. Golden light fills the room, bouncing off his brightness and shining from his skin in the amber lights overhead. “I’m not good with reality.”

Lauren laughs, watching you direct Alfredo on how to crack and peel garlic cloves. “You’re better than someone I know.” Again, she ignores your playful scowl. “And I wanna hear it from you. What did you first think of Y/N? Did she curse you? Oh, or maybe put a spell on you so you’d put up with her shitty jokes?”

Alfredo snatches the herbs away before you can hurl them at your giggling friend, the cold frustration in your palms shedding from your skin in small flecks of light. They join the ceiling as though they’re snowing in reverse, faint enough to be missed but obvious enough for Lauren’s grin to turn wicked.

“Why are you like this?” you grumble, moving to perch on the arm of the sofa she and Trevor adorn.

“You brought this upon yourself,” her boyfriend muses, pressing a teasing kiss to Lauren’s neck while his arm winds around her. “You were just as bad when we started dating.”

You wait a beat before finally giving in. “I guess I did threaten you.”

“You did.”

“Fine, fine.” You wave your hands dramatically, sinking against Lauren’s side with a huff.

She shakes you off, taking a sip of her drink. “So, Mr Sexy Lumberjack, as Y/N likes to call you-”

“Lol, I swear to fucking god-”

“Shut up, Y/N. Jesus Christ. Let your man tell me the story.”

Ryan is quiet for a moment, contemplating the herbs and oil he swirls around the tray before slipping it into the oven. When he finally speaks, it’s gentle, his words joining the rag he circles across the countertop while he cleans. “I was hooked as soon as she walked into Geoff’s store.”

Your skin heats, sucking your internal temperature to the surface. You hadn’t realised he’d noticed you as he’d entered, remembering the way you’d bumbled your way through the aisles and backtracked to shelves far too many times.

“Shut up,” you tease, “you were not.”

“I’m serious,” Ryan insists, continuing to tidy up to the sound of Alfredo clattering the dishes. “You looked so peaceful when you came in. All rugged up and with this little smile on your face.” He lowers his expression just a little, bashful. “Every time I saw you pass through the aisles I was like, ‘woah’.”

You look away from his intense gaze, the intimacy too much. Lauren’s smile has settled into one of softness, the wicked teasing having soaked into the cushions. Trevor looks equally content, his chin resting on her shoulder and lips occasionally brushing her skin. You can see the fraction of a smile pressed against Alfredo’s mouth, but between the suds of too much dish soap, it’s hard to catch.

“I must have looked like an absolute idiot,” you laugh nervously, a shaky hand running through your hair.

Ryan shakes his head, leaning across the island with a smile that tells you he’s forgotten there are other people in the room. “You looked beautiful.” His eyes dart to Lauren as she lets out a happy, almost cringing breath, and he quickly collects himself. Busying around the kitchen, you can clearly see the red dusting his skin. “Y/N came over and helped me pick out dinner, and we picked on the resident detectives for breaking everything all the time. I made a stupid joke…” Ryan peeks at you over his shoulder, his features so gentle and vulnerable your heart threatens to stop. “And you laughed.”

You smile softly, fiddling with your sleeves. “All your jokes are stupid.”

He frowns, unapologetic. “Harsh.”

“But true.”

“Either way, you laughed,” he points out, “and asked for a job, so it can’t have be that bad.”

“Oh god.” Your head falls into your hand, sniggering at yourself while Lauren giggles. “I can’t believe I did that.”

You get an elbow to the side, your best friend’s expression surprised. “Since when are you that confident, huh?”

“Since he was hot!” you implore.

Trevor nods vigorously, making Lauren squirm beneath his chin. “Hotness beats a lack of confidence. Hell, I’d ask Ryan for a job.”

Ryan laughs. “If a position ever opens up, you’ll be the first to know.”

“It better not open up. Y/N is working for you forever now, no way around it.” Lauren puts on a stern mask, but you can see amusement crack at its edges. “Because if you ever hurt her, I’ll hurt you.”

“Please,” you groan, tossing her an exasperated glance. “No fighting in the house. Take it outside and maybe we’ll be lucky and the incoming storm will kill you both.”

Ryan pulls a face, his cheeks rosy and eyebrows knit. He can’t keep the grin from his features. “I’m wounded, Y/N.”

“Good,” you respond, hopping back to your feet and moving over, jabbing him playfully in the chest. “That’s what you get. Now scooch, I need to get the cutlery and plates out otherwise we’ll be eating like animals.”

-

The storm you’d felt creeping along your back as you’d walked home continues to rage from it’s early moments midway through dinner, and the night quickly fills with laughterm warmth and a surprisingly comfortable silence whenever conversation lulls. Nothing disturbs the peace. Comfort heavy across bodies like thick blankets by the fire, of which chuckles with gentle amber flames in the hearth.

Snow swirls behind the curtains you’ve pulled closed, biting at the glass; but inside it’s as though the idea of the cold has never existed. It has no place amongst the bodies sprawled across the living room and burrowed into comfortable nooks, unable to penetrate the soft stupor a night of drinking and new friends has brought. No stinging memories of your fight with Jeremy, and no aching loss from the digging up of your past. Not even the paranoia of an unwanted visitor, be it the wind or the tentative knocking of whatever likes to lurk on the porch when the weather turns and darkness falls, is able to bother you.

Comfortable, and all together peaceful when the sounds never come.

Pressed into the couch, you and Ryan lounge together in the dying light of the fire. His chest is firm against your back as you settle between his legs, one of his feet resting on the floor while the other rubs lazy circles against your shin. Clumsy and inconsistent, much like the strength of his voice.

Ryan’s grip on your waist loosens as the weight of exhaustion claims him, arms heavy and secure as they hold you close. His voice drifts, coarse as it catches in your hair, his lips brushing a final kiss against the crook of your neck before he gives in and lets sleep take over. Head falling back, you hear his consciousness slip into the pillows as a gentle sigh leaves his lips.

You smile. Dopey and overjoyed as you give one of his legs on either side of you an affectionate squeeze. “I’m surprised he lasted so long,” you hush to Alfredo with a chuckle, the man struggling to stand from the position he had sprawled out in across the carpet. “He’s never been good at staying up late.”

“Nah.” Alfredo rolls, stumbling with the sudden action while his face contorts into a strained expression. Eventually he manages to find his footing, holding out his arms and bending slightly to keep from toppling. “Dealing with your crap all day?” he teases, “I’m not surprised, man. You’re exhausting.”

“Rude.”

He sways, stifling a yawn. “But true. I’ll see you in the morning, I ain’t bout to pass out on the floor when I’ve got a bed upstairs. Night, Y/N. Night, Trev.”   

Your goodnights follow him up the stairs while your gaze drifts to the only member of your family still awake, Trevor absorbed in the peace his girlfriend wears in her sleep. His fingers work through her hair, lost in long locks of blonde and the comfort the motion brings. Stroking free whatever stresses of the day remain in his fingertips while sunshine presses into his palm. He’s not paying attention to the conversation dwindling into the cracking of the hearth, oblivious to the soft smile and gentle expression he shares with the slumbering woman in his lap.

You leave him in the moment, his skin warm in the light of the fire and the soft glow of the one he cradles close. His eyes churn, molten and rich as he watches her sleeping expression, intent on committing it to memory. Drinking it in as though it’s both the first and last time he’s ever seen something so beautiful. As though there aren’t enough sunsets in the world to compare her to.

“You know,” Trevor says finally, his murmur swept away with the continued motion of his hands, “I’m going to marry her one day.” The statement is certain, so confident that you wonder for a moment if he’s ever seen anything else in his future. If, ever since he met her all those years ago, he’s kept the ring he bought on the first night in his coat pocket everywhere he goes. Your heart squeezes, already knowing the answer. “Then,” he breathes, smile so heavy with adoration that his lips struggle to hold it up, “she can annoy me forever.”

“You are,” you reply simply, “and there’s no way she’d let you get away with not.”

[chezzkaa]

Numb pt 28

Click here for more Numb content OR JOIN THE NUMB DISCORD

Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 3250+

Date posted: 8 Feb 2019

The morning is clumsy. Nonsensical in the early hours. A jumble of limbs and a knot of blankets trapped between far too many legs. Confusion fogging your mind as you draw in a heavy breathe, bringing with it a chill and the lingering scent of trees. Out of place, but not entirely unpleasant to a sleep ladened consciousness.

When your eyes peel open, the darkness of the room doesn’t quite fit with what you expect. Having anticipated light streaming through the windows of the lodge’s living room, your friends bundled together on the couch while the fire crumbles into ash with a gasp; the feeling of your own bed beneath you is disorientating. Acting like a puzzle piece you’re hammering too hard into a slot that it so obviously doesn’t fit, the cardboard corners starting to curl and warp with every frustrated fist you bring down on it. Convinced that somehow it ought to make sense. That the more you hit it the more likely it is to become a functional, rational part of reality.

It’s cold. Uncomfortably so. Stinging your front and nagging at your fingertips. Tracing the curve of your calves and scampering behind your knees. The covers do very little to retain the warmth you sorely try to hold on to, certain it had surrounded you not long ago. Confused, more than anything. Concern drunk and stumbling in the back of your mind.

It takes a moment to register the storm outside. Snow wailing at the windows as it slowly starts to die down, bitter temperatures dwindling in their efforts to claw at the glass. If you focus, you can almost see a hint of colour returning to the world. Tainting the darkness with muddy peaches and soft vermillion dipped in the remnants of the night.

The outside world shares your shudder, shoulders sinking further into the blankets and knees clattering against a pair you hadn’t expected. Equally icy, tucked loosely into your pocket of warmth. Groggy and dazed, you blink dumbly from a sleep you’re certain you shouldn’t have roused from. Forcing your thoughts into some semblance of consciousness.

Across from you, however, is a sight that settles your confusion. Something that finally makes sense to your sluggish mind. Ryan slumbers peacefully, his face relaxed and gentle while honey golden hair splays over the pillows. Caught in the warm silvers of the moonlight with only the word ethereal coming remotely close to describing his softness.

It takes a little longer than you’d like to admit, staring at him as though it were the last time, but you eventually realise that he must have stirred at some point and carried you to bed.

Reaching out, your fingers run through the loose strands hooding his forehead, pushing them away. Again and again, your fingertips brushing him further into a heavy sleep and warming his frigid skin.

The marks lining your skin almost glow in the moonlight, flickering with every motion. The remains of ink mask the scabbed skin that had resulted from when you’d pushed the pen nib down too hard in the early hours of that terrifying morning, marks residing quite happily beneath the runes carved into your hands. Faded but most certainly there. Glaringly so. Littering your body like twirls of wood shavings, charred and fragile. Curling like vices around your wrists, and snaking up your forearms.

