You couldn't help but wander into an old looking barn you found in some farmland you came across. Now you’re faced with the hard consequences of trespassing as you unknowingly come across two devilish men in disguise. ☥ 18+
CW: nameless characters, blood/injury, strong violence, taboo content, heavy angst, older men, reader is 20+
You knew this was risky—to be trespassing into another farmers barn out past 7. But you figured at this time of day, they'd be long gone doing something else.
Hay was scattered all throughout the ground, the smell of the livestock instantly wafting into your nose, making it scrunch. It was quiet across the semi empty area, except for the soft crunch of hay under your boots and the sounds of the horses snorting.
The brown horse you were petting grew fond of you quickly. Nuzzling into your hand and it's big eyes blinking slowly at you. There were only a few horses, one or two chickens running around freely.
It was a cute moment, all until two men entered through the opening of the farm, their shadows stretching long across the hay from the sunlight.
"Well, well, well.." a man said, "look what wandered in." The man who spoke in a mocking and unkind tone was a tall and brunette older man. Cold brown eyes, broad shouldered with a scruffy jaw. The man beside him was blonde. Gentle face, blue eyes—less intimidating than the brunette.
The gentle faced man didn't say anything at first, just watched you from afar with curiosity, whilst the other had a smug look on his face like he was about to say something else snarky.
You quickly turned around at the sound—your delicate, short dress swaying with your sudden movement, along with your braids. Suddenly, you felt lightheaded, heart padding against your chest and sweat beginning to bead at your forehead.
Being caught in someone else's barn at sunset was never good—made you look like a thief, a traitor; someone who wasn't good news at all.
The two men didn't say anything yet, just took in your appearance. They both shared a quiet glance before the brunette began to walk towards you in short strides. "You lost or somethin', lil' girl?"
'I-i'm sorry mister," you muttered, embarrassingly stuttering out of fear. You moved away from the horse, keeping your hands intertwined and rested in front of you like you were a child who got scolded. "Was jus' passin' by n' wanted to pet the horses."
Your sorry excuse only earned a slight chuckle from the brunette man. Your apology was real cute, but useless. He inched close enough towards you where you could smell the tobacco and farm smell off of him.
"Just pettin' the horse, huh?" He looked back at the blonde man, "she's real polite." His words dripped with sarcasm. Predatory and dangerous.
Soon enough, the blonde man finally spoke up—much softer than his friend. "It's alright. Ain't no crime in lookin' at livestock, darlin'." Though he sounded and looked sweet, his eyes held suspicion.
He offered you a reassuring smile though, the only friendly thing in the room right now. As for the brunette, he kept inching closer, sizing you up for whatever reason.
He noticed how you were much smaller than him and his friend, weak looking like it could be easy to do whatever he wanted to you without putting up much of a fight.
You felt a little bit safer knowing that at least they weren't going to lash out or punish you for entering their barn without permission, at least that's what you thought. This was just the beginning to something sinister.
"You from around here?" the blonde man asked you, tilting his head and keeping his hands on his hips. "Never seen ya before," he murmured out of curiousity.
Meanwhile, the brunette man suddenly reached out and flicked one of your braids with his finger in a playful yet invasive manner. "Cute hair," he muttered quietly, like it was only for you to hear.
You gulped, looking back up at the blonde man who stood at a safer and more respectable distance. The closer they got, the taller they grew. The men were quite bigger than you—twice your size and both towering over you at six foot four.
"Couple miles up, Wind Gap," you muttered lowly, getting slightly uncomfortable by the brunette man as his fingers lingered near your braid a second too long. His presence began to feel threatening, but you pushed it aside.
The other man nods at your answer, recognizing that town almost immediately and furrowing his eyebrows at it. "Wind gap.. that's quite a drive," he says, trying to think for a second. "You walkin' all that way alone?" There was a hint of concern in his tone, almost like he was in disbelief.
A girl like you, out here all alone? You hair was messily braided into two, had a pair of cowboy boots on and a little white dress—didn't look like you were fit to be all the way out here, 'specially in those boots that could kill a grown man if he even tried to walk a mile in 'em.
The brunette man finally backed off, scoffing at that. "Dumb as hell," he spoke. You nibbled on your lip at his scolding response, swallowing back the anxious taste that rested in your throat.
"I was at the lake down the road n' got out a lil' late, on accident." You had a half smile on your face; a smile of embarrassment. You were well aware this was a dumb idea, to be coming all the way down here on foot just to swim in some lake near here.
The meaner looking mans eyebrows shoot up at your words, his expression changing into something darker, like he's just realized how vulnerable this young thing standing in front of him was.
"The hell kinda girl goes to a lonely lake by herself?" he grumbled at you. "Ain't that where people disappear?" He's genuinely asking if you're stupid, giving you a look of judgmental disbelief.
At the same time, it was also a subtle hint. A lake of missing people so close to these men, shouldn't they be the ones getting scared?
The blonde frowns at his dark haired friend, giving him a look of 'Don't scare her.'
You could feel tension between you and the men build up—the air around you beginning to turn unsettling. You quickly think, and make a move for it.
"I- I oughta head back now. My pa might get worried." you stuttered again, visibly uncomfortable by their presence as you backed up slowly. They feed off of this, the fear from young, vulnerable girls like you who get lost in remote areas like this.
"Your pa worried?" the dark haired man mocks, "huh. That's funny." He shared another glance at his friend, the blonde man now looking uneasy, like he knows where this is going.
He spoke up, trying to make you less scared. "It's gettin' dark real quick though. Ya sure you wanna walk alone?" It was faux concern laced with a trap setting. He's so, so close—could practically taste it in his mouth already.
"Thank you for lettin' me pet your horses," you murmured, quickly turning around and attempting to walk away at a pace that didn't scream 'I need to get out of here.'
You mouth pools with saliva, your head half turned so you could see their figures in the corner of your eyes. When they stayed still, you averted your attention to the cracked barn door.
But the second your back fully turned to the men, the brunette moved fast, his long strides eating up the distance between you two within seconds.
"Now hold on," he barked at you, "we ain't done talkin' yet." His hand shot out and gripped your upper arm, causing you to let out a gasp.
"What're you-!" You screamed at him out of fear, your mind instantly going blank on what to do.
His grip wasn't painful, but it was strong enough to keep you in place. As for the other man in all of this? He just stood there and watched—no attempt to intervene.
The saliva that pooled in your mouth was from primal fear now, your body shivering and your eyes wide open. You tried to yank your arm back, but he was far too strong.
His gaze burned into your eyes, his fingers now digging into the soft skin of your arm like an animal catching its prey. He didn't answer you, but instead yanked you backwards towards himself with ease.
You stumbled around as he did so, nearly tripping over hay as he pulled you closer and closer to him. You screamed, trying to pry his arms off of you.
"Oh, shut the fuck up," he growled at you in annoyance. He always dealt with girls like you and it never got old.
"P-please, please. I'll do any-anything," you choked on your sobs. But that didn't help, just pushed him to become more violent. His hand came up to then yank at your hair, forcing you to arch backwards with a sharp gasp.
Tears spilled from your eyes from the sudden pain, but he didn't care, not one bit. He pauses at your words, though, smirking down at you. "Anything?" he repeats, his voice filled with cruel amusement.
Now, he found this part funny. How with every girl he came across, they'd always end up begging to do anything to be set free, knowing that wasn't going to happen.
"’I’ll do anything’, the pretty girl says!" the brunette repeats loudly at the blonde man in a mocking tone, barking out a laugh after. The other man shares a laugh as well, finding it quite humorous with what was going on.
Then, the brunettes hand comes up. Was it to move the hair out of your face or to wipe the tears? No, couldn't be.
His calloused palm met the skin of your face, a sharp smack of a slap landing on your cheek that stung like fire. The blonde man winced at the sound of the sharp slap, but remained silent.
The harsh slap from the big man sent you crashing into the dirty barn floor, your cheek burning, and coppery blood seeping onto your tongue from where your teeth cut from inside.
"Pathetic," the brunette spat out. "Look at her.”
Both of the men now loomed over you, just entertained by how easily you broke. One of them nudged your side with his boot, as if he were checking if a dead animal could still be alive.
The blonde man finally knelt down next to your face. Not to comfort you, no, but to get a closer look at you.
He could see slight trickles of blood spill out of your mouth. Then, he grabs your jaw, forcing your mouth open with his rough fingers. It's unsettling with how calm he was as he admired your bloodied up teeth.
"Cute," he says to his friend. "She smiles all bloody n' shit." He grins stupidly at you, looking into your watery, pleading eyes. You didn't dare to say anything—already knew the consequences of misbehaving.
His grip on your face loosened, throwing your head to the side like you were some sort of worthless object he didn't need anymore. The brunettes eyes remained on you, though. They held no pity, no guilt, just lust. Like a predator staring down at their prey.
Another crack of a slap echoed throughout the barn, the blow sending you sprawled out onto the hay covered floor. You try to catch your breath, to cover your face, but you couldn't. You felt weak underneath these men, vulnerable.
The sight in front of the men don't soften them up, it just makes them more prideful in what they're doing. It's what they want—to see pretty girls like you cry and beg for mercy, to see their lips tremble and have this look of betrayal in their eyes.
Your right ear rang, vision going blurry at the force of the mans slap and your nose exploding with pain. Blood immediately began to trickle down your chin, falling onto your dress.
The pristine cream fabric of your dress was now ruined, streaked with dark droplets of blood and dirt from the barn floor. Your shaky hands pressed against your throbbing nose, but it was completely pointless as the blood just kept on coming.
You heard the blonde man let out a low whistle, clearly impressed and pleased by his close friends brutality.
"Now, pretty girl," the brunette man started his sentence before kicking your side, knocking the air out of you. He leaned down, his voice becoming dangerously low and threatening.
"You don't wander into stranger's barns," he breathed at you carefully, like he was trying to teach you, "that's how you get hurt."
You quickly nodded, thinking this could be your way out, that you learned your lesson by now. You couldn't fully grasp what was going on, couldn't see that now the sun had fully set and there really was no way back home—just here.
The blonde man grabs your face again, forcing eye contact between you two. "Gonna learn today. Ain't no other way."
after watching her for over a year, tanner can't control his urges anymore and he goes to claim what, he thinks, is rightfully his.