The pale, ghostly scars burn guiltily when you take them in through the darkness. Protective charms humming with the palm you place on Ryan, willing for them to transfer to him, too. Hoping that whatever is left of the magic, of your energy, will embrace him the same way you do.

An arm you hadn’t noticed tightens around you, dragging you closer until your face presses into his cool chest. You want to complain, to shove him away and grumble about the cold biting your cheek, but you find yourself settling. Holding your hands to your chest, you nuzzle into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before your eyes slide shut.

Ryan’s sleepy hums of comfort are the last thing you hear before you fall asleep.

-

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Michael insists over breakfast, your phone pressed to your ear and his voice barely audible over the loud ordeal every morning has become. Plates clatter, the kitchen buzzing with caffeine fuelled animation.

“You’re gonna wanna get down here,” he presses further, voice rising with excitement, “we got the lab reports back for the markings. This is your baby, too.”

“Funny,” you scoff, dodging the loaf of bread Alfredo hurls to Trevor, Lauren getting caught in the fray. “Last I checked, I wasn’t a Mother or a detective.”

From the corner of your eye you notice Ryan’s eyebrow quirk. He does his best to seem like he isn’t listening, taking his time while buttering the same piece of toast he’s been working on for a few minutes. His expression flickers, something problematic folding his features for a moment before he glowers at his toast.

“You still upset about that?” You can practically hear the scrunched expression Michael pulls on the other end of the phone, his tone dismissive. “Don’t worry about that fuck or any of the bull shit he says. Detective Dooley isn’t in today, so you don’t have to worry about him. Besides, right now you’re a better cop than he is.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Michael.” You let off a nervous laugh, watching Ryan shake himself and decide that he should probably pretend to be focused on the second slice of toast. He spreads the button, oblivious to how clear it is that he’s let his breakfast go cold. Lauren eyes him, looking offended.

Michael makes a noise somewhere in the back of his throat. “Well, I would. You’ve done more for this case than that obsessive asshole has in the past few weeks.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He lets out a sigh, looking for the words you might not want, but need to hear. “Look, Y/N… He’s a good guy, you already know that. He was doing his job and just got a little, err, god what’s the word that I’m looking for here?”

“Side tracked?” you offer.

“I was gonna say that he just got a little too far up his own ass,” Michael teases, his tone surprisingly soft. You sink into the comfort it brings, relief buzzing through the phone line. “But sidetracked is a good one, too. He’ll come around, you just gotta give him time. He’s been on the same line of thinking for so long, it’ll take a while for him to readjust. While he’s managing, we just have to pick up the slack until he catches up.”

You hum in response, taking a moment to sip on your tea. “Do you really need me there?”

“Need and want are two different things.”

“Oh, so you want me there?”

“Ew. Fuck no,” Michael rejects with more cheek than what’s good for him, “but we do actually need you here. Considering we’re running with a theory you helped work out, it’ll be good for everyone if the mastermind to be in on all the information.”

You smile, watching the domestic life unfolding in your kitchen, willing the images of icy fingers and cold, tiny bodies from your mind. You cling to the warmth in front of you, hoping to stay in the moment. Dragging it out for as long as you can, as though it’ll keep the world and it’s incessant twitching still. That the burning itch at the base of your skull will cease.

“Alright,” you finally concede with another long sip of tea, accepting the plate of cold toast that Ryan sheepishly hands to you, “I’ll head over in 30 or so. Don’t start without me, yeah?”

Michael chuckles, yelling something to another officer while you drown your waiting breath in your tea. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Y/N. We’re a team.”

You grin, picking up a slice and taking a large bite. “Let’s get this bread.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You grimace, the feeling of unmelted butter greasy against toast crumbs across your tongue. “You got pastries at work?”

“Of fucking course we do, we’re not animals. And don’t change the subject. You’re a fucking animal. No memeing in the precinct or I’ll arrest you.”

-

After ample testing against other animal patterns found in the area, in which the sampled material was applied to a multitude of claw/bite/other markings of both native and outside animals, all sampled markings are deemed to be unbiological in nature.

The plausibility of the samples being created by a creature as opposed to a hand held tool is noted to be unlikely and impossible.

No bear nor other known creature can be attributed to the patterns found on the Motbury properties.

You stare down at the report as relief washes over you. After having read the brief at least four or so times, you still can’t quite manage to take it all in. With a racing mind and a set of shoulders so determined to drop all of the tension you’d been carrying over the past few days, it takes the clap of Michael’s hand on your back to rouse you from the chaos inside your own head.

In regards to patterns and other factors, the most likely result is that these markings were created by a heavy tool with a sharp edge as opposed to an animal. A creature would be unable to achieve the paw splay needed to achieve the patterns observed. Yet to be determined, possible objects include, but are not limited to; axes, screwdrivers, shovel heads, etc. Further testing is required. The results of these further tests will be conducted and relayed to the Motbury Police Department.

“I can’t believe it,” you murmur, following the paragraph with your finger. “We did it... Like, we actually, properly did it. Oh my god, Michael.” You turn to him, his beam as bright as your own. “Oh my god!”

“Take that, non believers!” he practically bellows, picking you up and crushing your arms, swinging you around wildly with a chorus of laughter. “We fucking told you!”

“We were right,” you gasp, not at all phased by the tightness aching in your sides Michael continues to spin you. “We were fucking right! It’s a copycat, it’s all-” you wince as he attempts to pull Jackie into an equally eager embrace while refusing to put you down, “it’s all linked! The markings lining up with the fucking…the god damn killings and the storms - oh my god! They’re all the same person! Michael - stop squeezing me!”

Jackie smiles, here eyes glinting as she side steps Michael’s second attempt at a sweeping hug. Not to be deterred, he shifts his hold on you, pinning you securely to his shoulder while glaring a warning at the lab technician.

“Congratulations are in order,” Jackie offers, placing an office chair between herself and the detective, “this is a major break through. You’ve closed off some serious ‘what if’s’. Now you can compile all of the evidence together and work from it. Get rid of some loose ends!”

Michael eyes the barrier suspiciously, still refusing to let you go. Squirming in his grasp, you wriggle until you can see the report still clutched in your grasp, bent unceremoniously over his shoulder to read the brief yet again.

“It’s a person,” you breathe, winded slightly as Michael lunges for Jackie, “thank god. It’s just a person.”

“Don’t celebrate too soon,” Michael grunts over Jackie’s squeak, his arm winding around her and hauling her into his hug, the two of you clattering together. “Gotcha, you fuck. But yeah,” he sways with you both, uncertain as to what he should do now that he’s achieved his short term goal. “It just means we’ve got a shit load of work to do.”

You gasp, wincing as his shoulder dives into your stomach. “Yeah, well, it’s only a matter of time now. We can start looking at people and matching them to our Window copycat theory.” The floor greets you when you’re released, but your grin never fades. “You ready to deep dive into some townspeople files?”

Michael beams wickedly. “You’ll have to start without me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, Detective asshat needs me for a trip out. You’re on your own. But hey, none of this would’ve been possible if it weren’t for you. So thanks.”

-

The clutter of the back room has becomes a familiar strain, accompanying your work day as though it prides itself on being such a loyal employee. Paperwork packed into shelves and plastic bags loaded with evidence press in from all sides as you curl over the files on the desk you’ve claimed for the day, eyes scanning the fading ink in the hopes of finding something you don’t already know.

So far you’ve had little luck. The idea of giving up however, is appalling. No amount of begging from your stiff knees and aching limbs can convince you to leave the seat you’re glued to. A box of pastries has become one of your only friends, coffee cups littering the high surfaces that you’d rather not acknowledge as unstable.Every record up to this point has been irrelevant; ruled out with the new connections exposed from this morning.

The nerves behind your eyes throb with every thump thump of your heart.

You’d expected to find yourself running in circles, and if you’re being completely honest with yourself you’d realise that you’re doing just that. A tired hands rubs across your face, ink and mental exhaustion smudging across your cheeks and pinching at temples. A soft groan escapes you before you can stop it, forehead coming to rest on your folded arms. It’s been hours. Hours since you’d celebrated with Michael. Hours since you’d burst into the filing room like a whirlwind, and hours since you’d sat down with every record the police had on the townsfolk.

The lights in the room are still far too bright. Obnoxious, straining and artificial. Your eyebrows furrow.

What exactly you’ve been searching for is still a mystery, even to you.

Which is infuriating, you admit with a click of your tongue and unflattering grimace, and taking far too long.

You’d originally started with the goal of categorising the townsfolk by sifting through suspect lists, alibis, and recent activity; collecting records on the individuals specified as being of interest to the investigation, but it quickly proved near impossible for you alone. Everything seems to contradict, no matter how deep you dig. Your mind paces through the same patterns until you’re left dizzy with your head on the desk, frustrated beyond words and desperate for something to clean the sour taste of coffee from your tongue.

Stealing your remaining reserves of motivation, you yank yourself back into sitting, fingers slipping into your pocket and producing the two small stones you’ve taken to carrying with you. Their weight is reassuring in your palm, warm against the skin and humming so softly that your stresses start to lull almost instantly. Turning them over again and again, the sound of the stones jostling together eases you even further while your attention drifts back to the next record in front of you - one that had recently been ruled out.

The number of suspects for the case had been few and far between, but that hadn’t deterred you from an investigation before. Instead, no matter how much you loathe it, double checking the past leads was the best way to build a foundation for future investigations. Focusing on the page, you grimace at the corners dotted with your clumsy, absentminded scribbles - hoping the police department won’t mind the mindless shapes you’ve subconsciously scrawled.

SCRIPT

Interview with Gavin D. Free (Store Clerk). Interviewer: Officer B. Burns. Supervisor: Det. Insp. J. Dooley.

Additional staff on script record: Dooley & Jones. NOTE: Supposed witness to suspicious activity during storm.

11/12/16 - Suspect reassessment. RESULT: REMOVED FROM SUSPECT REGISTRY.

Burns: Alright, for the record can you please state your name, occupation, and the prepared statement for the dates specified, Mr. Free?

Free: Well, I don’t really have to now, init?

Burns: … Excuse me?

Free: My name. You’ve already said it. Why should I say it if you’ve already gone and told me the answer?

Burns: That’s not the point-

Free: Then what is? Cus if you were tryin’ to see if I was an imposter or summut, then you’ve just gone and given away the name.

Burns: Why would I think you were an imposter?!

Free: I dunno, I gues- oh, for the record I just shrugged there - I dunno Officer, aren’t you supposed to be covering all the bases or somethin’?

Burns: By checking if the local bag boy isn’t-

Free: What if I was wearin’ a skin suit?

Burns: What?

Free: Yeah, like those episodes of Doctor Who.

Burns: Episode… of Doctor-

Free: I could be an imposter wearing my own skin.