— tanner x reader, reader/character is implied to be female and in luna's place, not really smut but very suggestive it was supposed to be a smut though, kinda dark themed(!!) but it is consensual somehow TT, stalking references, i'll definitely write a part two with smut 👅, been writing this for four months;; kinda feel like i could've done better
if you like it pls reblog!! ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა
an: i wanted to try something new hehehe tell me if you like how it's written!! also dude... tanner voicelines are so cannibalistic and sexy,,, and i feel sooo bad i drank too much and i was sitting outside drinking beer with some random ahh guy at 3am and I'm pretty sure that something i took today got laced >_< this is my comfort fic yall.
tonight was oddly peaceful. the state of Montana, especially that one – someone would say cursed – town was the complete opposite of peace. with the sudden increase in crime; murder, kidnappings, disappearances mostly the city was covered with terror. the blueblood killer was definitely a real threat, a threat that is wandering free on the sickly covered in fog streets, while the poor citizens are left in the dark – and though he enjoys the exposition he has, for tanner it wasn't enough. it's never going to be enough.
he's cruel. psychotic, even. what sane person would happily murder so many of its own kind? none. and yet, there he was. enthusiastically setting feet rhythmically on the pavement, the heels of his elegant shoes making a barely audible 'click-clacks'. so much passion in each step; the same passion which drives him to inject toxins to humans and toying them with much visible sadism. tanner – the blueblood killer, had a very distinctive way of looking at the society. for him, it was nothing else than scum. trash, refuse; all the same. no human mattered to him. he treated mankind like a child would treat its toys; fun, but only for a moment. then the toy, or in tanner's case, a human can be tossed away into some corner, because it won't serve his purpose this well again. his definition of fun, however, was as cruel as he was. stalking, trespassing, closely observing his prey's emotional reactions and how the body and mind react separately depending on the circumstances and substances. his fun ends when the victim dies or acts repetitively – so he cherishes every moment of preying upon a human.
he found one exception, though – a young woman living not-so-far-away from his hideout; the captivating lady was a detective, with her home set close to the giant, maze-like forest, where the equally handsome doctor was spending his days, and if he wasn't out satiating his disgusting urges, nights. tanner has been watching her for over a year, falling prey to the female's plush lips, seemingly sweet demeanor and her abominable desires. in their own home, each human feels safe. the only place they can be themselves, do whatever they want to do. tanner pitied them - he always did. but for some reason, he still laughed at people who acted different indoors. he defied the whole purpose of safety, stripping the victim of it.
he’s stood in the shadows – where he preferred to be, for now. the thrill of being found was growing fonder and fonder on him, but now's not the right time, tanner would always repeatedly tell himself this like a mantra. like a plea to the sober-thinking part of him to let the other, more careless and darker part have some more fun. his thirst, though, for blood and flesh was just expanding more and more... insatiable, one would think. no matter how many victims would be reported, no matter how the blueblood killer's body count would go up, the urge was almost... attached to him.
through the tinted, mostly curtain-hidden windows, he could see her moving around. left and right she swayed, not getting enough sleep and forgetting basic self care because of her almost sick, he thought, altruistic urges. such a good, upstanding individual she was - someone to look up to, to worship... the woman deserved good, proper treatment only. especially from him - all the neglect is happening because his identity, still a secret, was wanted. tanner almost convinced himself that he feels pity and cries for her, being the source of her opposite of well-being, but in the end it's hard to judge and distinguish emotions while being hazed with mad, almost lusting feelings.
there was, however, no time to reflect the past actions, even if they're undoubtedly mingling with the present. he always did whatever his body and mind wanted, more or less heart. but he would be the last one to judge - there was no place for him and his 'sick' assessment. that being said, tanner finally realised he is in fact done waiting. their time together was pleasant and wholesome, but the urge will drive him to further madness if he won't do anyting about it soon. and since this isn't a mind matter, then it would be suitable to satisfy the flesh, disregarding the heart's wishes and indulge in the woman visible through the small gap in the curtains.
but his heart cannot be silenced this fast.
after searching for his trusted syringe and the mix of liquid midazolam and some other drug he put there previously, he cracked a small smile and sighed, being able to free himself after such a long time. his playtime with victims never lasted this long - this was but a miracle, something unexpected and ready to turn his peaceful, murderous life into something even more vile, dangerous and ruined. but the thought of disposing her like a loose trash didn't sit right with him; tanner was almost disgusted by the bare thought of causing her heart to stop permantly. he was having so much fun now, it'd be almost criminal... but, what is going to happen will eventually happen, so reveal himself to her, he shall.
the woman inside the cozy home was unaware of the terror right next her door, but even if she was - it didn't really matter. for her, the most important thing to do now was to catch that damned blueblood killer, to put end to the town's suffering... and her own grief. she's lost many of her friends and few family members to his wicked fantasies, and it only felt right to do something for the rapidly decreasing community. focused on her promethean task, she couldn't hear the light creak of her door and even lighter footsteps right behind her. only after tanner stood behind her, she could sense someone's presence. shiver ran down her spine, as she vividly remembered closing the door and definitely not inviting anyone, especially this late at night. fear paralyzed her, but then came the realisation.
it could be the blueblood killer. either she will get violently gutted, or she will make a life-changing discovery. and so, the captivating lady sighed, and prepared herself for the worst moments of her life. she turned around, surprising tanner. bold. she was definitely bold, unsure of the danger's scale, yet facing it bravely. his heart barely, but still, softened. endearing, so endearing... but it was too much for her. she closed her eyes right before facing him, squinting her eyes. his little plaything was even more captivating, he thought, smiling softly. though, she could never see it.
"who are you?" she asked, knowing well the answer is going to be fake or she will get no answer at all. or maybe some pistol on her forehead would be all she needed to know before her apparent, incoming demise? but she heard a small chuckle. "i'm the one you've been searching for. pardon me, miss, for keeping you up for so many nights. figured i'd better show myself in person."
his voice was oddly attractive. so pleasant to her ears, so pleasant she almost didn't get what he was saying - clearly, the murderer who got rid of solid few percents of the town's residents was before her, and he was aware of the search. well, it was obvious he will figure it out eventually, but the fact that he exactly knew that it was her... next thing she knew, his fingers were caressing her cheekbones, which made her open her eyes in a second. the sight made her lose her breath for a second.
the blueblood killer was undeniably handsome. sharp jaw, ideally shaped brows, perfect face ratio... not a single thing was wrong. he'd definitely pass as a model, or an angel, though the circumstances made her think of him as the devil. his appearance made it easy to sin. tempting. he was clearly her type, and deep inside of herself she was having a moral battle. she couldn't help the train of thoughts, all vile and lusting, all due to the bare sight of him. that didn't go unnoticed - tanner, as the aspiring master of knowing human reactions, realized she was captivated with him as much as she was with her. the syringe in his other hand, placed behind his back, almost fell to the floor. sweet, so sweet; it seems the paradise's gates won't be opened for him only.
"i've planned some fun activities for the two of us. don't worry, honey, you won't die. yet," the murderer smiled at the woman, terrified and enamored, still gazing at him. oh, how absurdly sweet she was... a perfect mix. with his large, gentle movements he still was caressing her cheek, but slowly moved down to her neck, tracing circles and various shapes. the lady was stunned - and tanner will also be as stunned as the detective, if he regains his mind clarity. but that did not matter; not for now, at least. she's here, next to him, looking at him with lust behind the pretty, sweet facade...
suddenly, the lady felt a sting on her neck. she hissed, and tanner shushed her, continuing to inject the tranquilizer liquid through the syringe. "this will only hurt for a while, i assure you. i wouldn't let you suffer for more, that is - unless you want me to," his poor, horrid jokes made her think about the event briefly, before losing consciousness. this is awful - she is awful, for even considering this monster as a human being, someone that could even potentially become her crush. but the shame can wait, she thought, as the man dressed in white lab coat and red tie came closer to her face and hovered above her, waving his hand as her eyes became droopy and eventually closed.
"good girl," tanner told her, though she couldn't hear those affectionate words. the effects were visible shortly - as if it were not for her perpetrator and his strong, muscular hands she would surely fall down, hitting herself and creating a possible injury. not today, tanner thought, not happening ever. why should she injure herself if the feared master of terror was always for her disposal? but even he wouldn't cut her too deep. the precious flesh of hers shall not be tainted with foolish, mortal-only limited bruises.
having his prized lady in his arms, he spared a few seconds more to admire her unconscious body. not like this was the first time he's seen it - this time was different, though, as he never actually held her like this. tanner closed his eyes swiftly, took a small, but deep breath and contemplated what to do next. it would be a shame to waste the precious liquid he just injected, though it was as precious as she was.
tanner knew her home well, sneaking inside when she wasn't home, and he was about to exploit this knowledge, just as he was about to exploit the sweet, sweet detective he oh-so-adored. holding her as softly as he could, but firm, he moved in the direction of her bedroom, clearly having some sort of a more detailed plan now. after entering, he put her still unconscious body on the big, fluffy bed and then went back to the living room to turn off the lights. should add some more vibes, tanner thought, grinning from ear to ear, as if it was his first time feeling happiness.
awakening from her slumber, she felt as if her wrists were restrained. and soon, she would learn her assumption was correct - although, it wasn't rope or anything extreme as she feared, no.. it was a fine, soft material, silk probably. sitting nice and tight on her skin. in her circumstances, getting tied up was the least she could worry about, and soon, she would find out; as the man's figure hovered over her body, multiple terrifying scenarios flashed her poor mind yet again. but was it surprising? no, it was expected even. her eyes became glassy, as if she'd cry in a second, at which tanner just... cooed. "oh, what's this now? i told you already, i won't let you suffer by my hand unless you want it," tanner replied, bringing his hand to her cheek and gently caressing her already tear-stained flawless skin.
the word gentle did not sit right with him, obviously. his actions were confusing to the extreme; but she wouldn't refuse anything the man would offer. not like she'd even be able to - but he made her think she has a choice and whatever happens next is up to her. what a cruel illusion - one of freedom and safety, that he won't take anything she doesn't want him to. in his mind, she was already his. equal to him, even, though he wouldn't like to see her running around with some sedatives, tranquilizing random people on the street like he does on some nights.
tanner did not retreat his hand, seeing his darling still conflicted but not showing any signs of reluctance. if anything, she was very compliant, and so he shall make sure she's rewarded for her obedience. "could you.. um.. untie me?" she asked, earning yet another one of tanner's smiles. what a silly girl, he thought, asking questions like this. but do whatever she wants him to do, he shall.
"no thrashing and squirming, okay? and i'll give you a piece of freedom," the man said, to which she nodded. she wouldn't want to cross him, never. bringing her arms closer, he slowly undid the bindings on her wrists, brushing his lips softly on the soft flesh of hers. it was somehow... intimate. the way he presented himself to her; she knew he's dangerous. one wrong move or word could probably get her killed, and yet - the way he is now with her speaks a whole different story. one couldn't just see him as a psychotic, sadistic murderer; not when his actions were those of a lover, not a killer. thinking about him in this way was surely a sin. the woman's train of thought, however, was rudely interrupted.