Burns: Why would you be wearing your own ski-

Free: Yeah, god what were those big bloated bastard things called? Big and green and bloody ugly… Eccleston was top as the doctor back then. Tennant was pretty alright though. C’mon, what were those fuckin’ things called-

Burns: I’m not sure how this is relevant, Mr. Free. Can we just get back on trac-

Free: Slitheen!

Burns: Excuse me?

Free: Those monsters, init? The Slitheen.

Burns: I’m not checking to see if you’re a Slytherin.

Free: Oi, I’m a Gryffindor! For the record-

Burns: Dont-

Free: I’m a Gryffindor with my boy.

Jones [muffled]: Yeah boy! Gryffindors for life!

Dooley [muffled]: Michael, can you just - shut the fuck up? There’s an interview going on.

Jones [muffled]: Oh shit, right. Sorry boss. Hey, you’re a Slytherin, right?

Dooley [muffled]: Yeeehhhhhhh-

Burns: Now is not the time! Look, Mr. Free, I don’t care what Harry Potter house you’re in, and I’m not checking to see if you’re a Slith-whatever.

Free: Good.

Burns: What?

Free: Good to know you ain’t an idiot or nothin’!

Burns: What the fuc-

Free: I couldn’t be a Slitheen, could I? I ain’t fat enough. You’d have to check Jack for that - OH! Oh and I don’t fart nearly enough. See, you gotta fart to get into the skin suit… now that I think about it, Geoff is awfully suspicious now. He’s always farting… But so’s Michael. [Distant] Micoo, hey Micoo!

Jones [muffled]: What the fuck do you want, asshole? Can’t you see there’s an interview going on?

Free: You fart a lot, right?

Jones [muffled]: Yeah you fucking know it.

Free: You ain’t an alien from outta space, are you?

Jones [muffled]: … What the fuck.

Free: You’d tell me if you were, right?

Jones: Yeah… yeah I’d - Jeremy shut the fuck up you’re gonna break something - yeah I’d tell you, boy.

Dooley [muffled]: For the record, Officer Burns has given up on life.

Free: Thanks, boy.

Jones [muffled]: You’re my boy, boy.

Burns: ALRIGHT. THAT’S IT. I’VE HAD IT. I’M DONE. We’ll do this again tomorrow.

The pen nib glides across the page as you read, ink and spiraled patterns following the transcript until you reach the abrupt end.

[chezzkaa]

Numb pt 25

Click here for more Numb content OR JOIN THE NUMB DISCORD

Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 2600+

Date posted: 9 Dec 2018

“So,” starts Trevor around a mouthful of breakfast, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else as opposed to standing up, or even awake. “What did you guys learn last night? Does this Turner woman being a witch change anything?”

You consider this thoroughly, having not spared the concept the time of day. Munching slowly, you try to gather your thoughts. Confusion plays havok in the silence. Concepts fleeting with the speed of a panicked and overexerted mind.

“Honestly, I don’t know.” Your admittance is met with frowns, but you’re quick to explain. “We went into this looking to learn more about the ghost story. To figure out if the tale of the Widow of the Woods was relevant or even applicable to a copycat killer, but… I dunno. We’ve learnt more than I wanted to. A copycat killer is a distinct possibility, but what if there’s something else going on, too? After all, the widow was a witch, and that her son had fortified Motbury against something.”

“Against her?” Alfredo pries.

Lauren shrugs. “No fucking clue,” she says distastefully, “we don’t have any proof, which sucks arse. That’s where the ghost story takes over. What we do know is that Moira disappeared, and her son was really bad at keeping journals. Great with plans, but shitty with everything else. Anyway, knowing she’s a witch could be as normal as unimportant as knowing her hair was brown.”

Trevor glances over. “Her hair was brown?”

Lauren pulls a face. “How the hell should I know?”

Alfredo groans into his food, pushing it around dejectedly. “Why couldn’t it just be easy?”

“You’re telling me.” You sigh unhappily, grimacing into a sip of tea. “God, I’m more confused than when we started. It would be so much easier if we were dealing with a normal killer, or maybe something creepy. At least then I wouldn’t be overloaded with all this information that cancels each other out.” You hold out your hands, mimicking your failed efforts to juggle the two worlds you’re tied between. “This fucking sucks. What if it’s not a murderer after all?”

Lauren makes an apologetic noise, reaching over and giving your hands a squeeze. “Can’t really tell Detective asshole that the Lumberjack of Motbury might not be a real person. Can you imagine? ‘Hey, the man you’re looking for could be something even worse than a person because there was a witch here once, which means the entity doorway is pretty strong. Weird, right? Irrelevant, possibly? But I just wanted to you know that it’s looking more and more like a monster is killing kids, so you can’t actually do anything about it.’ See?” She frowns, returning to tracing the rim of her cup with an unhappy finger. “It wouldn’t go down well.”

“He doesn’t even believe in witches,” you grumble, forehead bending to touch the table, faintly aware of Alfredo patting you comfortingly on the back. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Well,” Alfredo offers, “maybe all ya gotta do is rule out the paranormal bit? Maybe find out what the thing you shot in the woods was, and if it’s involved. Go from there or sumthin’?”

Trevor agrees. “That would work. Look, you’re trying to divide yourself between realities. It’s too much. Try and rule one out, rather than bouncing back and forth? Prioritise and all that.”

You look up, taking in their help with welcome relief. The counter taints the underside of your chin, cold seeping into your jaw. “That… makes sense.”

He smiles like he knows. “Where do you want to start?”

“What?”

“What makes this killer a person?”

Thinking, you try to fight through the haze of leftover whiskey and a semi sleepless night. “The knocking, um… and the fact that the kids go willingly with the person. Like they trust them?”

“True, true,” affirms Alfredo, nodding, “I ain’t goin’ with no monster even as a grown ass man. I ain’t into that kinda weird creepy shit.”

Lauren narrows her eyes. “You’re best friends with witches.”

His eyes widen. “Oh fuck, you right.”

Shaking your head, you try and keep the conversation on track. “But whoever it is... they’re smart. It’s almost like the whole abduction thing is planned out.”

Lauren jumps on board. “What about the paranormal bit?”

“The markings,” you reply immediately, “we don’t know what makes the markings. On the bodies or the houses.”

Lauren quirks an eyebrow. “You don’t know what makes the markings yet because the lab report hasn’t come back. Stop jumping to spooky conclusions.”

You ignore her, stuck on a paranoid trajectory. “And the creature from the forest-”

“Nope,” interjects Alfredo, “don’t think about that. You don’t know if it’s important yet, you know? Could just be some hairy good boy wanderin’ around.”

You falter. “Well… okay. Um… there’s the fact that whatever it is attacks during a snowstorm that people generally can’t survive.”

“That’s possible, I guess,” Trevor allows, “but they could always be someone dressed up really warm. So, which do you think is more likely?”

“I don’t know,” you admit sullenly, “you’re making me think I’m paranoid for considering paranormal shit…. but the major factors of the case could have been carried out by either. Kids are turning up without their heads, for fuck sakes. Serial killers do that all the time, but it doesn’t make sense for a monster. And it started out with livestock, and killers have been known to take their anger out on animals first. But… Ugh. It just-” You make more violent gestures, screwing up your expression and hands forming fists, trying to force your thoughts into something that can be remotely understood. “None of this sits right with me. So many have gone missing and no one has seen anything. No tracks, no glimpses of a person - there’s no way a person wouldn’t make some kind of mess in the snow.”

“You won’t know until you get more information, Y/N. You’re running yourself in circles. I’d focus on the human aspect, honestly,” says Lauren, finishing her plate before filling it up with more bacon. She sucks on her fork thoughtfully. “Most of the horrors against mankind are committed by man himself.”

Silence falls across the table, everyone watching Lauren in awe. She doesn’t seem to notice, returning to the plate she’s already emptied as though she’s forgotten, frowning. Trevor almost laughs. His arm falls across her shoulders, pulling her close. “Thanks for that, Ghandi.”

She scowls. “Fuck off.”

 -

 The morning dwindles into lazy chatter. Plates clatter quietly together, cups clinking as they’re juggled to the sink. A sleepy warmth settles over shoulders, heavy until people slip from their seats and start to move. Limbs creaking like the branches outside, battered by the wind. Running water washes away the hangovers infesting the room, the gentle scrape of a cloth against dishes following the bodies drifting to the couches. No one seems to notice when the voices stop. The crackle of a stoked fire takes over the silence, the sound of socks shuffling into the living room the most sound anyone is willing to make.

Faces bury into cushions not long after. Bodies curling into balls and tossed in blankets. You make sure Alfredo is as covered in a fleece as he possibly can be before burrowing into the small nook by his knees on the other side of the sofa. Your temple hits the arm rest before you register Alfredo sitting back up, repositioning his blankets over the tight bundle your limbs form and settling back down. Weighted eyelids bring darkness, a mumbled thanks lost in the fabric brushing your lips. The feeling of Alfredo’s foot rubbing against your calf only makes you sleepier, your response clumsy but appreciated.

You don’t see Lauren - your eyes are already closed. You can, however, hear her crossing the room. You most definitely hear her bump against the coffee table, the soft cusses falling down her front and littering themselves across the rug. The sound of a blanket scratching across the armchair makes you smile, her clothes catching as she brings her legs up. Knees to her chest, a foot hanging across the arm, and a cloak of warmth tossed across her front. It doesn’t take long for her to drift.

It takes you a little longer. The smell of stewed apples still clings in your hair, the scent of cinnamon scattered across your skin like freckles lulling you into a world verging on sleep. A place where every movement is soft and slow, warm and tight as it engulfs you in it’s arms. Trevor clattering away in the kitchen soon fades into the background, lost in the wind and snow thumping against the window and dancing on the the sills.

 -

 The knock pounding against the front door is overwhelmingly rude, your mind being pulled towards consciousness after what seems like no time at all. Strained eyelids flutter, greeting a fire that has smouldered into silence and a room caught in the light of afternoon.

The other bodies around the space stir, but not enough to seem willing to greet whoever is hammering a fist against the door. You let out a groan, feeling it push against the couch cushioning your cheek. A stiff neck sees you wince, glaring at the entrance to the lodge before another knock sounds. It takes some convincing but eventually you stand up. Carefully detaching yourself from Alfredo before wobbling forward and slipping on a pair of boots, a gust of cold billowing around your ankles as you crack open the door and slip outside with a coat.

A familiar lopsided smile catches you off guard. Bright against the crisp snow, the snigger curling across Ryan’s lips encouraging one of your own. He draws you in almost immediately, the dampness of his red flannel clothes a worthwhile sacrifice for the warmth of his embrace.

You can feel his smile in your hair. “Rough night?”

You laugh, sluggish in your retreat. Your limbs refuse to cooperate, clumsy as you force them through the extra layer of clothing. “You could say that. Whiskey and wine results in a killer hangover.”

Ryan pulls a face. “You poor thing.”

“I don’t need your sympathy.”

“Good,” he beams, “because you’re not going to get it.”

“Oh?” Your eyes roll, sleepy mood defrosting the longer you stand with him on the porch, Ryan at the bottom of the steps while you adorn the top. It’s pleasant, giving you the opportunity to see eye to eye with the man. Your forearms come to rest on his shoulders, fingers playing with the hair curling at the nape of his neck. “Then if you’re not here to look after me, what do you want?”

“I thought I’d visit to invite my dear girlfriend to come with me and see something impossibly cool before dinner tonight.” Ryan leans into you, hands on your hips and a dopey smile on his face.  He savours the title, as though the term was endearing in of itself, coming closer to press his affections against your jawline. “If she’d like, that is.”

You grin through the heat dusting your skin, brushing away the stubborn lock of hair that always seems so determined to fall into his eyes as he pulls back. Resting your palm on his cheek, it stings with the cold he’d picked up on the walk over, warming with your touch. “Is this a sex thing?”

“Nope.” He presses his hand against yours, fingers lacing together before he’s suddenly moving. Dragging you down the steps towards his truck with surprise being his only leverage. “C’mon, Y/N,” Ryan practically sings, “come and see, it’s in the forest.”

You’re laughing. Breathless and stumbling to find your footing and catch up with him. “Are you sure this isn’t a sex thing? It sounds like a sex thing.”

“It sounds like you want it to be a sex thing.”

“Would it be wrong to be kinda disappointed if it wasn’t?”

He grins back at you. “Yes, now come on. I found it yesterday and I really want to show you. We’ll cut down some supplies while we’re there.”

 -

 “See!” “Why… why am I looking at a stripped animal skull?”

Not that you mind in the slightest. On the contrary, if you hadn’t come across such a thing in your travels, having clambered through the snow determined to swallow trees one section of trunk at a time, with moss taking over the world and an unsettling silence making the dark spaces of the forest it’s home, you’d have been disappointed.

Everything was still from the moment you had first stepped foot into the trees. Past the line that divided the civilization of Motbury from the tranquil calm of another world. Icicles like spindly fingers cling to tree branches, moving ever so gently with every gentle push of the wind. Creaking joints with sharpened nails that catch in your hair and tug on your clothes, begging you you to stay with them. To keep them company and listen to the tails they weave in their unusual chimes. 

Bark soldiers surround you on all sides, husks blackened with rot, skin peeled back with the scurrying of insects working tirelessly on its surface. Moss patches the gashes torn in their bodies, padding the wounds with deep greens and the occasional flash of thriving fungus flourishing in the little sun that filters through the inconsistent canopy. Gnarled knots of wood breech at odd angles, distorted in the swirl of snow and pull of age. As though even the trees can’t bear the weight of what they hide, shoulders popped from sockets and knees swollen.

Stones and debris break free of the blanket of snow like islands out at sea. Froth crashing against their shorelines, surfaces slick with ice. Leaves, crushed and trampled, shipwreck on the ocean of white, some frozen and others already lost to decay. Sinking in the tide that continues to pile hungrily atop whatever lies in its path. Devouring all evidence of life to leave the world with nothing but a large, empty and blank slate.

Ryan stands to your left, a step or so back from the position you’ve wandered to. His eyes burrow into your back, nestling between your shoulder blades while you consider the structure of bone. Clean as it is, the incredible size of the skull stands out against the stark white it sits on, creamy and warm despite the life it lacks. Sharp angles and deepening holes work together to form something familiar, but its alien presence in such an ethereal place nags at all those who come across it.

“Cus it’s cool,” Ryan mumbles in response to your question. You don’t have to turn to know a hand works through his hair, fingers rubbing worrisomely at the back of his neck. “And, well… Jeremy isn’t talking to me, and I wanted to show someone.” Your lips tug into a broad smile, one that you toss at Ryan’s apprehensively waiting figure, nervous for your response. “Sweet.”

His demeanour cracks into something brighter once he sees your eagerness, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I know! Look, it’s huge! And no sign of the body either, even though the kill is fresh. Isn’t that weird?” He pulls a face, voice becoming a whisper. “It’s like a murder mystery. Spooky.” You laugh him off, taking a few steps closer and crouching down, knees compacting in the snow. “Or a stray animal.” He follows your lead, joining you in the banks. He’s still eager, motioning to the skull and the lines tracing it’s structure. “Nah, see? Look at these grooves.” His finger follows one of the hollows. “Animals aren’t that precise, especially not when something’s struggling. Isn’t this cool?”

[chezzkaa]

Numb pt 22

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Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 2100+

Date posted: 18 Nov 2018

Megan Pottsman Missing 17/12/2015 - Found 22/12/2015 Body, female. 10 yo. Found 500 meters past tree line. Blunt force trauma. Lacerations across torso, shoulders, base of skull. Clear Bear Attack. No labs required.

SCRIPT

Interview with Mathew. D. Pottsman (Father) Interviewer: Officer G. Sorola Supervisor: Det. Insp. M. Hullum 17/12/2015 03:37am

Sorola: Hello, Mr. Pottsman, I’m Officer Sorola. I’m going to ask you some questions relating to your daughter’s disappearance. Please remember that you will need to tell us everything so that we can do our jobs.

Pottsman: Yeah, okay. I can do that.

Sorola: And you’re alright with being recorded?

Pottsman: Yes.

Sorola: Then lets get started. Mr. Pottsman, when was the last time you saw Megan?

Pottsman: Probably at dinner the night she went missin’. I made her favourite, and she wanted to watch TV. I went to do some reading and left her watching some cartoon show.

Sorola: Is that all?

Pottsman: I heard her.

Sorola: Pardon?

Pottsman: I heard her. There was a knock on the door and she answered it. I heard her tell me she was going out, and that’s the last of it. Told her to come back before the snow got too bad. When the street lamps came on. But she… she didn’t.

Sorola: Any ideas as to which of her friends it was?

Pottsman: … no.

Sorola: No?

Pottsman: That’s what I said. I don’t know which friend it was.

Sorola: So, please let me know if I’ve somehow misunderstood you. You let your 10 year old daughter leave the house with someone you assume to have been a friend, of who you don’t know, in the middle of a brewing snow storm? And, more importantly,you made no effort to check on your daughter and her friend for yourself.

Pottsman: No, no now you’re making it sound like I wanted her to leave. Like I don’t love my daughter!

Sorola: I haven’t said anything of the sort.

Pottsman: You don’t have too! You’re sat right in front of me acting all high and mighty. You know what? It’s my fault. There, I said it. It’s all my fault. I was a shitty dad and now my daughter is missing. If Megan doesn’t come back I’m going to be the one that’s killed her. Not whoever took her, not the weather. Not some wild animal. Me, cus I couldn’t bring myself to be a good dad.

Sorola: Mr. Pottsman, please. No one here is accusing you of anything. Right now this is a missing persons case and we’re doing everything we can to locate your daughter. That includes interviewing everyone that came into contact with her before the incident. The person who you claim to have knocked on the door is a prime suspect, and possibly the last person to have seen Megan. Is she likely to have left with an adult?

Pottsman: I don’t think so. She understood stranger danger.

Sorola: What about an adult she recognised?

Pottsman: Listen here, officer. Everyone in this town knows everyone. We’re friends with every family here cus we all go to that damn community garden thing. Megan gets along with all of them, even that new carpenter down the street. She baked him some cookies cus she was worried he wouldn’t have any friends, ha, she told him to go to the garden cus she though he’d get along with the large guy. What’s his name? Jack? He was over the freakin’ moon when he fixed up our neighbours house and she brought them out with a little card she’d made.

Sorola: New carpenter? Are you talking about Haywood?

Pottsman: Hmm? Yeah, him. Stand up bloke. You don’t think it was him, do you? Oh god, Megan told him to hang around with the other kids.

Sorola: No, we don’t believe he is involved. His alibi is airtight. He is accounted for outside his home at the time Megan disappeared. We currently have no suspects, which is why we’re talking to you.

Pottsman: So you do think I did it!

Sorola: Please, we’ve been over this.    

Pottsman: I - I… okay. No, okay. I’m sorry. My nerves are just - it’s been a long few hours. I’ve smoked a pack. A whole pack, can you believe it? I haven’t smoked in years, and now I can’t sit still without something between my damn fingers.  

Sorola: It’s perfectly normal to revert into old habits when you’re nervous.

Pottsman: Nervous? No, no the claw marks on my neighbour’s porch that’ve now turned up on mine make me nervous. The snow and that bleedin’ livestock massacre that’s going on either side of my home makes me nervous. But my daughter being missing? I’m fucking terrified. I’m so scared I can’t see straight. I just - I can’t. Everytime I close my eyes I can hear that damn knocking. I should have gotten the door. Jumped that fucking railing so Meg didn’t have to open it. It should’ve been me. Oh god, it should’ve been me.

“Hey Michael,” you call over your shoulder, fanning out the photos of the tiny body covered in blood and curled in the snow. “I think I’ve found another one.”

His head pops up over the stack of files he’s working through, eyes encased in growing bags. Sat cross legged in the evidence locker, he’d long since abandoned the confines of a desk. “What’s the date?”

“She was found on the 17th of December in 2015.”

He whistles, glancing down to the timeline at his feet and following the numbers with his finger. “Got it! Gimme a name.”

“Megan Pottsman,” you read off, peering at a shot of her on a medical table. Body bloated, skin crossed with blues and bruises.

“She’s an early one.”

“She’s the 3rd we’ve found in 2015,” you murmur, bringing the photo you hold closer. “Happened before Jeremy moved here, too. He arrived in 2016, I think? This victim was put down as a bear attack.”

Michael perks up, shuffling over to you and sifting through the file. He stops on one of the same set of photos you’re trying to make sense of, lost in the line carving across skin. “Doesn’t look like a bear.”

“Bears rarely attack people, too,” you add. “Get this: her dad said in an interview that she went out with someone that knocked on the door. He thought it was a friend, and look at the lacerations. They’re not quite like the ones on the victims we’ve got, by they’re a damn lot closer to the markings on entryways of Pottsman’s home and the neighbours.”

“You’re right!” Michael exclaims, “this is the third body with similar markings. And his testimony puts the knocking and the scratches in the same timeframe as the missing person.”

“Is there a photo of her from behind?” you ask, rifling through the contents, urged on by the burn smouldering at the base of your skull. Irritation thick around your throat. It takes a moment for you to find, but eventually the gloss of the image you’re searching for sticks to your fingers.

“Here,” says Michael, plucking the picture from your hand and lining it up with the other 2 photos of the 2015 victims, all presenting their necks.

Drawing closer it gets harder to breathe. With an uncomfortable constricting sensation that tightens your throat - of which you blatantly try to ignore -  you take in the wounds. It’s not hard to recognise them anymore. The tell tale signs are obvious after having witnessed them so many times. The slightly blacked curl of the incision located at the base of the skull. The raw irritation circling the neck. Sure, their skulls hadn’t been removed like the later victims, but they matched the earliest cases you had, clumsy as the wounds may be.