"stop thinking so much," he murmured against her ear. "no point in being so worried. i came here to do what i wanted for a long, long time, you know?" tanner started delicately biting the skin on her ear, chuckling a bit at his own words. "tonight, you shall become rightfully mine. i was thinking of claiming you in a different scenario but i just can't keep myself away from you, sweet girl." her breath hitched, in fear or excitement - she did not know. the anticipation, his face being so close to her own; she was surely about to go insane after tonight. and as tanner buried his face in her neck, she started trying to regain at least part of her mind's long gone clarity.
he's a murderer. a terrible person. he's creating hell on earth. she knows he is awful and she should scream in terror, but her fleshy, earthly desires are clouding her judgement a tad too much. up to this moment, she knew who he is - a killer. his sly antics tonight made her forget about his cruelty, but she shall see him as a criminal, a murderer yet again - he's going to kill her all the same, the difference will be the weapon of choice. he will stab her relentlessly all the same, but not with any blade or syringe. cursing her coveting mind, she brushed all concerns aside and let him have his way with her.
she's going to let him ruin her, deprave her - and she will enjoy every second of it.
AN: Shitpost lowkey. Love you Caseoh (if you ever somehow find this 😭)
SUM: You were working late when you felt the hair on your neck stand up. Someone was inside of your home. If only the attacker knew they weren’t the predator. No. They were the prey
Warnings: Violence, Needles, gun violence, medical treatment, attempted kidnapping, drug use
Another late night. You hated late nights. This was suppose to be your free time. This was suppose to be where you spend time with your boyfriend, snuggle on the couch, talk about each others day. Not do stupid paper work at your computer. Guess it’s better than a typical nine to five. Right?
Window was open, fresh air, soft night rain. It was pretty peaceful. The perfect weather to fall asleep to. Hell, you dozed off because of it. Your eyes were only closed for a moment and you opened them to darkness. Wait, were you awake at all?
Wait, you were awake. Why was it dark? Damn breaker. You really needed to call someone in to fix it. Just had to make sure the mechanic didn’t get too nosey.
You turned your phones flashlight on and went to your bedroom to go flip it. To your horror, the switch was down. Someone had turned the power off.
You flipped it back up and immediately closed the window in your bedroom. Instinctive over actually productive. Whoever turned the power off was clearly in your home. You felt stupid now. Dammit.
You got into your bedside drawer and pulled out your pistol. You’ve never had to use it, so you were pretty uncertain on how to use it. Just pull the trigger. Simple, right? You hope. Someone was in your home and that someone had some sort of awareness to the layout.
You would peak your head around the corner, and strained your ear to try and hear for something. All that reached you was rain and the cars outside. You couldn’t hear any creaks. Guess you could only filter through the home. Couldn’t imagine someone breaking in to just turn your lights off and leave.
Each door would open and be closed. The bathroom, the master bathroom, under your bed, the guest room, the kitchen, the……
Of course.
The closet by your front door.
You raised your gun up and aimed it at the door. The intruder had to be in there. No where else could they be. It made your skin crawl to imagine you had this attacker possibly watching you in the dark. Maybe was just inches from death, but you woke up before they could do anything.
“I’m armed, so unless you are someone I know you are about to get shot!”
You felt a need to give a warning. On the most thinnest of chances it was someone you knew. You just couldn’t risk hurting someone you loved. Curse your big heart. The attacker took that threat seriously and busted through the door.
You screamed, and fired, but being untrained with a gun made you unknowingly to how strong a recoil can be.
You were pinned to the ground by the masked intruder. You tried to hit the attacker with your gun, and you managed to nail them in the side of the head. A chunk of metal sure can disorient someone. Even if they are wearing a mask.
They would tumble to the side, and you made an attempt to get up as well. Unfortunately they grabbed your leg and stabbed their knife into the back of your calf. You screamed out in bloody murder from the pain, and now you were wounded elk that couldn’t run back to the herd.
“Boss didn’t say I had to bring you unwounded.” Your aggressor would grumble, as they sat on your back and knocked the gun from your hand. Didn’t mean you stopped thrashing. You kept screaming. Screaming out ‘fire’ to try and get people’s attention. Your attacker was biting off more than they could chew. Either keep your arms pinned and leave you screaming, or cover your mouth and have you wail.
They were biting off more than they could chew. This wasn’t some movie. This was real life.
They grabbed the back of your head and slammed your face into the floor. It was your turn to be disoriented. You could feel blood running out of your nose as you tried to recollect your thoughts. Gave them enough time to start duct taping your arms behind you.
You tried to scream out again, but your mouth was covered by the tape.
“Now let’s get you ou-“
Silence.
You furrowed your brows to only see your attacker now slumped next to you. Eyes were rolled back and a needle was in their neck.
“I know people like to get crazy on a Saturday, but this is a bit extreme.” The voice said, as they removed the needle from their neck. Now you were being cut free.
“Good thing I had forgotten my keys it seems. Imagine if I hadn’t come back home. How would you get out of this one?” He laughed, as he would flip you over before hoisting you to the couch.
Tanner.
It was Tanner.
“Oh, lemme just-“ You gave a whine as the tape was removed. “Sorry about that. My oh my. Nasty little wound hm? Oh you are always getting into trouble. Aren’t you?”
“Mmm….Head…..”
“Oh my, nasty cut.” He would agree.
He would casually step over the knocked out body before going to grab his specific med kit. He would take his seat on the coffee table before getting to work.
“Don’t fall asleep on me now. If you fall asleep you may never wake up!” He almost laughed, as he dealt with your face and head first. Since the knife was still in your leg the wound wasn’t gushing. He will focus on that after he is sure you don’t die from blood filling your brain.
Careful hands would wipe away the blood and he would shine a flashlight into your eyes. See how your pupils reacted before applying a cold press to your head to reduce inflammation.
“Poor thing. Doesn’t seem you have any kind of immediate brain damage. Always knew you had a thick skull.”
“Har har.”
With that immediate problem dealt with he would finally work on your leg. That wasn’t fun, but at least he knew what he was doing. He was able to safely remove it and tend to the wound without you becoming a stabbed juice box. The wound was deep, but it was still small in size. He figured stuffing the wound and wrapping it first would be wise compared to immediately stitching it.
Now your leg was propped up, hurting like hell, and he was administering pain killers to help you handle it. You were stabbed after all.
Unlike your attacker, Tanner would take your arm and be gentle with administering the medication. You didn’t even feel the needle. Then again you’ve been stabbed by them so many times you’ve grown immune really. He was your personal doctor of sorts. Why take it in pill form when injections are faster and stronger?
“There we go. You rest your pretty little head while I deal with the body. I think I might have given the sap an overdose. I tried to remain calm, but seeing you attacked just made me panic a little.”
He looked over the couch and gave a distressed expression.
“Oh that’s foam…..Oh that’s foaming at the mouth-“
“What?”
“Nothing! Just rest up sweetie.”
Tanner would scitter over and dragged the body away to the guest room. Honestly you were in too much pain right now to care. Even with the pain killers. He still wanted to make sure you were coherent. A head injury can be pretty lethal.
You did your best to stay awake as he did god knows what in the other room. Your head was throbbing, your leg was on fire, your nose was stuffed, this was hell. People always trying to kidnap you because you dug up their secrets. Oh what a joy.
But DAMN was the pay good.
Had dental!
“They won’t bother you anymore now.” Tanner confidently said, before he hung up his coat and sat back on the coffee table. He would wipe away your sweat and helped you with drinking some cold water.
“Poor thing. All banged up. Like a little doll. Don’t worry. I’ll stitch you right up.” He mused, with that ever uncanny smile. Used to creep you out, but honestly there was a charm to it. As unnatural as it was it was natural to him. That’s his smile.
“My savior.” You sarcastically remarked, as he kept wiping away the sweat from pain. Same for the water that dripped from the cold cloth on your head. Well, now warm. He could tell. So, he took it off and went to run it under cold water again.
“Your one and only~!” He sung from the kitchen.
You would think people would stop trying to mess with you when so many always left empty handed. If they left at all. Guess it made you more hypnotic. They all wanted to be the one who finally got you.
Not when Tanner was around.
Wild to think it all started because of you digging up someone’s file.
Now look where you are.
“Slight fever, but expected. Nearly hit you in a place you would never recover from. Missed your tendons by a hair.” He would explain to you, as he placed the cold cloth back over your head. Gentle little monitoring over your fresh wounds and conditions. Your private little doctor.
“I’ve survived worse.” You tried to brush off, as he tsked at you.
“Yes, but needless it all was. Just because I am trained doesn’t mean you are safe from death forever. You’ve made so many enemies, sweetie…..You’ve made a lot….”
“And you haven’t?”
“Don’t drag me into this now.”
“But what makes it so different?”
You got him there. Suppose you had the ability to say you were doing it for a good cause. Call him Victor Frankenstein for what he’s doing if all for.
“Rest, sweetie. Rest.” He would gently hush, with a gentle kiss to your forehead. Could still feel it through the cloth.
Suppose this was one way to spend a Saturday. Your boyfriend tending to your every want and need, as you survived another attempted kidnapping. Good thing your job is remote work. How would you explain this to the boss?
That’s for morning you to worry about. Right now you focused on staying awake and letting your boyfriend be your little nurse.
Who knew a man so terrifying could be just as gentle and kind?
coryo is definitely the type to get so pussydrunk that he hardly even pulls out he's just rutting into the whole time
fuck. you don’t even warn him about the consequences of cumming inside you. at that point you just let him, because whatever’s happening inside that boy’s head? it’s not logic! that brain is so empty that if you were to hit him upside the head you’d hear a bell ring. that’s how empty his brain gets when he’s all pussydrunk. dude can’t even formulate words; just whimpers that get progressively louder and louder until his moans sound like sobs and he’s cumming allll inside you. so many ropes of cum painting your insides and you can’t even be mad because it feels good for you to be filled like this. you’ll worry about it later!
Pairing: Dark (FBI) Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x (female) Reader
▶ Dead Dove Do Not Eat. This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.
More at Masterlist
SUMMARY: Dex believes you to be the key to solve his problems. You think he has serious mental issues. Unfortunately that doesn’t prevent you from being held captive in his apartment.
AN: Around 11k, not entirely satisfied with it but here it goes. It would mean the world to me if you guys could just take a moment to reblog and leave a comment - if you liked reading this. Feedback is very much appreciated. Enjoy 🤗
--
The first thing Dex notices when he opens the door is how quiet the apartment is.
The whole space is immersed in silence - or as silent as living in a city like New York can be, traffic sounds muffled down by the windows and the distant cry of a baby a few doors down the hall.
But the apartment itself is quiet.
That’s a good sign, he thinks as he carefully sets his work bag in its respective place by the door and neatly sets the keys in the wall hook. That’s a good sign, he thinks as he makes his way to the bedroom and yet his skin prickles with anxiety.
With a hand hovering just over the knob, Dex hesitates.
His heart accelerates, thrumming against his ribcage as if attempting to escape. The buzzing in his head overwhelms him and Dex stumbles a step back, trying really hard to push away the thoughts that threaten to swallow him whole.
Breathe in and breathe out.