“This is fantastic. That ties our killer to the body!”

Michael doesn’t even question you with a funny look, equally excited. “Perfect in the worst possible way, but absolutely awesome. We’ve finally got an undeniable link between the Widow ghost story knocking bullshit and the killer. Meaning analysing the scratches on doorways and comparing them to the body lacerations will help with determining the murder weapon!”

You’re nodding, compiling the evidence into a seperate box and pointing to Michael with a determined finger. “You got Jackie’s number?”

He rockets into standing. “You bet your ass I do!”

“Then call her, damn it. With this information she’ll be able to confirm the correlation between the new victims and the scratches, prove that we should be looking into the possibility of a copycat killer for the Widow of the Woods. We’ll finally prove to Jeremy that he’s a fucking idiot for not listening! We can do this.”

“We can fucking do this!”

“I’m absolutely exhausted! I’m going home.”

“Me too!”

“Nope,” you reject, beaming at him and handing over the box, “you’re going to face the beast.”

“How dare you call Jackie a beast?”

“Jackie? Hell no. I’m talking about Jeremy. You can tell him he’s wrong, I value my life.”

-

The walk home is everything you could have asked for. Cold enough for the wind to nip at the skin lining your cheeks, to gnaw on your nose until it’s red raw; but warm enough in the burrow of your clothing. And isolated enough to gather your thoughts into something you can almost excuse for a pile.

Because as the snow starts to dance, the streets clear. Families giggling with eager children into shelter, doors closing with audible snaps and warm orange light flooding from the windows. Even the distant figure of Ryan, of who you raise a hand to wave to as he sits stagnant on his front porch watching the white caught on the wind, stands to head inside. You don’t blame him. Continuing past until the store disappears behind you.

It’s quiet, which is nice. A welcome change to the mayhem that’s been inhabiting your mind so frequently. Chaos causing havoc and a constant stream of uncontrollable chatter. Hands buried deep in your pockets, it’s with every turn of your charmed stones that you realise just why it’s been so loud inside you head. Why you haven’t tried to instate some silence.

Because, if you had, you’d remember her.

Which, honestly, isn’t ideal with an open serial homicide case running rampant through your priorities.

And again, now that you’ve mentioned honesty to yourself, you can’t avoid the reason why you’re so frustrated with Jeremy. Why you want to take him by the shoulders and shake, desperate to hear the rattle of common sense. Of a failure you’ve both shared, and the experience you seem to have taken away while he’s remained as stubborn as ever. If he keeps going the way he is, refusing to explore a potential lead because it seems implausible, or silly, or pointless, someone else is going to die.

The crunching of snow beneath your boots works wonders, sound enough to ease the panic bubbling just below the surface. Every few steps draws in a deep, freezing breathe. Calm with every recount of ‘left foot, right foot, repeat’. Doused in the glow of happy homes and flanked by snow banks, it all starts to make sense. There’s an uncomfortably misplaced relief at the prospect of connecting the things you knew to be related all along, the links between the scratches, knocking, and missing children now so solid that people can’t ignore it.

So solid that you can’t question your sanity anymore, because the evidence is clear as day. Paranormal or otherwise. The Widow of the Woods, or the story at least, had a role to play. Of that you were sure.

The lodge comes into view after a few more minutes of quiet walking, nothing but the wind accompanying its breech above the snow. Through the windows comes the compassionate glow of Lauren’s summertime; of warmth and comfort and family as she spins in Trevor’s arms, the pair laughing and dancing in the firelight. The hum of music trembling into the snow. Wrapped in the intoxication of togetherness, of the overwhelming love they have for one another - that same love that greets you at the door as you ease off your shoes and unravel from your layers.  

But you don’t bother them, not yet, anyway. Instead watching them claim the living room as a dancefloor, Lauren’s sunshine caught in Trevor’s gaze that looks as though he can’t thank the stars enough for the beauty he holds in his hands. Can’t tell the woman with shining cheeks and a smile that brightens the room just how wonderful she is. How she glows whenever he so much as throws her a glance, or fractures into rays of gold when he smiles. Her happiness so warm and inviting that it throbs around her body, casting those she loves in her own light. And as he looks at her now, it’s like words won’t be enough.

That nothing will be, which is why he’ll never stop trying.

[chezzkaa]

Numb pt 23

Click here for more Numb content OR JOIN THE NUMB DISCORD

Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 3500+

Date posted: 25 Nov 2018

“Are you sure you guys don’t need our help?” Trevor asks for what feels like the hundredth time, shuffling his feet and shrugging on a thick black trenchcoat. Fiddling with the sleeves, he casts glance to his girlfriend that makes it undeniably clear that he doesn’t intend on offering his time to the cause. The quirk of an eyebrow challenges her disapproval.

Lauren gives him yet another exacerbated look, taking the challenge in her stride. Hands on her hips, she serves him a look that would have you wincing if you were on the receiving end. Trevor doesn’t shrink away, rather enjoying himself. “Don’t even think about leaving, asshole. We need you here.”

Alfredo nods, looking as though he understands what you’re saying until he opens his mouth. “Well, if you insist.” He readjusts his sweatshirt, making sure his neck is completely engulfed by his red scarf. He hits you with a cheeky grin, lips hidden beneath the fabric. “But don’t pretend like we didn’t offer.”

“You didn’t offer!” you reject vehemently, “and you’re not even listening to us!”

Trevor looks offended, scoffing at the prospect while latching on to Alfredo’s arm - who’s equally insulted - and yanking open the door. “How dare you? We’re going to the tavern, you funky witch bitches, where our talents are appreciated.”

“They’re appreciated here,” wails Lauren, motioning to the sheer size of the task that’ll take over the night.

“Nope, we can tell when we’re not welcome,” interjects Alfredo, clutching his chest and pulling a pained expression. “C’mon Treyco, let’s get outta here.”

Trevor nods firmly, turning on his heels and storming out into the snow, yelping as the cold settles across his skin. Alfredo suddenly looks a lot more apprehensive, taking a moment before following with a hollar, “We’ll drink drink your share, don’t worry!”

“Oh really?” You laugh, watching them traipse through the garden on unsteady feet, wobbling with every hole they slip into. Knees hitting the ground, forcing laughter from their lungs and smiles across their faces. “What a generous offer!”

“You fucking know it!” yells Trevor heroically, beaming back to the lodge, “don’t forget the sacrifices we’ve made here today!”

“Welp, they’re gone and I hate you.” Lauren’s voice doesn’t waver, certain in her statement as she closes the door after a moment, your friends having been swallowed in the night. “I hate you so damn much, Y/N. Do you have any idea how hard it was to carry all this shit back from the library?”

You smile, settling in the firelight cast across the livingroom floor, tea warm against your fingertips. “You made it home though, didn’t you?”

Lauren follows your lead, sighing into her seat. “Barely,” she snorts, “I nearly died.”

“Really?”

“Not at all. Right, where do you wanna start?” She motions to the left of you, battered books clinging to life and enough dust that your throat burns. “Over there we’ve got the handwritten journal of our ghosty friend, and over there we’ve got town records right the way up to the time her son ran Motbury.” She directs your attention to a collection of binders, surprisingly small in comparison to the amount of information you expected. “Not much, right?”

“Yeah,” you frown, flipping through the closest folder, only to be met with architectural plans and a few lackluster excerpts. You could take better notes in your sleep. “Lots of stuff about how he protected the town… That’s kinda really fucking weird. There’s nothing after that.”

She nods, hand running through her hair before she taps her cheeks a few times, determined to stay awake. It’s only once she’s settled and finished rubbing her eyes that she realises her coffee sits on the counter. She frowns. “And the night just got worse.”

“What are you talking about?”

She motions to her cup, your gaze following the saddened expression she throws across the room. A flick of your wrist sees her mood brighten, concentration burning your palms and static in your fingers while the mug rattles excitedly against the bench. Another smooth motion sees her drink lift, your hand pulling the air like a long string until it reaches you. Across the carpet, threat of spilling mounting to an uncomfortable peak before gently coming to rest in front of Lauren.

She grins, relieved when plucking it from your control and taking a sip. A sigh escapes into its depth, rumbling happily. “Oh yeah, that’s the good shit.”

“You’re welcome.”

She peers over the rim, already brightening. “Your Granddad would be so disappointed. ‘Kids these days and not using their legs! Grumble grumble, I’m so old’.” You cackle, her impression knitting her eyebrows together and flattening her lips into a thin line. The short, sharp jerks of her shoulders punctuate every grouchy exclamation, and a finger jams her glasses up the bridge of her nose so roughly you can practically hear them clatter against her skull. “What next, huh? ‘Back in my day we punched each other for fun. Burnt women at the stake for friend-zoning us’.”

“Stop,” you wheeze, putting your tea down before it can spill. Between laughter she flicks a spark into your cup, contents steaming once again. “Granddad was so old.”

“He knew Jesus, right?”

“He probably cursed Jesus for trespassing on the footpaths. That old fucker was the worst.”

“The worst,” she agrees firmly, snatching at a page and bringing it up to a settling expression. “Speaking of the worst, you got a light?” Lauren asks, straining at the handwriting she attempts to scan for the third time, squinting through her glasses.

“I mean… you got health insurance?”

“In this country?” she scoffs, “hell no, why?”

“Well,” you start, rubbing your hands together, “I could give that light thing another go.”

Her eyes narrow critically, and Lauren shuffles further away. “That crap from the other night? That you scared the bear thing off with?”

“Almost bear, yeah.”

“No,” she rejects, “no no no. You’re gonna fucking shoot me.”

You roll your eyes, offended but completely understanding her lack of faith. “C’mon, it’ll be fine.”

It takes her a moment to reply, but she doesn’t seem any more convinced. “Have you been practicing?”

Your slow response doesn’t fill her with confidence, her groan ruining your attempts to get her on side. “Nope. This’ll be a great time to practice.”

“I’m going to die,” she laments, slipping further in her seat.

“You’re not going to die.”

“Yes I am, oh god. This is it. This is the end…” She sits back up, beaming eagerly. “Well, go on then. Least I’ll die cool.”

“Gimme a fucking minute, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. In your own time, but soon cus we’ve got shit to do.”

“Don’t make me curse you out,” you murmur, attention already drifting.

Staring at your hand, tracing the curves of silver scars and lost in the clusters of ink staining your palm like stars across a night sky, you start to remember. It’s small at first, the feeling. Gentle and timid, pinching in your chest. But warm, surprisingly. Nothing like the searing cold that has surged through your fingers and buckled your elbow. Nothing like the freezing desperation that’d seen seen it fountain from your being like a burst damn.

Because you’re not afraid this time.

And why would you be? Clinging to the sheer fact you’ve done this before, on an admittedly larger and uncontrollable scale, is all you need. You can feel it. Like the light is trapped between your ribs, uncertain, but undeniable. Almost like the warmth of the first sip of a hot drink after walking through the snow, comfort pooling in your chest and stretching throughout your limbs. The thick blankets that come along with winter, or the roaring of a well established fire.

“You’re glowing.”

Glancing up, Lauren is watching you attentively. Eyes glued to your shoulders, her expression caught in the moonlight emanating from your skin. You smile, and airy laugh accompanying your excitement. “I can’t believe this.”

“You’re a night light.”

“Does it help?” you ask, shuffling closer to her to ward off the shadows the night is chasing across the documents.

She nods. “A little.”

The motion happens before you realise you’re doing it, focusing on the redirection of the light. It burns as it follows the lines of your veins, stinging at the wrist before it glows so brightly in your hand that you’re left squinting. A quick flick of your fingers disperses the light, scattering it towards the ceiling where it clings to the air. Suspended and glittering like stars caught by the roof.

“How about that?”

“I - holy fuck! Y/N, this is amazing! You know what we should do?” You can’t quite tear your attention away from the small balls of light, questioning her logic through numb lips. “We should order dinner!”

You rock back, your smile so broad your cheeks hurts. “Fuck yes we should.”

“Can I get HSP?”

“Nope.”

She slumps, groaning in a lackluster flail of limbs. “Ugh. What even is life?”

Tossing a journal at her, you grin. “I’m fucking kidding! Do you really think I’d live somewhere without HSP? I’m not a monster!”

“I want wine.”

“We can get wine.”

She thinks for a moment. “And whiskey.”

“And whiskey.”

-

“Looks like Ryan was right,” Lauren says eventually, feeling no need to hide her disappointment. She slumps in her seat, head resting on the couch while she shares her grievances with the ceiling. “We haven't learnt anything new. Gotta admit, your lumberjack lover is thorough. You and Michael may have figured out that the story is linked to all this, but this Turner person is useless.”

The weight on your shoulders grows heavier, anxiousness scratching against your ribs. Frustration clinging to the hair your force from your face, scalp lined with the effort to sooth yourself. A swig of whiskey doesn’t help. “There has to be something, Lol, there’s a truth to every story somewhere. We can't just give up.”

She bristles through a sip from her glass, though barely. “There's only so many times we can read about some woman and her rambling tea habits. I mean, fuck, who drinks this sort of shit?”

“I do,” you reply, offended and rosy cheeked.

“You're the only one.”

Then it hits you, knocking the air from your lungs with enough force that, if you were standing, you'd buckle into the realisation. Lauren sees the shift, watching the energy that had been draped across your shoulders dissipate. Breaking away and fracturing into golden shards as you rock onto your knees.

You're eager, enough to have her waking up from the sleepy alcohol stupor she's almost ready to let take her. “You're right, that's it!”

“What’s it?”

“The tea - the bloody tea thing! You said that I'm the only one that drinks that sort of shit.”

Her brow furrows, struggling to follow as you start rifling through the pile of information. “You and Turner, yeah.”

You emerge beaming, clutching the journal Lauren had tossed aside in disgust. “And what did you mean by shit?”

“What?”

“Type of tea, Lol. What makes up the tea?”

“Herbs and weird flowers and that kinda gross stuff.”

You nod, not even bothering to correct her on the subtle act of tea making, or calling out her strict reliance on camomile or sugarless coffee. Instead you're smiling, flipping through the pages. “Why?”

“Why what?” She pulls a face. “I swear I am going to kill you. It’s too late for this shit.”

“Why do I use those ingredients?”

“Cus they're fucking awful and you hate yourself? C’mon, Y/N. Just tell me!”

Fingers drum against the file, incessant while you stare. When she doesn’t respond your eyes roll. “Witches drink tea.”

Lauren’s face goes blank, eyes widening and eyebrows disappearing beneath her unruly bangs. Her mouth opens with a small pop, hands starting to flap as excitement sees her bouncing. “Witches drink tea!”

You smack the folder to punctuate the point, rocketing to your knees and shuffling over to her as fast as you can. Thrusting your file under her nose, you tap at the margin lined with tea recipes. “Exactly! Witches drink tea. This is the type of stuff I drink when I’m feeling paranoid.” You pull it back, flipping through the pages. “Look, she’s got teas for calming, teas for sleep, teas for cleansing, teas for all emotional healing-”

“That’s crazy!” Lauren exclaims, yanking the closest free journal over and scanning for herself. “The tea shit is everywhere.” She snaps the book shut, moving on to another that’s exactly the same. “Holy fuck.”

“Ugh, I can’t believe it’s taken us this long to figure that out. It all looked normal to me,” you manage, lowering the text into your lap and sitting back down, fingers tangled in your hair while you stare out the window. The cold screams back, faint whispers of snow caught in the lights glowing outside. “It’s kinda sorta really fucking weird. You reckon she was a proper witch, or that she was just really good with tea?”

Lauren makes a weird noise, shrugging. “I dunno, I’m going with no, though? Tradition carries a lot of weight, and recipes and tea properties are used by people without magic all the time. Turner hasn’t done anything remotely witchy that I’ve noticed. Shame the son didn’t keep any journals. There’s nothing from him in this pile. You’d have thought that if your mum was actually a witch you’d want to write some cool stuff down.”

“Moira was incredibly thorough... Her whole life up until her disappearance is here. All we’ve got on the son - oh god, what’s his name?”

“We don’t have a name.”

“Great,” you groan, “brilliant. Fucking fantastic. All we’ve got on no-name-Turner is stuff from his mum and the other crap from the town plans before it all just stops. There’s not even any mention of markings on doorways and stuff.”

She nods, frustrated and exhausted. “Great. We’ve got tea recipes and a man that just disappeared along with his record keeping skills-”

A loud crash cuts her off, the rattle of a lock and smack of a door knob hitting the wall followed by a quick succession of frantic footsteps pounding down the hall. But it’s nothing in comparison to the roarious laughter. Alfredo and Trevor stumble through the door arm in arm, tripping over their feet and bouncing against the entryway. Silly beams split across their faces when you and Lauren glance up, Alfredo breaking away and collapsing on the couch, somehow managing to shove his hand cheekily across your face in the process. The surprise has your concentration shattering, along with the orbs of light you’d managed to keep strong up until this point. Though the alcohol had seen them lower, most of the light having hovered around your elbows rather than dusting the ceiling as they originally had. They dissipate quickly now, dropping the room into the firelight.

Trevor wastes no time in launching forward, letting his momentum carry him into Lauren’s lap despite her half hearted protests, curling up in her arms and determined not to move. “Hey there baby,” he muses sleepily, lost in the smile she presses to his forehead. “Did you miss me?”

“Miss you?” she laughs, running her fingers through his hair, “not at all.”

“It was actually really nice,” you confirm, leaning against Alfredo’s shoulder, “I haven’t had peace and quiet in a long time.”

“Nahh,” Alfredo groans into the couch cushions, turning to face you. His expression crushes, balling into something so comical that you can’t hold in the sniggers. “You missed us. You always miss us.”

“Shut up,” you groan happily, batting away the hand he uses to mess up your hair. “You shut the hell up Fredo, or I’m kicking your ass to the curb.”

“Fine,” he exclaims, sitting up suddenly, “but we made friends, Y/N. New friends. Better friends. One of them was a cop-”

“A drunk cop!” Trevor chimes in too close to Lauren’s ear, causing her to bite back a wince.

“A drunk cop!” Alfredo agrees, swinging his arm around. “And there was a coffee man with this… this beautiful hair. And a British person! I’ve never seen a British person more English than he was.”

“Made up words,” coos Trevor, flailing in Lauren’s arms, “made up words he did!”

“He did! You know what?” Alfredo glares, the expression not quite holding the same accusations they would if he were in the least bit sober. “I’m gone go stay with Gavin. Ma man will look after me.” He moves to stand, swaying as he swipes one of the journals from the top of a pile, squinting at the spidery writing like he’s forgotten how to read. “Maybe I’ll take him this damn book as some firewood, huh? Huh, Y/N? How’d you like dat? Fucking kick my ass to the curb, you animal. You… wait - what is this? This thing that I’m holding?”

Lauren doesn’t miss a beat, smiling sweetly into his confusion. “Alfredo, that’s a book.”

He blinks hard at her, leaning into the motion and holding his eyes closed and eyebrows together for far too long. “I know what a book is.”

Trevor nods into the crook of Lauren’s neck, nuzzling into her like he’s desperate for warmth. She spares him an unsympathetic pat on the head, giving his hand a firm squeeze. Trevor can’t hide his grin. “Sauce can’t read.”

“I can read!” Alfredo wails dejectedly at his drunk friend, offended. Returning to the page that seems to have insulted him so much, he jabs a finger to it’s margins. “I’m talkin’ bout this crazy chick. She’s as weird as you. Yes, you, Y/N. Look. Look, are you looking? Looky. C’mon, just look! See? She’s does the same crazy shit that you do!”

Only minorly outraged, you press a disgruntled frown to your face. “Crazy shit? Rude.”

He pays you no mind, continuing to sway while he fails to grab your hand - not once, but twice - before pulling you unwillingly to your feet. Gripping his elbow to ensure he doesn’t clatter to the ground, you make sure he’s steady before peering at the passage he keeps indicating too. “Well, look,” Alfredo starts, “this bitch be doin’ these weird ass symbol things that you do.” A clumsy finger drags down the side of the page, gliding over ink splattered and familiar illustrations. “See? You see dat? Look at dat… you looking? Dawg, just look-”

“Yeah,” you reply, cutting him off. “Yeah, I’m looking. I didn’t, wait - how didn’t I notice these? This changes everything.” Your attention breaks away from the page, settling on Lauren. She watches you, equally shocked. “This means that Moira was a witch.”

“Course she was a witch!” reprimands Alfredo, “your lumberjack man even told you it was a witch hunt.”

Lauren scowls, struggling around Trevor until eventually standing. He doesn’t want to follow, but reluctantly does; gripping the couch like a lifeline. “Yeah, but the people in witch hunts weren’t actually witches. They were just poor women that we’re caught up in stupid superstitious bullshit. And Turner didn’t do any of the usual shit people used to accuse witches of.”

“So that means she can’t be a witch?” Trevor questions, paling slightly with the churn of his stomach. “How closed minded.”

Alfredo nods eagerly in agreement. “You two see this shit every day, so course you didn’t recognise it as weird. Us normal fucks don’t. This bitch is a witch!”

A hand you can’t deem to be excited or nervous shifts through your hair, brushing away the exhaustion of a long night. You stare at Alfredo, watching him vibrate proudly. “You’re kidding,” you manage around an incredulous laugh, “we spent hours doing this. Hours! We found the tea thing, but we couldn’t pin that to a witch properly. And then you come stumbling in here and do it in 2 minutes?!”