Closing his eyes, Dex works on his breathing, focusing on the slow exhale of air, mimicking the breathing exercise doctor Mercer taught him. He can do this. He’s dealt with much worse. He can do this.
He can do this.
With a twist of the knob, Dex lets himself inside the bedroom.
The small room is enveloped in absolute darkness, the curtains tightly closed just like he left them this morning before leaving for work - the last thing he needs right now is for curious neighbours from across the building to peep into his apartment.
His knee bumps hard against the leg of the bed and Dex lets out a small curse, now moving with more careful steps in the darkness. It takes nearly ten seconds for him to finally get to the bedside table. He flickers open the small lamp and as soon as his eyes adapt to the yellow brightness of the light, Dex turns his attention towards the small figure curled upon the bed’s edge and just like that, everything gets better. It works like magic every time.
The moment his eyes land on you, his mind calms down, the buzzing dissolving away into a serene quietness.
You’re deep into slumber, closed eyes and features softened by sleep. Dex watches you with something that borders admiration, watching you sleep as always has been precious to him.
Despite the dampness that clings to your eyelashes, proof of the tears you must’ve shed a few hours or a few minutes ago, there’s a serene expression in your face. A gentle peace that has been lacking for the past few days.
Dex hesitates for a brief moment before he crouches down and brushes the hair away from your cheek.
His touch receives no reaction - no terrified flinch, no scared grimace - and Dex feels lighter, both in soul and body. With the back of his fingers, Dex gently strokes your cheek, feeling the soft skin under his stiff touch. A soft smile slowly creeps up to his lips and for a minuscule moment, his mind flees at how nice it would be if things were always like this, unrushed and peaceful.
Dex wants this moment to last forever.
But of course, all good things must end - particularly soon when he is involved. So distracted marveling at the softness of your cheek, Dex is caught off guard when he realizes that your eyes are wide open, fear quickly pooling in them.
Fuck!
He immediately snatches his hand away and stands up.
“You were sleeping. I was just… the hair on your face.” he blurts out, as if whatever excuse is gonna magically erase the fact that you just woke up with his hands all over you. Great. Now in addition to kidnapper, you’re also gonna think he’s a pervert.
Just what he needed right now.
You look away from him mid-sentence and squirm, wincing a moment later when you’re pulled back by the cuffs latched onto your feet.
Right, he almost forgot about them. Dex takes that as his cue to remove the bindings keeping you in bed.
“Here, let me just- ”
He reaches over, carefully as to avoid touching you too much, and begins to loosen up the cuffs keeping your feet chained to the bed and the belt from around your wrists. Your wrists are left indented and the skin irritated by the belt that was tightly clasped around them.
You don’t move for a few moments, body too numb and weak from the countless hours you spend in bed with close to zero mobility, bound and chained to make sure you’re not running to the door the moment you get a chance.
Dex watches you wince before pulling at the cloth tied around your head, a weak substitute for a gag; just a precaution in case you remember to start hollering for help while he’s away at work.
With a snail’s pace, you move to sit at the edge of the bed, breathing heavily as Dex expectantly stands to the side like a shadow.
Dex opens his mouth to say something, maybe ask a stupid question ‘are you alright?’ but before he can even get a word out, you’re standing up with unsteady feet and limping your way to the en-suite bathroom without so much as glancing at him.
His feet follow you on instinct, but the door that slams hard on its hinges stops him from going any further. The lock aggressively clicks into place, a repulsive sound that echoes in his head like a gunshot.
Dex has to take a deep breath to ease up the impulse of putting his fist through the door.
–
Your stomach growls as you eat the pizza slice.
It’s still warm, laced with extra cheese and tasting absolutely divine - although your opinion may be biased on the last part. Anything would taste delicious after a fast of nearly eight hours.
Dex - that’s what he called himself although you’re not too sure if you believe him - clearly isn’t prepared for the logistics that holding someone hostage involves because if he were, you wouldn’t be left to rot in bed the entire day without so much as a drop of water while he goes to work. For the past three days, you’ve been surviving solely on breakfast and dinner, without any snacks or lunch throughout the day.
The arrangement sucks, always leaving you with a mouth drier than the desert and with a stomach ache that doesn’t fully go away even after finally eating.
Dex tries not to make it obvious that he’s looking at you, while chewing his own slice.
Seated right next to you on the small dinner table, he’s much closer than you'd prefer, his arm nearly touching yours every time he moves. The living room’s light shines on his face in a particular way, revealing the small patches of silver on the sides of his short brown hair, and the sharp angles of his face. There’s a small dimple in his chin and he’s clean shaved. Albeit tired, he looks… normal.
A normal-looking guy, living in a normal apartment with a normal life. But looks are often deceiving, aren’t they?
It’s not hard to understand that he has issues. Serious ones, the type that could easily secure him a place in a psychiatric facility - the assumption supported by the drawer full of meds you found in the bathroom cabinet the first night.
In all honesty, you have a hard time understanding him. But so far Dex hasn’t done anything remotely weird to make you feel like you’re about to get jumped at and you’re grateful for that. He’s been polite enough to let you use the bathroom unsupervised and his eyes never linger towards where they shouldn’t. His hand hasn’t been raised against you and no explicit threats have been hissed your way. It’s almost like you’re roommates, of sorts.
But the positive aspects don’t outweigh the negative ones nor do they alter the fact that he has kidnapped you and is currently holding you hostage.
He lies as well because you have serious doubts about him being an FBI agent, like he said that one time. The badge that is usually perched on his belt could very much be a fake and the gun on the holster an illegal one.
You distractedly glance at him and for a moment, your eyes meet.
You regret the eye contact as soon as it happens because Dex immediately takes that as a sign to strike a conversation.
“How’s the pizza?” he eagerly asks, “It’s the same one you always ask for.” He’s right, it is the same pizza with the exact same ingredients you tend to order for yourself on a regular basis.
While this shouldn’t shock you, considering Dex has reluctantly admitted to following you around for weeks, you still can’t shake off how creepy it is for him to know the exact specifications of the food you find comfort in eating.
What else does he know about you that he shouldn’t know? What else has he seen about you that he shouldn’t have?
Your stomach answers for you, letting out an absurdly loud groan.
“It’s fine.” your voice comes out hoarse and weird, not a surprise given this is the first time in the whole day you’re using it.
When you grab the glass of water in front of you, his hazel eyes flit over to your wrists and the marks engraved into the skin from how deep his belt dug in, the skin itchy and red.
“I’m sorry ‘bout that.” Dex lowers his head, “Didn’t mean to tie them so hard. I’ll… I’m gonna find something better for your hands.”
“Or maybe you could just not use them.”
Your voice is low, barely above a whisper but Dex catches them anyways. He shifts in the seat, a wrinkle settling in between his brows.
“Maybe one day. In the future.” he says.
“Why not now?” you press him. “You don’t trust me?”
“I do.”
He doesn’t.
You know he doesn’t. Both of you know that. And he’s right not to because you’re bolting out of the door the moment you get a decent chance.
“I do. I trust you.” he repeats, this time with more conviction. He leans closer to you and you do your best not to push yourself off the chair and walk away. “I trust you more than you know.”
“But not enough to let me out of the bindings, right.”
He swallows hard, shaking his head. “It’s complicated.”
“Right.” you sigh, tearing your eyes away from him and back to the food.
Dex sighs your name, slumping back on the chair. “I know this might be hard to believe in but this isn’t what I want either. It’s really not. I don’t want to keep you all cooped up like you’re a prisoner. You’re not one, anyways.”
He rubs his face with one hand, jaw set tightly. Your eyes notice the thickness of his arm, the subtle but defined muscle stretching underneath the shirt. An FBI agent, he said, a former army soldier too.
“I just can’t take risks right now. Not until… we figure things out. I know this arrangement, if we can call it that, isn’t the most beneficial for you. But I need you. I need your help.”
You freeze, hand stopping mid-air with the remainder of the pizza slice.
“My help?”
Dex nods, nudging his chair closer. His cheek ticks for a moment as he gathers his thoughts.
“Yeah, I… how can I put this.” he breathes in deeply. One of his hands reaches forward, nervously fidgeting with the edge of the table.
“I’ve seen the way you are around people. You feed the homeless. Help blind people cross the street. Bake cookies for your elderly neighbour.” his own lips curl into a smile at that, “You’re kind to people even if you don’t have to be. You listen to them and show them compassion. That’s… that’s something I really need in my life.”
The confusion you feel has your thoughts scattering all over your mind. He thinks you’re kind. How is that enough reason to kidnap someone?
“I don’t understand…” you say, brows raised.
Dex presses his lips together, rolling his shoulders tensely. “Being kind, compassionate like you are… it doesn’t come easy to me. Never has, not even back when I was a kid. So I do the second best thing and try to pretend it. It’s what I’ve been doing my whole life, pretend like I care about the good and the bad and hide who I really am.”
You hesitate, before asking. “And who is that? Who you really are.”
His fingers still and when Dex answers, it’s with a shadow obscuring his face, his eyes focused on some distant point beyond the wall.
“Someone who has killed before.”
Your blood runs cold. Maybe you had a suspicion that there was something deeply wrong with him, but for him to admit it loudly is a whole new thing.
“It’s part of why I joined the bureau and the army before that.” he reveals, with a cold voice and a hardness in his face. “I get to kill without feeling bad for it. It’s part of the job now, strictly professional and nothing personal about it but it fulfills more than what duty calls for. It scratches that itch that never really goes away.”
You swallow dryly, the knot in your throat refusing to go down.
The fear and shock that flood you are hard to push down but you quickly mask them when Dex glances back at you. He visibly swallows, slightly shaking his head.
“I’m sorry.” he apologizes, “I know this isn’t what you want to hear right now. But I promise that you’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you, I would never do that to you.”
Right. His words fail to reassure you after what he has just revealed, but you pretend otherwise. Maybe if Dex thinks you believe him then his guard will be lowered.
“I’m aware that it’s wrong, I know that. But I just… I can’t help it, sometimes.” he swallows, fingers twitching. “I’m trying to do better. Trying to steer into the right path. That’s why I need you, I need your help.”
“Me?” you mumble, completely lost.
Dex doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stares, focusing on you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“I do better when there’s a North Star to guide me.”
–
A small, muffled sniff comes from inside the room, bed gently creaking as you adjust yourself. With an arm half-bent beneath his head, Dex stares at the ceiling. It’s nearly midnight and he has an early day tomorrow but sleep evades him.
The couch is stiff under him, much too short to comfortably accommodate all of him but Dex doesn’t complain, he’s slept in much worse places before.
Compared to sleeping on the hard floor, no pillow or blankets, stones and dirt digging into his back with the obnoxious snoring of fellow army soldiers ringing in his ears, this is far from unpleasant. Especially with you sleeping just around the corner.