Lauren grins. “That means I can go to bed!”

Your face falls. “It means we’ve got a lot of stuff to do-”

“Bed!” she reiterates, snatching Trevor’s hand and making her way towards the stairs without a backwards glance. “C’mon, Trev, we’re celebrating.”

Alfredo watches them go, offering a clumsy wave to his friend before turning back to you. He looks awkward, pleading. “Please, I don’t wanna celebrate.”

“Hurtful, but mutual,” you agree. His face brightens in relief. “You want a hot chocolate with marshmallows?”

“Yes!” he exclaims, scampering towards the couch and curling up on the cushions. “By the fire with blankets.”

“Done,” you laugh, collecting a bunch and unfurling them over him, watching his face gleefully reappear from beneath the throws. He’s grinning, cheeks threatening to split. Childhood innocence oozes from the expression, eyes sparkling in the light. “We’ll watch Brooklyn Nine Nine?”

You didn’t think it were possible, but he smiles even wider. Wiggling in his spot, he can’t hold in the excited squeal that follows you into the kitchen, sound lost in the sound of the kettle and clatter of cups. “Y/N, you’re my gurl!”

Smiling, you don’t have to turn around to know that he’s already drifted off to sleep.

[chezzkaa]

Numb pt 17

Click here for more Numb content OR JOIN THE NUMB DISCORD

Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 2300+

Date posted: 21 Oct 2018

You thrust a hand out from the blankets, smashing every inch of your side table until the noise stops. The crunch of buttons is harsh beneath your palm, but at least the blaring of the alarm stops. But It’s too late. The cold has already set in now that you’ve tried to return to the warm blankets. A monumental groan sounds into the pillow, a slight headache throbbing across your temple.

“What’s that ungodly noise?” complains Ryan, husky in your ear and he curls into a tight ball. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes, urging sleep to take him before waking does. You start to move, gentle when easing yourself away, but he grips you tighter. “Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

“To pick up some assholes from the airport,” you murmur in response, hand coming to rest on his cheek. “Unless you want to go and get them instead?”

He pushes you away instantly, flopping onto his back and starfishing. “Hell no, have fun though. Take your time. I’ll be right here.”

“Really?��

He opens his eyes to the sound of something you hadn’t intended to come across as hope, watching you slip from the bed and perch on the mattress. Catching your hand, he gives it a squeeze, forcing you to look at him. “Really.”

“You’re not gonna vanish?”

He chuckles, gentle and reassuring in the dark. “Not unless you want me too.”

“Depends on whether or not you wanna meet my friends in yesterday’s clothes.”

“Ah.” He exhales, pulling you down for a lingering, sweet kiss, “maybe I’ll go home and change before coming back? I don’t want to make a bad impression.”

“Just don’t get taken by the Widow of the Woods, okay? I’m not done with you yet.”

“I don’t know if that’s a threat or a promise, but I’m completely okay with either.”

 -

 Another bubble escapes from the back seat, the two men grinning at each other through roaring laughter. Lauren scowls, fingers tightening on the phone she passes over in her hands. Your grip on the wheel doesn’t waver, and neither does the silly smile on your face, holding on for dear life as Trevor - all long strong limbs and big grins, hair just as perfect as always and dark eyes shining - holds up a cautionary hand.

“I give that a 7.5, Mr. Sauce.”

Alfredo’s eyebrows meet, appalled at the low score and offended that his friend would be so unimpressed by his drunken belch. But the expression makes you smile, the soft face looking wrong with such a feeling of offence. Full lips purse with the narrowing of wide eyes, dark toffee depths critical while he points and accusatory finger. “Only 7.5? That was at least a 9!”

Trevor shakes his head as Lauren hunches further in her seat, exhausted from spending hours on a plane trying to wrangle 2 drunks. Bags lining her face but lips still curving into a plump smile behind her scarf.

But the bickering doesn’t bother you, the company making you feel so light you’re surprised you aren’t floating. The sound of Lauren screaming ‘surprise bitch!’ across the airport still ringing in your ears. Tears brimming as she’d tossed her bags at Trevor and bolted to you. Beautifully blonde with waves of hair that cuts off as blunt as her bangs, blue eyes that pierce your soul and hands scarred with subtle golds snatching your elbows. Bundles of jumpers enough to cacoon her in the sunshine she’s left behind for you, arms bringing with the embrace the warm weather of a choking beachside town. And as you’d held her out at arms length the small woman practically shone. A friend it had taken you too long to find, and a sister you can’t even fathom living without.

Scanning the gentle rolls the fog has started to form beneath the steady and thick snow fall, the early morning light swallows the car in the same nothingness scattered across the dead streets. You shuffle in your seat, trying to concentrate as you maneuver across the ice. “Trevor’s right, Fredo, it wasn’t that good.”

You regrets speaking almost immediately, met with Alfredo’s vehement protests as they hit the back of you seat and curl around your shoulders. “You’re just grumpy cus you’re not drunk.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” groans Lauren, hurling a glare back at her friends.

“I was drunk last night,” you interject conversationally, peering through the thick blanket smothering the car and searching for something that resembles the road. “Well, buzzed at least.”

“You were drunk?” slurs Trevor over Alfredo’s theatrical gasp, “Do you hear that, Fredo? The lady was drunk!”

“I heard it, Trey,” laments Alfredo, shaking his head in shame, “with my own two ears.”

“As opposed to someone else’s?” asks Lauren, defrosting in the warmth, letting go of her lack of sleep. Her beam brightens the space, Trevor practically melting into it.

“Maybe you’re the one that’s grumpy,” he accuses playfully, eyes narrowing at Lauren and the sunshine radiating from her smile.

“Maybe that’s your fault.”

“C’mon baby,” pleads Trevor, managing to sit on his knees around his seatbelt and grip her headrest, chin on Lauren’s shoulder. “Everything was free, you can’t expect me to avoid such a financially beneficial deal.”

“I didn’t expect anything,” she laughs, fingers tracing his rosy cheek and eyes drifting to you with mischief. “But I was hopeful.”

“Ooo, you hear that, man?” Whistles Alfredo, joining Trevor in his knees, head peering between the seats and brushing your arm. “She was hopin’ you wouldn’t be you.”

“I did hear that!”

“That’s not what I said-”

Trevors hand clumsily stops her words, his eyes closing and eyebrows knitting together, as though he can’t quite remember how to open them.  “I’m sorry, Lauren. Laurie. Lol. Ren. Ren Ren… Where was I going with this?”

He blinks when her gentle slap shakes him out of his daze. She laughs again and you join in. “You were saying how much you love me.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Okay, this is getting weirdly intimate,” complains Alfredo, scurrying away from the doey gazes the pair share, shielding behind your chair. “I’m too drunk for this.”

“At least you’ll sleep well,” you offer, smiling into the mirror in the hopes that he’ll catch the expression. He does, returning his own.  “Besides,” you insist, “I’ve missed you guys too much to care. But if you throw up in my car you’re walking. Now, everyone shut the fuck up. I can’t see dick.”

You try to ignore the subsequent jokes that pelt against your back, focusing on the world in front of you that holds little to be distinguished. Squinting, you can no longer see the usual houses crammed together in clumsy lines down the streets as you venture towards the center of Motbury. Nor the trees with their dark green leaves that shift in the dark like monstrous creatures.

“Where are we?”

You don’t have an answer for Alfredo, sharing his concern as still no signs illuminate in your car lights. Through the cracked open window whispers the unusual smell of rot - out of place in the snowy district you swear you should be close too. With it wafts something more, a tangy smell of something that festers and stings, leaving a bitter film that coats your airways and settles at the back of the groups throats. The snow picks up. Swirling with the aggressive wind that engulfs the car. White masking your vision and blinding in the headlights. No amount effort helps you break through the sudden storm that’s raging far earlier than it’s supposed to, car pulling to a reluctant stop.

Lauren shudders at your side, abandoning her phone in favour of clinging to the dashboard. “Is that you?”

“Me?” you ask, astonished and wide eyed. “It what me?”

“The storm.” She waves a hand to the turmoil outside. “All this shit.”

“Why the fuck would this be me?”

“I don’t know, you’re all about snow!”

“What,” you snap nervously, “you think I can just make it snow on command?”

“Don’t fuck with me,” she half warns, clearly uneasy in the enclosed space. “You used to make it snow on our desks in class, Y/N.”

“A desk is much smaller than a whole town-”

“I don’t care, but if this is you please stop-”

Her scream cuts her off, the car shuddering violently beneath a high pitched tearing suddenly taking over the space. Like nails across a chalkboard. Something sharp caught against glass. The sound traces the left side doors, lingering beside the boot. Alfredo sobers up quickly, pressing into the middle of the back seat with Trevor at his side. Both stare out opposite windows, squinting through the flurry of snow that’s quickly taking over the road. The outside world is swallowed whole, nothing but the static of a VHS tape glaring back.

Alfredo gulps, working around the fear clogging his throat. “What the fuck was that?”

Only breathing fills the void, ragged and forced into silence. Before you can respond another bang claps through the storm - but this time it’s different. This time the shriek that follows is so familiar that it makes the hair on your neck rise, base of your skull itching with the burn. It echoes through the nothingness, shrill and layered and agonising just as it had the night you’d experienced your first snowstorm.

A pressure so tight that you can’t draw a big enough inhale to stop feeling dizzy takes over, shooting through your limbs and dancing across your shoulders. Trickling down your back and burrowing into your spine. Without thinking you’re snatching Lauren’s hand, grip so tight that her palm gives beneath your nails. But she doesn’t draw away, instead clinging just as tightly and staring out the window. Every element in your body screams. Wailing beneath the stress and tension and hollow loss that infests your being.

“Help us,” you murmur into the early morning, pleading with the faint growth of colours splashing across the sky and begging the stars that shine down. Urging the moon to intervene or for the snow to part and lead you home. For someone, anyone, to hear you. “Help us, please.”

You don’t know what prompts you to move, but you’re lurching from the car and into the cold like you’ve been stung. Releasing Lauren’s hand without warning, blood rushing back to your white and strained knuckles. Gasping and breathing in the icy air amidst the groups insistence that you stay inside. But you aren’t listening to their cries, too busy hearing the wail of the wind and whistle of snow. Searching for the hollow cries that dance between the storm, the sounds of tearing metal cutting through the comfort you once found in nature.

When it comes you’re ready, the howl distant at first. But as it drones on it gets closer. Your throat closes and airways block with the scream you’re desperate to release, but refuse to allow. Snow swirls around your defiance, twisting gracefully around your being and refusing to touch your skin. And with it anger flares, unyielding and confident despite the fear that bubbles in the never ending pit of your stomach. A step forward feel like 10. Limbs shaking and knees threatening to buckle. But you don’t give in. Another step putting you further into the banks and deeper into the trees you haven’t expected to be so close to.