The apartment is small enough that the couch sits just outside the bedroom and with the door wide open, Dex can hear the sound of your breathing. You’re awake, he gets that from the way your breathing keeps changing every now and then, the soft clink of the metal cuff on your feet as you shift once in a while, trying to get comfortable.
His mind is calm now, no incessant buzzing or relentless thoughts.
It keeps drifting towards you instead. Details cling to him such as the way you smelled like him when you came out of the shower, having used what he owns - his soap, his shampoo, his moisturizer, his lotion. Even his clothes. With wet hair and dressed in his clothes, you looked like a dream.
He tried to not ogle much at the freshly moisturized, shiny skin of your legs; tried not to let his hands wander too much when closing the cuff around your ankle and securing the other end to the bed’s metal structure.
The small scowl on your face didn’t go unnoticed by him and part of him gets it. Sleeping cuffed to the bed can’t be easy and you deserve to be treated like a princess, not like a prisoner but Dex’s hands are tied for the moment being.
Giving you too much freedom when things are still slowly building between you two can be dangerous. He wishes things weren’t this way but right now he can’t afford to give you that amount of leeway.
In theory Dex knows that what he’s doing is bad. Really bad.
He has full conscience that this is far from healthy .
That what he’s doing falls on the exact opposite side of the spectrum of what he and doctor Mercer agreed he should do to keep him in the straight, narrow path and that if she were alive today, she’d be horrified at what he’s done. Kidnapping his North Star.
That sure would make her reconsider everything about him. Holding onto a good person isn’t the same as making one hostage and definitely not what she had suggested, not even in the slightest, before passing away.
If doctor Mercer was here, she’d be disappointed beyond measure and she’d force Dex to release you, to let you return back into your life.
He supposes it’s a good thing that she’s dead. Because Dex isn’t sure he could give you up without a fight. You mean so much to him, more than you could ever know and enough for him to refuse allowing you the chance to just walk away like he means nothing.
Everyone in his life - every single person - has abandoned him. Left him to fend for himself in the dark solitude of his mind, of the buzzing thoughts that plague him day and night. Dex refuses to let you do the same.
You’re good, kind and sweet. You’re the missing piece of the puzzle, the solution to his problems. You’re gonna help him get back on the right track, even if you aren’t sure about him.
You didn’t lash out at him after everything he revealed during dinner. You didn’t scream or call him a monster or push him away. No, you just sat there and patiently listened to him. Tried to understand him. Told him that you’d try to help him.
He smiles, hope fluttering in his chest.
So long as he has you, everything will be alright.
–
Your stomach lets out a soft growl.
Judging from the bright sunlight filtered out by the closed curtains and from how badly the pit in your stomach is starting to feel, it’s around lunch time. Not that it matters, you won’t be getting any food even if you want to. Not in your current position.
You let out a sigh and move your head around, trying to find a better position.
By the end of week, you’ll be surprised if the bed doesn’t show a permanent dent shaped to your body given it’s where the majority of your days and nights are spent.
Dex did follow through with his word and found some handcuffs this morning to use around your wrists instead of the circulation-cutting belt. The cuffs are nicer, looser than the belt, but still offering little to no opportunity to evade them.
The more you think about it, the more helpless you feel. You have no plan, debunking each and every one given their potential of failure but mostly due to fear. Every time you begin to craft an escape plan, hesitation has you faltering.
So far Dex has been nothing less than an exemplary kidnapper… what happens if you get caught trying to escape? The words from the other night are still bouncing around in your head, unwilling to let you forget who he truly is.
Will he hurt you, or do worse, if you get caught - maybe as a lesson, maybe as a punishment or maybe because he wants to. You don’t want to find out what Dex can do and with your life on the thin line, reckless actions are what you can’t afford to do.
Every single night, after Dex removes the chains, your body aches to act on the most basic survival instinct. Run. To lunge forward and reach for the door, to run down the hall and scream as loudly as you can.
Every night you fight against that impulse, nails digging into the palm of your hands every time Dex turns his back on you and the opportunity presents itself right there for you to seize.
Every night you have to control yourself, eyes flickering towards the door and adrenaline running through your veins.
Think positive, is what you tell yourself.
A little hopeful voice whispers into your ear that maybe luck will be on your side and maybe you won’t have to do anything at all and that before you know it, the police will break down the apartment’s door and rescue you.
That’s one of the nice, comforting fantasies that keeps you entertained for a good amount of your days; distracted from the miserable turn your life has taken.
The exhaustion you feel on a mental level adds up to the physical one. The tension accumulating in your body is hard to shake off, shoulders burning up at the uncomfortable position that allows your wrists to stay chained to the bed’s headboard. And you absolutely despise the sharp needling that occurs in your legs when you finally get to stand up. Ugh.
Dex thinks you’re his North Star, someone kind enough to help him get into the right path. You genuinely don’t believe in it.
How are you supposed to help him? How can you possibly help him be a good person? For all you know, he might be lying to you, using some half-baked lie to get you to lower your guard. Maybe it’s a side-effect from the medicine he takes.
You don’t know, you genuinely don’t know.
Closing your eyes, you inhale deeply. The music reaches the end and the announcer takes over, something about good weather these days.
Another song begins shortly after, some energetic tune you don't recognize.
It was a nice gesture from Dex to leave the radio on. To keep company, he had said. And indeed it does keep you company although the radio station he tuned in keeps repeating the exact same playlist of old songs over and over again. But beggars can’t be choosers and you’re glad to at least have something to dull the static silence of your days.
*knock*
The sound startles you.
For a moment you freeze, heart accelerating in your chest.
You try listening in despite the interference of the radio that is still going on, the song playing on a low volume making it hard to listen properly. For the next few seconds nothing happens and your brain nearly convinces you to believe the door knock to be a product of your imagination.
And then it happens again.
Subtle and hard to listen to, but it’s definitely there.
Without wasting another second, you scream as loudly as you can with the gag cloth around your mouth. Despite being laced with desperation, your voice comes out muffled down, the gag absorbing much of the sound and tears of frustration begin to build in your eyes.
The cuffs securing your hands and feet rattle when you tug at them as aggressively as you possibly can with the hope that the clanking of metal can attract the attention of whoever is outside the apartment.
Despite your best efforts, nothing happens.
There’s no more knocking on the door, no booming voice asking ‘is everything alright?’.
Nothing.
After excruciatingly long minutes, exhaustion wins and you give up, teary eyed and devastated.
–
“Can I help? I don’t mind washing them.” you offer, eyeing the plates and silverware pilling on the sink.
Dinner is over and now it’s that weird time window where Dex handles chores while you just lurk around the apartment without any real purpose. Back in your apartment, this would be the time for you to pick the next day’s outfit and prepare your work bag while listening to your favorite podcast.
Here you don’t have any chores or obligations. No dishes to wash, no clothes to iron, no meal prep.
There’s nothing for you to do other than walk around in circles around the apartment and pretend you’re not counting the minutes until it’s bedtime and the cuffs are back on.
“It’s okay. I got this.” Dex turns you down, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows and turning the faucet on.
Your shoulders slump in the slightest as you awkwardly stand by the counter, watching the meticulous way in which Dex scrubs and re-scrubs every piece.
You were half-hoping to take advantage of a distraction moment to sneak away a knife. Or a fork. Anything sharp enough to be used as a weapon although to use under what circumstances, you’re not yet sure. You’re not sure of anything.
Your nerves are rattling you on the inside tonight, the memory of the door knocking still lingering in your mind. Dex hasn’t mentioned anything about neighbours and you’re not stupid enough to bring it up.
You don’t know what to do. All the ideas your brain conjures feel… risky. You can’t stop feeling scared, like one wrong move and you’re gonna mess everything up. If you attempt to escape, only to fail…
Dex has blood on his hands, more out of pleasure than for his alleged job. Despite his promise, what guarantee is there that his hands won’t ever become stained with your blood?
You nearly wince when Dex speaks, pulling you out of your thoughts.
“Are you okay?” he asks, shutting off the faucet and drying his hands before turning towards you. “You look a little… I don’t know. Is something wrong?”
Yes. Everything. Everything is wrong and it’s all his fault.
Dex considers you with a little wrinkle between his brows. “Is it your wrists? I saw you touching them earlier. I can get something for them, if they are bothering you.”
You shake your head slowly. And then speak without meaning to, the words just slipping out of your mouth before you have the good sense of keeping them to yourself.
“I need my phone.”
You can tell the words takes Dex by surprise from the way he tenses up, shoulders straightening up.
“Why don’t you sit down on the couch?” he stiffly suggests and then turns his back on you, opening and closing the kitchen drawers practically without looking at them too much. “I’ll make some of that tea you like so much.”
“I need to call my parents, Dex. They must be worried about me.”
“They know you’re fine. I already texted them on your behalf." Dex says, bumping against an open drawer with a hiss. “Said you’d be cutting back on phone time.”
A small incredulous sound escapes from your throat.
“They won’t believe that.” you argue, crossing your arms. “We talk over the phone every week, sometimes even videocall. Please, Dex, just one phone call. I promise I won’t say or do anything suspicious. Please?”
Dex closes a drawer with enough force to rattle its contents.
“We can talk about that later.”
“Dex, c’mon, one call. Five minutes, on speaker. Please, it’s all I ask for.”
“Later.”
“Dex, please, just one-”
The knock on the door interrupts your argument.
Both of you snap your heads towards the door and something twists inside you at the sound of voices in the hallway. But before you can even consider getting a word out of your mouth Dex moves with a speed so impressive that it startles you, cornering you against the counter with his palm firmly pressed against your lips.
“Not a word.” he whispers, brown eyes focused on you intently. “Please.”
It’s suffocating to have him so close, body nearly molded to yours and trapping you against the counter, his breath fawning over your face and you can see every short, light-brown hair from his five o’clock shadow.
It’s only when you give a small nod that Dex finally looks away and turns his face to the door when another knock resonates and a chirpy female voice speaks. “Hello, Jehovah witnesses here. If we could just have a moment of your time…”
“Yeah, thanks but I’m not interested.”
You glance at the door, eyes drawn to it like a moth to flame and heart thrumming at the fact that there are people on the other side of the door. People that might call the police if a commotion is heard…
Almost as if tuned in to your mind, Dex glances at you and his remaining hand reaches for you with fingers slithering around your forearm, holding onto you firmly.
“Oh, but sir, if you could open the door it would only take-”
“Not interested.” Dex loudly repeats, losing the polite tone from just moments ago. “Now get lost before I call the cops on you.”
Seconds drag by but the hand clamped over your mouth only slackens when the disappointed voices dim down into distance, footsteps scampering away from the apartment.
Only when the coast is clear does Dex fully remove his hands from you, fingers brushing against your lips one last time and you let out a shaky exhale.
“Thank you.” Dex blurts, stepping aside and finally putting some space between you and you can see that the tips of his ears are blazing red. “For not….y’know. Making a scene.”