It’s through the dark that you see it. The black mass throbbing between the bark and branches, lost in the moss and shrouded in the storm. Towering impossibly over the tree trunks with eyes that blare like torches. Despite the snow, nothing clings to it’s fur. Flickering in the nothingness, it bellows. Caught beneath the claws digging into it’s perch.

And it sees you, too.

Turning slowly, it’s form waves in the wind that roars between your fingers, batting through your hair. You don’t give it the opportunity to reposition, hand raising and palm thrust forward without a second thought. And, though fear roots you in place, your voice remains steady over it’s growls. Confusion forced down in favour of actions you can’t quite place. “You are not welcome here.”

It doesn’t move, stuck momentarily in its surprise. And you say it again as soon as you see it consider approaching. More forceful, words white hot against your tongue. Like your cheeks should blister or mouth burst. “You are not welcome here!”

A flash of light rushes from your hand, burning cold and so bright it’s blinding. Almost liquid as it rushes towards the shadow curled between the trees. It wails, a sound lost to the wind and bellow of the storm. Buried beneath the cry of pain that trembles through your elbow. Recoiling, you stare at your trembling hand, old scars glowing a gentle, faint and silvered blue. Your palm shimmers, wrist locked in curling colour and fingers laced with carpenter cuts and a witch’s payment.

“What the fuck are you?” You don’t know what you’re talking to, still trapped in the light that dims into dormancy, skin left to simmer. And with it dies the storm, wind settling and snow slowing to a trickle. A few stray bursts dress your hair and wet your parted lips. “What the absolute fuck are you?”

“That’s a little rude, I should arrest you for that.”

“What?” You stumble at the response, whirling back towards the car. Inside it Alfredo and Trevor stare, shaken and locked on your hand. Lauren scampers from the vehicle, struggling with the door and slipping through the snow.

But it’s not them you’re paying attention too, instead focusing on the figure working its way through the snow. The smudge forms a person as it gets closer, Jeremy shielding his face from the weather and glow of headlights as Lauren launches to your side. “What are you doing here?”

“I got your phone call,” Jeremy says, perplexed and pulling up to you and your friend, her hand clamped on yours. “You called for help, and good thing, too. There’s been a recent bear sighting around here. C’mon, let’s get you home. You’re only about 10 minutes out. The patrol car should be able to get you out of the bank.”

[chezzkaa]

Numb pt 20

Click here for more Numb content OR JOIN THE NUMB DISCORD

Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 1600+

Date posted: 4 Nov 2018

“You guys gonna be alright finding your own way home?”

Lauren makes a noise on the other end of the phone, offended that you’d question her lacking sense of direction and desire for adventure. “Of course we will. If not, I know where the pub is.”

“At least you won’t starve out in the wilderness.”

“Excuse me?” Lauren laughs, the sound of snow crunching underfoot soft beneath her teasing. “Have you actually seen this place? There’s a bakery or coffee shop on every corner. I’m going to eat myself sick.”

“I have noticed, and it’s glorious. Oh, before I forget.” Your foot hits the cobblestone lining the town centre, gaze barely managing to focus on the three figures you assume to be your friends going the opposite direction of home. Lifting a hand, you wave. “Look to your right - no, other right. Hey. Hey, it’s me. So, tomorrow night I’m thinking of having Ryan over for dinner, if that’s all good by you guys?”

“Hold up a minute, bitch. Is this why you’re fucking glowing?”

“Glowing?”

Lauren gasps, loud enough for you to hear her across the expanse of the town. She jabs an accusatory finger at you, and you can almost see her glaring. “You’re lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, Y/N. The only reason for you being so happy-”

“- because I’m not allowed to be happy?”

“- is because something’s happened between you and lover lumberjack! Talk, right now. Or I’m jogging over there.”

You take a step back, testing the distant yellow figure. “You wouldn’t run.”

“You wanna go?”

-

Despite her threats, Lauren hadn’t pursued you further than the fountain. Trevor had managed to swoop in and stop the yelling, lifting her in his arms until her shouting redirects to him. He’d implored that you keep running, that he’d sacrifice himself for your life, and you’d taken him on it. Jogging most of the way to the police station until the laughter had faded and your lungs burn, throat raw with fresh air and giggles.

“Are you dying?” Michael’s voice makes you jump, whirling on him halfway through the station entrance with a tray of coffee cups. “Cus if not, I could use a hand holding this fucking thing open.”

“I mean, dying is a little extreme,” you manage, taking the stairs slowly and wedging the door open around him. “But you know, exercise will do that to you.”

“That’s why I don’t run anywhere,” he chuckles, “it’s not worth the pain.”

“You’re right,” you insist, thankful for the ache of your body as the artificial warmth of the room washes over. “I’m never running again. Ever.”

“Y/N,” exclaims another voice from behind the reception desk, Jeremy moving around the woman stood beside him, “what’re you doing here? I thought you were taking the day off cus of your friends moving in.”

“I’ll end up picking them up from the tavern later on tonight, so I’ve got some time to kill.”

He smiles, taking you by the elbow and bringing you over. “In that case, let me introduce you to Jackie Butler from forensics. She’s been our go to girl with the Lumberjack of Motbury. Jackie, this is Y/N.”

The woman smiles, a beautiful expression that peels across elegant features. Bright hazel eyes sparkle behind thick lashes, face framed with sheets of chestnut hair. She offers a delicate but firm handshake, confident. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Jeremy was just telling me how you’ve rendered my job useless.” She laughs musically. “About time. I need a break. Bodies get a bit much, they don’t really hold a juicy conversation. Juicy everything else, but not conversation.”

“Okay, ew.” Jeremy wrinkles his nose, but Jackie rolls her eyes.

“Jackie comes down from the lab every now and again,” Michael continues, handing out the coffees, giving you the cup holder for the lack of anything else to offer. “We’ve been thinking about getting a full time forensics expert in now that the case is moving again.”

“That’s a great idea,” you agree, “is there anything new?”

“Eeehhh... C’mon follow me, we’ll head through and I’ll show you what I’ve got. I ordered pizza, so it won’t take long. I’m starving.”

You’re already pulling your phone out as their backs turn, fingers flying frantically across the keyboard while you follow them down the hall.

Y/N: Fredo, get to the police station.

Alfredo: Why? U good?

Y/N: Now.

Alfredo: You’re not making me less panicky

Alfredo: Cus now I’m panicking.

Alfredo: Cus you’re being weird.

Y/N: Can’t explain, about to go into a meeting. Just trust me. CUTE GURRRLLL.

“Hey Y/N, you alright back there?”

“Hmm?”

Jeremy raises and eyebrow, glancing at your phone. You quickly stash it away, smiling innocently when stepping back into the room he’s holding the door open too. The whiteboard inside is covered in images. Photographs of victims accompanied by trauma patterns of an array of weapon types, close ups on skull structures and significant wounds, and lists upon lists of dot points. Jackie adds some notes here and there while Michael takes a seat, the door closing with a soft click before Jeremy slips past and starts unloading the boxes tucked beneath the closest desk.

“We’ve compiled all of the files related to the case - which is a lot of paperwork, I wanna put that out there - and this is everything.” Jeremy shuffles the final box onto the table, taking off the lid. “This was the first victim, Jemma Perkins. She and number 2,” he points to another stack of files, “James Williams, were found with their skulls. After that none of the others were recovered.”

“Jeremy told me about your theory, Y/N,” continues Jackie, clicking the lid back on her pen, “about combining number 1 and 2 with the injuries experienced by the livestock, and we came to the same conclusion you did.” Jackie circles one of the images on the board with her finger. “We don’t have any of the skulls from the livestock, but we do have pictures. So we did a number of tests and confirmed your suspicions, based on what we had. It’d have to be a relatively heavy object, something big enough to cave in bone.”

You nod along with her words, standing before the board and taking in the wounds. “What about the lacerations, any ideas?”

Jackie shakes her head. “Nada. We haven’t been able to figure out what’d make that kind of pattern, let alone split skin like that.”

You pull a face. “It looks a lot like the grooves on the houses.”

Jeremy makes a displeased sound that rattles at the back of his throat. “So you’re saying we should look at the shape of animal claws to determine the weapon?”

It takes you a moment, but you eventually give the idea some credit. “I wasn’t thinking that, but it certainly might help. Could be a customised weapon.”

Michael sits up in his seat, leaning across the bench. “You’re thinking that we should track the marks, figure out when they started and compare it to the murders?”

“Yeah. We already know that the knocking and all of this started at around the same time, but we haven’t actually tied the damage to it. People have been saying all sorts.”

“Animals?” Jackie inquires curiously, perching on the end of a table. “I saw them on my way in. They look like bear claws or something out of a horror movie.”

“We’ve already determined that the killer is a human being,” Jeremy dismisses, waving a hand. “So I think It’d be safe to assume that the knocking was a person that drew an animal in.”

“But what if they’re connected further than that?” you push, Michael nodding by your side. “I can’t see an animal rocking up just in time for the person to leave every single time. Wouldn’t they go after the food that’s walking around, and not locked in a house box?”

Jeremy doesn’t respond immediately. “Animals aren’t smart. I honestly don’t think that animal marks are related-”

“I think it’s worth investigating,” interjects Jackie firmly, “just to rule it out.”

“There’s nothing to rule out.”

“Why won’t you at least try?” She’s growing frustrated, standing up and placing her hands on her hips.

Jeremy fumes quietly, Michael taking over with a cheeky grin. “It’s because all the damn looneys in the town think the marks on their doors are from the Widow of the Woods.”

“Widow of the Woods?”

“It’s a local ghost story,” you explain, wringing your hands. “Jeremy is very against acknowledging that it could play a role in all this.”

“Because it can’t play a role! Ghosts aren’t real.”

“But copycats are,” you interject, “besides. We’re not going to go ghost hunting. We’ll be tracking the markings and applying it to the victims timeline. You don’t even have to think about Turner.”

Jeremy’s eyes narrow, curious but too confronted for pleasantries. “Turner?”

“Moira Turner. Badass, the first leader of Motbury, witch hunt victim that disappeared and searches for her lost son-”

“I don’t care, Y/N. I really couldn’t give a crap about the stupid story, or the people who believe it. Look. Whoever’s been telling you that this ghost story has any truth in it is crazy. We work with facts, not scary stories.”

“How are we supposed to work with facts if you refuse to let us find any? As detectives we investigate every lead, no matter how crazy it is.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Y/N, you’re not a detective!”

“I wish you’d realised that sooner, rather than forcing this fucking case on me!”

“Okay.” Michael scampers to his feet, putting himself between his friends as a form of crowd control. “How about this? Y/N and me will check out the marks, while Jeremy prepares an ‘I told you so’ speech. Yeah?”

“I like it,” you confirm curtly, gathering your things. “C’mon, Michael, let’s go do our jobs.”