You nod, but can’t shake the nagging feeling in your chest that maybe you wasted an opportunity that might not appear again.
–
It’s late when Dex comes back home the next night.
That alone is enough to set alarms ringing in your head as Dex is never late. Punctuality is a trait of his, always adhering to consistnt routines and schedules.
It gets worse when you notice the heavy expression Dex wears, lips pressed into a tense line as he greets you. Something is off in the way he moves, tense limbs and a stiff spine. He tries to hide it, but the recoil that runs down his body when he bends down to release your cuffs and then again when he slams the radio’s off button reveals it.
You slowly sit on the bed, rubbing your sore wrists and watching him storm into the bathroom. The sound of water running travels through the ajar door, but it's the pained hiss that catches your attention.
After a moment of pulling yourself together, you stand up and take small steps to the bathroom, supporting yourself using the wall as your legs slowly recover from a whole day of inactivity.
Another distressed sound reaches your ears and you hesitate only for a brief second before pushing the door open.
“Dex.” you call him, “Are you okay?”
He’s hunched over the bathroom sink, palms pressed against the small vanity and face hanging low between his shoulders.
You can’t avoid the concern that prickles you when he turns around, face pale and dewy, looking more like a ghost than a human. Is he sick?
“I’m fine.” Dex grits out and palms a hand through his face with a rough motion, cheeks hollowing as he exhales sharply. “Just give me a second.”
His face twists as he holds back a wince and this time his hand flies to press against his torso. You gasp when you catch sight of his ruined white shirt, horrified at the way the left side of the material is soaked in bright crimson.
“Dex, you’re bleeding!”
“I’m okay, it’s nothing.” Dex rushes to say, one hand trying to hide the shirt with his coat but you’re faster than him and pull it away to get a clear view.
“It doesn’t look like that.” you remark. “Let me see it.”
“You don’t have to, I told I’m-”
“Yes, you keep saying that. Just let me see, please.”
Dex sighs at the stubbornness you show but thankfully relents under the pressure, removing his coat and shirt while you attempt to help him.
When the shirt comes off of his body you freeze. There’s an injury on the side of his stomach, the skin torn and raw, blood trickling out of the wound.
Dex curses when he looks down and then glances at you.
“It was work.” he explains, “FBI had a raid today and this guy had a gun. The bullet grazed me for a second. I’m fine, really, I’ll put some bandages on and get dinner started.” Dex tries to step aside but you get in his way.
“Forget dinner, what you need is to go to a hospital.”
His answer comes quickly as lightning. “No.”
“Dex.” you cross your arms, incredulous.
“I’m fine.”
“You got shot at, you definitely aren’t fine. That looks like it needs stitches.”
“I’ll survive.”
You shake your head, biting your lip. Maybe later when you’re back to being cuffed to the bed and spending your days rooting in bed you’ll regret this, but right now the humanity inside you refuses to let this go.
“Let me help you.” you propose, “You don’t wanna see a doctor, fine. Let me do it instead. I once did a first-aid workshop for work, I know the basics. I can help.”
Dex looks at you, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and not looking entirely convinced with your suggestion. You sniff, glancing at the blood that now trails down to his waist, staining the top of his pants. God, you’ve never liked the sight of blood.
“The other night you told me you watched me help people. You also said that I’m here because you need me and my help. My kindness, right?” you start, taking a step towards him with the back of your neck burning as Dex holds on to every word you say like it’s the gospel.
“Then don’t shut me out now, Dex. You’re not alone in this. Let me help you, okay? Let me show you kindness. Let me take care of that wound. Please.”
You watch Dex gulp, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows like it’s the hardest thing in the world. You know the words hit the right spot when at last he nods with a small, shaky movement of his head. “Okay…”
The next forty minutes are spent in mental agony of blood smearing and dripping everywhere - and you mean absolutely everywhere: your hands, your clothes, the counter, the floor - as you do your best cleaning the gunshot wound and then having to steady yourself while holding a sterilized needle in your trembling fingers to sew up the split skin back together as Dex guides you through it, with his medical training from back at Quantico.
He is surprisingly calm as you sew him up at the best of your abilities, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles become pale, exhaling through clenched teeth.
It’s only when you’re patting down a bandage over the stitches that it dawns on you how close you are to Dex, on your knees with face nearly pressed up against his bare torso.
The realization of the position’s intimacy suddenly has your heart racing and when you glance up, you find yourself to be the center of Dex’s attention.
He doesn’t look away when your eyes meet and his intense stare is penetrating enough to have shivers run down your spine and you freeze when his hand reaches for your cheek, thumb gently rubbing against your cheekbone.
“Thank you.”
–
You’re folding one of Dex’s shirts when he speaks.
“I bought some brownies, the ones with the caramel filling. From that bakery you like so much.”
Spinning your face around, you glance at Dex, hiding your confusion with a smile. “Oh, thanks, Dex. That’s… really sweet.”
The corner of his lips curl into a smile as he looks at you, stirring the pot of pasta that is meant to be your lunch without breaking eye contact. “Yeah, I know how much you like those things.”
The silence hangs awkwardly in the air when you turn around, focusing back on the small mountain of warm clothes fresh from the dryer waiting for their turn.
It’s a nice distraction from the boredom of having nothing to do, simple enough for you to handle and harmless enough for Dex to trust you with. That’s part of why you like the weekends so much. With Dex around the apartment the entire day, except when he’s running errands, you get to stay free of the cuffs and the bed.
Even if he’s looming and hovering over you at all times, like he’s unable to let you out of his sight at the risk of losing you in the minuscule apartment.
As the days morph into weeks, things have started to change and you’re not sure if you like the shift.
Something changed that night you patched up Dex, though you can’t exactly put your finger on it. Since then, you’ve lost count of how many occasions you’ve catched him staring at you, when you’re drying the dishes or helping him vacuum the apartment. His eyes often find you even while he’s doing chores around the house, fingers finding excuses to brush against you and it’s beginning to bother you.
The lingering touches, the fixated gaze, the nice gestures, it’s all starting to make you uneasy. Despite how much you attempt to brush it off, you can’t avoid feeling a romantic undertone in his demeanour.
You wonder how truthful were his words when he said he needed your guidance and how much of that was a lie. And while maybe Dex has forgotten the nature of your relationship, you haven’t. Not for one second.
You know all about Stockholm syndrome and you have zero intention of falling for that bullshit.
It’s only after lunch is over, when Dex takes out the small paper bag of brownies from the fridge and brings them over to the table, that you remember them.
He takes out one of the pieces, chocolate sprinkled on top, and offers it to you. “Wanna do the honors?”
You stare at it.
“Maybe later. I’m full right now.” you lie.
“C’mon, one small bite.” Dex insists, but you shake your head. You really don’t feel like playing into whatever fantasy he has.
“Really I’m-”
“One bite.”
Dex opts to ignore your excuses and the chocolate delicacy is insistently pressed against your mouth, leaving you no choice other than to part your lips and begrudgingly take a small bite from the brownie.
Only then does Dex pull his hand away, watching you chew on the food. A dimple appears in his cheek, his eyes dropping to follow the movements of your lips.
Before you can wipe your mouth clean, his fingers brush against your lips, pulling away a dark crumb left behind. A knot curls tighter in your stomach when he pops his fingers into his mouth, tasting your leftover crumb with a hum.
“Tastes delicious.” he nods, shoving the rest of the brownie into his mouth. “Knew you had good taste.”
You force out a smile. “Thank you.”
“Maybe next time we can try making these at home.” he suggests and your hands clench at the word he uses. Home. This isn’t your home. “Homemade is always better and you’ve always been good at baking, I’d love to try something of yours.”
“Yeah, sure. Whenever you want.” Maybe by then you’ll find some laxatives to slip into the food.
You grab your glass and gulp down the water. Dex folds the paper bag with the brownies inside and stops you from grabbing your plate, taking it in his hands. His fingers brush against yours.
“s‘okay, I got this.”
“Thanks.”
Dex smiles. “Anything for you.”
–
There’s a rotten feeling taking root in Dex’s mind.
He sets the paper sheet on the table in front of you before claiming the seat next to you. Your fingers immediately hold onto the paper, lip pulled between your teeth as you consider the words that are probably memorized by now. He insisted on practicing for an entire hour before finally pulling your phone from his pocket but even with your insistent promises, insecurity still gnaws at his mind.
“Just stick to the script.” Dex repeats for the fourth time in less than a minute, “Stay calm, don’t say anything you normally wouldn’t say. And if they ask-”
“I’m just taking a break from technology. Yes, I know. We’ve been over this.” there’s a slight edge in your voice and that has Dex jittering his leg in an anxious bounce.
“Okay.” he nods, dragging the moment for as long as he can. “Let’s get this over with then.”
Dex unlocks your phone and goes through your contacts, absolutely despising the long list of friends and family he has to scroll through til he gets to your mom’s number.
The tense grip Dex has on your phone grows tighter by the second as the call rings.
He’s not happy about this.
If he could have it his way, your phone would be hammered down and its pieces scattered in the bottom of a garbage dumpster. But that would undoubtedly cause you distress and Dex doesn’t want to see you upset. Especially after everything you’ve done for him. Not just the fact that you patched him up that other night or that you haven’t tried to escape in all these days you’ve been a ‘guest’ in his home, but your presence alone is enough to give him a sense of peace that usually escapes him.
You keep him sane. You make him be better. With you around, he feels less… lonely. He’s not alone anymore, you said so the other day, didn’t you. He’s got you now and you fill the void inside him with your warmth and kindness. You’ve been so kind and good and sweet and no one’s ever been like that to him.
So he supposes that after everything you’ve done for him, a short two-minute phone call with your parents following a pre-prepared script is a small gesture of gratitude he can give you.
But that doesn’t mean his nerves aren’t burning him on the inside, an intrusive thought telling him to just crush the phone with his bare hands, throw that piece of shit through the window before someone answers on the other side of the line and be done with all of this. You don’t need to talk to your parents, you don’t need to talk to anyone other than him-
He stops himself before he gets too worked up. He can’t do that. He can’t be cruel to you, not after giving you hope. You’d be beyond disappointed and upset and then you’d definitely hate him for giving you false hope.
Dex wants to do better for you and that starts with this.
But that doesn’t stop a frown from twisting his features, something ugly threatens to come out of his chest as he watches the genuine smile growing on your face at the sound of your mother’s voice.
“Mom! Yeah, I’m doing fine. Just busy and….”
Dex tenses up, fingers picking at the material of his pants, listening intently to every word that you say.
You don’t steep out of line, don’t say anything remotely suspicious or let your voice waver. You’re a good actress and don’t crumble under the pressure, which comes handy for this moment.
Dex trusts you, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be tempted into taking your chances. You’re only human, same as he is.
The numbers on the screen keep on increasing and Dex impatiently waits until it marks exactly two minutes and then signals you. That’s your cue to finish up the call.
Your shoulders slump and annoyance fills your face but you oblige.
“...tell dad I love him. I have to go now, mom. Love you too-”
Dex thumbs the red across the screen and finishes the call as soon as you’re done with your goodbyes. The chair scrapes the floor as you get up on your feet and storm off to the bedroom, the bathroom door slamming shut a second later.
Dex waits exactly one minute before he retraces your steps, making a small detour to turn off your phone and place it inside the safe in his closet.
His knuckles rasp against the bathroom door and he doesn’t wait for an answer before pushing the door open. He freezes at the sight of you leaning against the counter with watery eyes and you sniff, quickly cleaning your cheeks.
“Hey. Everything alright?”
“Uh uh. I just miss them, is all.” you justify your reaction with a weak smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.
“I’m sorry. That sounds… hard. Really hard.”
Dex reaches for you and you move away, the smile fainting away from your face.
“I just need a minute alone, Dex.”
“If you wanna talk about this-”
“I said I need a minute.” your voice rises and Dex frowns at that. You’ve never used that tone with him before.
He slowly walks out of the bathroom, the door shutting behind him with a harsh sound. He walks back to the living room like he’s in a trance. Pulling out a chair, he stiffly sits on the table with his hands crossed in front of him.
Two minutes.
Two fucking minutes.
That’s all it took for someone else to steal your attention away from him and that’s all because of him. It’s his fault. He allows you a taste of freedom, offers you a good deed and now you’re pulling away. You’re shutting him out. Like he’s nothing. Like he means nothing to you. His hands clench at the unbearable thought.
Things were finally starting to work out between you two and now this happens. He tries to be good, for once, and this is what he gets.
It’s his fault. It’s all his fault. Isn’t it always?
He always messes up and maybe that’s why no one ever stays around him, because he’s never enough for anyone. Everything about him is broken, unfixable and fucked up beyond repair.
He’s a fuck up.
Time passes. Seconds, minutes. Maybe hours, he’s not sure.
It feels like an eternity later when he’s pulled out of the buzzing that had taken over his mind with a gentle tapping on his shoulder.
It’s you, standing with eyes dried up and an apologetic expression. Dex stands up so fast he nearly knocks into you and his hand flies to your forearm to keep you from tumbling.
“Shit, sorry.”
“No, it’s… I’m the one who has to apologize.” you sigh, lips pressed together. “I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to sound… ungrateful or something like that.”
The pressure in Dex’s chest eases up, like a heavy weight has been lifted from him. “You don’t have to apologize.” he forgives you right away because how can he not when you’re looking up to him with those pretty eyes of yours, giving him all of your undivided attention. “I could never be mad at you, I mean you… you’ve done so much for me. You’re very special to me, I don’t think you realize just how much.”
He notices the way you squirm and how your eyes flit down to the grip Dex has yet to let go off, but he makes no move to remove his hand. If anything his fingers tighten around your arm, pulling you closer.
“Dex…”
“You’re the most important person in my life.”
Your eyes widen when he brings his other hand up to your face, cupping your cheek in his hand.
You nervously gulp and he can’t help but glance at your parted lips, slightly glowy from the lip balm he bought you a few days before you could ask for it. Same brand, same flavor you always used.
“All this time you’ve been so good to me, no one’s ever been this kind to me before. You make it all better and you don’t even have to try.” he leans closer, a heartfelt smile breaking through. “You make this apartment feel like the home I never had and you make me so damn happy. My whole life, there was something missing and now it finally feels like I found that missing piece.”
“You mean the world to me. And I…. I love you.” he abruptly confesses and your eyes start getting teary again. Happy tears.
Dex captures your lips with his and suddenly everything clicks into place, everything makes sense. You belong together. You’re every thought that consumes his mind, you’re everything he can feel, everything he can touch.
Pretty and so damn delicate in his arms, you’re all he needs.
Not just his North Star, but you also own his heart, his mind, his body, his everything.
You’re his.
–
“Sweetheart?”
The knock on the door startles you.
Not even five minutes in the bathroom and Dex is already acting like you’ve been apart for hours. God, he has given the word clingy a whole different meaning after everything that went down the other night.
He’s been breathing down your neck ever since he kissed you and now you’re stuck playing along with his fantasy, acting as though you share his feelings and love him back.
Your suspicions were right all along. Dex is a liar.
The whole moral compass dilemma, the North Star thing, the keeping him on the right track, it was all one big lie and you’re so stupid because you should’ve seen that from the beginning.
It feels like one of those insane dreams that have you waking up in the morning, feeling more exhausted than rested, where logic doesn’t exist and nothing makes sense. How the hell did you even end up in this situation, playing house with your kidnapper?
It’s only been three days since that happened and you still can’t wrap your mind around Dex’s confession and everything it involves.
You need a way out. Immediately. How many days until his hormones dictate him to do more?
While his newly proclaimed affection has granted you some benefits - you don’t need your hands cuffed to the bed anymore, which has been a relief for your chaffed wrists and sore shoulders - it doesn’t go without a few sacrifices on your behalf. For now, Dex is settling with kisses that don’t go beyond pecking on the lips and clumsy hugs, but how long until he decides that’s not enough?
The way he hesitates every night around the bed, kissing you goodnight with eyes fleeting to the spot next to you. How his hands sweep the entire expanse of your back and then back up when he hugs you. You’re not stupid, you know how men are and what they want and in the present moment, you are very much stuck with one.
Dex is a ticking bomb and you’re at risk of being collateral damage.
The knob rattling has you holding back a sigh. Still, you take your sweet time in washing your hands and drying them. Why must you hurry when you have to be around Dex all day?
When you finally come out, Dex has his back to you while standing by the window, phone to his ear and speaking in hushes.
“... I’m off duty today, I told you. No, I can’t-” he hisses, hand on his hip as he looks outside. “Damnit, Ray, fine. Just drop the files and I’ll take a look at them. You know my apartment block, I’ll meet you downstairs.”
You wait until he’s finished with the call before making a show out of closing the bathroom door with an audible click. Dex immediately swirls around, shoving his phone in the back pocket of his pants and away from your sight, irritation vanishing from his face.
You barely get one step in his direction before he beats you to it, rushing across the room to meet you and you have to physically hold back a wince when his hands reach for you and he leans forward to peck at your lips.
He’s getting a lot more comfortable around you than you are with him, touching and kissing you and frankly, you’re not certain if he genuinely enjoys the affection or if he’s just reminding you that you’re still stuck playing house with him.
“You okay?” he asks, “You spent a lot of time in there. Was getting worried.”
His comment brushes you in the wrong way.
Dex’s attention to details sometimes borders on obsessive vigilance and the way he notices every detail about you, no matter how small and insignificant, feels like a violation of your privacy. Sure, the apartment is small and crowded, but you get the feeling Dex specifically monitors every action you take and finds satisfaction in doing so. Maybe control issues.
“My head is feeling a little heavy, actually.” you lie, figuring you can dodge Dex for the better part of the afternoon. “Think I might lay down for a while.”
The price you pay for such a small lie involves enduring with tremendous patience as Dex fusses and hovers over you as he gets you in bed, arranging and rearranging the blanket several times and having to refuse his offer of painkillers at least six times.
His hand caresses your head and it’s only when you close your eyes and pretend to fall asleep that he finally leaves you be, with a soft ‘rest well’ and a kiss to your forehead before quietly slipping out of the bedroom. At least he doesn’t put the cuff around your feet, a small comfort. The door doesn’t close all the way and so, you listen to the quiet clinking of glasses and metal as he works around the kitchen, drying them off as he always does after lunch.
Minutes are slow to pass and you nearly doze off until the chiming of a phone brings you back to consciousness.
“... yeah, I’m coming downstairs. Wait up.” Dex irritatedly hisses. The apartment door opens and keys clank before the door slams shut.
Your ears twitch at the complete silence that submerges the apartment and it takes you a solid moment to understand that Dex stepped outside the apartment.
With your heart pounding in your ribcage, you push yourself off the bed and hesitantly peek into the living room.
He’s not there or in the kitchen.
He actually left the apartment without cuffing you.
You can’t believe it. An incredulous chuckle escapes you, but it quickly dies down when you run for the door only to find it locked from the outside. That’s not good, you need to leave now. Time is running out because Dex surely won’t be gone for long, you heard him on the phone.
The emergency stairs are the only option left so you sprint towards them, knocking your elbow against the wall in your haste.
You waste precious time fumbling with the complicated lock but eventually manage to figure out how to open the living room window and push it all the way up, wincing when scraping your knees in the sill while getting out. Ouch. You’re so rusty you can’t even move straight.
The cold wind blowing strongly has you freezing the moment you find yourself outside for the first time in weeks, goosebumps erupting all over your body as your lungs fill out with fresh air and you nearly tear up at the freedom of the moment, after so long of being held up in the four walls of Dex’s grim apartment, it feels surreal to be outside.
The sound of the door shutting has your head snapping backwards, heart sinking. No, no, no.
Dex is back inside, keys dangling as he locks the door.
Shit. You didn’t even hear the door opening. He hasn’t noticed you yet so maybe you can still… Your attempt to sneak down the stairs fails massively when the metal plate sharply creaks under your weight as soon as your bare feet touch the step.
The moment processes like a slow motion frame of a movie and you watch with horror as Dex’s head snaps to the side, alerted by the sound as he takes notice of the open window and realizes that you’re standing on the emergency stairs like a deer caught in the headlights, instead of laying down in the bed he tucked you in, recovering from a headache.
The files in his hand carelessly drop to the floor, same as his keys, and the change in his expression is immediate and terrifying and it makes your blood run cold.
He holds out one hand, taking one cautiously slow step towards the window.
“It’s chilly outside, sweetheart, gonna catch a cold if you stay there.” he says with a normalcy that both confuses and scares you. “Why don’t you come back inside? It’s warmer here. C’mon.”
You don’t reply nor take your eyes off him, your grip over the handrail being the only thing keeping you steady.
You don’t run just yet, not just because Dex will easily catch up to you the moment you make a break for it, more because you’re scared down to your core. This whole situation is a ticking bomb and you’re just stalling - for what, you have no idea.
Dex repeats your name like a warning, eyes narrowing when you go down one step and then another.
“Please. Just come back inside. Trust me, you don’t wanna do this, alright?” he pleads with a deep exhale, features twisting when you ignore him and his words in favor of descending one more step. “Come back and I promise we can just forget about this, act like it never happened. I promise, okay?”
Dex mirrors your movements, stepping forward just as slowly to keep you from evading his vision.
You don’t dare turn your back on him, terrified, but there’s no way you can reach the street if you keep this slow, hesitant rhythm.
“Dex, please.” you gulp, blinking away tears that insist on clogging your eyes. Your voice wavers and you sniff. “I just wanna go home.”
“You are home, damnit.” Dex snaps. “This is our home, you and me, we belong together. Can’t you see that?” his jaw tightens, same as his hands. “After everything we’ve been through and you’re still… you still wanna abandon me. Just like everyone else. Yeah, well, I’m not letting you.”
The steel determination in his voice, the dangerous glint in his eyes is enough for your hands to turn clammy and sticky and you warily take another step down, heart thrumming in your chest when your foot nearly skips down that step.
“Sweetheart. Not another step.” he growls, “Think this through, okay? You’re not leaving, we both know that. So, you can make things easier for both of us and come back inside on your own or we can do this the hard way, which none of us is gonna like. It’s your choice.”
His words may appear honest, but you know the truth behind them.
None of this was ever your choice. You didn’t choose this, didn’t choose him, didn’t choose to be his North Star or play whatever farce he’s been throwing at your eyes the whole time and yet here you are, forced to confront a situation you never imagined yourself in.
You’ve never really had a choice when it comes to Dex.
All you know is that you can’t go back in there, living a mad man’s fantasy, caged in an apartment especially now that you’ve broken his delusions. Before your mind can fully process it, your legs make the decision for you.
You spin around and take off down the stairs, feet slapping against the metal stairs as the muscles in your legs strain to keep up with the adrenaline that curses through your veins.
There’s clamour behind you, heavy steps resonating through the metal structure at an impressive speed and Dex shouts something you can’t quite understand but you don’t dare glance behind.
The ground floor street gets closer the faster you run and there’s a hint of hope flourishing in your chest at the possibility of actually being able to reach freedom-
Something small collides against your back, harshly and with such a strength that it sends you tumbling forward, pain exploding in your vision when your forehead slams against the metal railing.
You crash and cry out when your knees land on the metal, one of your kneecaps ruthlessly bumping against one of the steps. There’s an agonizing hammering in your head and you go limp. Darkness takes over your mind but not before the dizzy, distant realization of being scooped up by firm arms.
–
"Fuck!"
A frightened sob escapes you as the tears overflow from your eyes and you push your knees to your chest and hide your face in the small space, though you find little comfort in the motion especially with the awkward stretch of the only hand cuffed Dex apparently remembered to cuff.
The painkillers somewhat helped with the pain that is splitting your head in two and the sharp throb in your left knee, but they do little to numb the blood-curdling fear that Dex’s erratic behavior is provoking in you.
Ever since you woke up, a while ago, it's been like this.
There’s a trail of destruction in the bedroom, the contents of the bedside table scattered through the floor, broken and mutilated and you try not to stare at the fist-shaped holes decorating the wall.
The deafening sound of plates and glasses shattering against the kitchen floor makes you flinch, an animalistic holler following soon.
You don’t think Dex is upset. More like absolutely furious and livid and right now, you just want the floor to swallow you whole and make you disappear. There’s nothing you can do except to hope and pray his focus doesn’t turn towards you, even if you are the reason behind his violent crash out.
You listen to him ravish and destroy the apartment for for what it feels like an eternity, objects violently crashing on the floor and his shouting bouncing off the walls until it progressively dwindles down. And then it finally ends.
The silence feels oppressively quiet, in contrast to the loud destruction from moments ago, but it doesn’t make you feel any safer. Not that you’ve ever felt safe in this place.
The quietness feels dangerous in its own way but your energy drains quickly, exhaustion settling in after the events of the day. You close your eyes, intending only to rest for a few minutes if the pain allows you to do so.
When you groggily blink your eyes open, you’re disoriented to find the entire room swarmed by the darkness of the night.
Only the small bedside lamp casts a dim, yellow light to the room and you nearly jump with fright at the tall figure looming by the bed’s edge.
It’s Dex, looking beyond miserable, messy up hair and red-rimmed eyes. He’s staring directly at you, vintage-looking headphones covering his ears as his unsettling focus remains on you, dark eyes clinging to you obsessively.
He looks somewhat calmer, despite appearing as pale as a ghost and the heavy breathing that shakes his bare chest and you only now do you notice how he’s only wearing his black shorts, his skin dewy with sweat.
Your eyes meet and Dex pulls the headphones away, throwing them onto the table. Weariness begins to grow in you when he climbs to the bed and reaches for you, your cuffs jingling as you try to back away from him.
“Dex, I’m so sorry, please-”
His lips crash against your with a vigor that sends him toppling you and you cry out when his weight presses you down, crushing you against the bed and putting awful pressure over your aching knee as your left leg gets trapped between his legs.
Your hand, the only one who isn’t cuffed to the bed, flies to his chest and pushes against the humid skin but to no avail, Dex has always been stronger than what he looks like. His hands cradle your head with a tight hold, strong fingers framing your face and it worsens the pain in your skull until it feels like your head is gonna implode.
His kiss is forceful, his mouth pressing painfully hard to the point you can’t breathe, muffling down every sob and wail of yours.
Something hard pokes your thigh and you dig your nails into his arm when Dex groans and presses harder against your leg till you can’t even move it away. Bile rises in your throat when he begins to move, humping your thigh with a pace that quickly becomes frantic enough to have the bed creaking.
There’s little you can do except to just shut your eyes and let your hand limply fall to the bed, knowing in your conscience that you’ll never be able to wash off the humiliation and disgust of this moment.
Dex breaks the kiss, hovering over you as his mouth sucks desperate kisses over every inch of your tear-streaked face.
“s’okay, sweetheart, I forgive you.” he breathlessly growls into your skin, teeth grazing your cheek.
Dampness soaks through the thin fabric of his shorts and onto your leg as he moves faster, your leg having gone numb at this point. “I forgive you. Cause I love you and I know you love me back. Need me just as much as I need you.”
And when Dex finally reaches his peak, with an obscenely loud grunt by your ear, with his whole body collapsed on top of yours, with the wetness of his cum staining your thigh, it dawns on you that you’ll never truly escape him.
Summary: After nearly a year of mystery presents, your gift giver finally reveals himself to be none other then the outlaw Billy-the-kid.
Warnings: Mentions of violence, nonco/dunco, SA, religious doctrine, unhealthy behaviours, out of character, Dead dove do not eat.
Word count: 4437
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
part 5
The light streaming from the open window was torture for your head.You had never felt this sick in your life. Your fathers moods now no wonder.
Shame floods you. What man would take you now? Would it matter that it was not your choice? That bill is your husband?
Billy. How could he do this to you? He wasn’t that sort of man, or at least you thought.
“How dare you” with a single hit billy sprung awake, twisting his body towards his attacker. He reaches for his gun in reflex, pointing it, ready and loaded.
You could only stare at the gun pointed straight between your eyes.
”What are you doing?” He scolds you, drawing his gun back. With the safety back on, he throws the gun on the nightstand and reaches for his pants on the floor.
“You shouldn’t wake men up like that. Is something wrong?”.
The ball in your throat tightened as your tears fell.
“How could you- how could you do that to me?” You choke.
He spins back around with his pants now done up, and crawls back on the bed over to you.
Billy reaches for your face, looking over you
”Are you hurt?”, he asks softly.
You shove his hands off you, clutching tightly at the sheet pulled to your chest.
“I am ruined.
“You are far from ruined” he retorts.
Billy continues with his clothes, ignoring your anguish.
“Billy” you call to him, “do you know what you have done?”
He sighs, pulling on his last boot before answering.
“I’ve slept with my wife. You’ve slept with your husband”, he stands walking over to the window and opening the shutters.
“The sun still rose” he mocked.
He shuts the windows again, blocking the majority of light. You are grateful for it in your naked state. You were too high up for the people below to see but one personal wrongly placed may get more then they bargained for.
“How could you do that to me” you accuse.
“You didn’t seem to mind” he scoffs.
You gasp as it he said it. His face retorted in guilt, wishing he could take it back.
Billy take a steps towards you but you hunker back into the bed. Determined not to let him touch you again.
He halts. Withdrawing his outstretched hands.
“I am sorry. I should be a little bit more considerate of my wife's trouble. It’s school girl guilt, that’s all. You didn’t do anything wrong”.
“No, I didn’t” you state in a hard tone.
He eyes the bathtub in the room, moving swiftly to it as he spoke.
“You’re a wife now. You have to learn to expect this sort of thing”.
The water rushing from the tap drowns him out to where you strain to hear his words.
“I know you didn’t have a Ma to teach you these things and I’ll try to help where I can but you have to stop fighting me every step of the way”.
Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth. Even if you knew what to say to him, you doubt you could get your tongue to yield.
Instead you cry, big, loud, fresh sobs.
How would you explain this to your father? What of your future?
Billy jumps up from the tub, rushing over to sit in front of you in the bed. You kept the sheet pressed tight against you as he brushes your hair back trying to catch your eyes.
“Please, please don’t cry. You had sex, you’re not dead”
“I wish I was” you sob.
“No, you don’t mean that” he consoles. His fingers comb in a soothing fashion against the side of your head.
“It was a big night. You just need a bath and something to eat” he determined, “hop in. I”ll go get you something to eat”
“Billy, I hate you”, you declare.
He reaches for his shirt on the floor, avoiding eye contact with you as he dresses.
”Well I love you”, he says softly.
“I’ll be back” he promises in quiet voice. He leaves the room quickly and you hear the sound of a lock behind him.
You continue to cry on the bed. All you could picture was your fathers anger. His disappointment at his whore daughter. You would die of shame before you could be saved.
After a while your tears run dry and you sat there helplessly until you could muster the energy to enter into the tub. The hot water almost ran over the top before you reached it.
You soak in it while you wait for Billy to return. The gold on your finger mocks you. You slip the ring off your finger, hurling it across the room where it lands with a dull thud.
Slipping down into the water, you allow yourself to sink to the bottom. If you were braver you would have drowned yourself but when your lungs began to burn you rose to the surface despite your wishes.
Billy was still not back despite it being a near half hour since he left. For a second you wondered if his guilt got the better of him and he left town. But you knew he wouldn’t, not your billy.
So you wait for his return that marks forty minutes since his departure.
When he does return he has food and flowers, as if he could gift his way out of trouble.
With his hat off his head, he extends the flowers out to you. A pretty bunch of different coloured wildflowers.
“Y/n, I am really sorry. You just seemed so nervous, I thought it might help but it wasn’t right for me to do. I lied to you and I deceived you and- and I am truly sorry”.
You throw the flowers to the ground when they are handed to you, reaching for the bakery packet instead.
“You don’t have to forgive me now” he states picking the flowers up, “I understand if you need the day”.
“I want to go home” you tell him again.
Billy sighs, “Not this again. I told you once we get the bounty, we can go wherever you want”.
“Home” you yell at him, “I want to go home”.
He shushes you with a finger to his lips, eyeing the door he came in from.
“You’re just angry. It will pass. All married couples fight”.
“Billy, you arent listening to me”.
“If you think you are leaving this marriage, you are wrong. We are bound for life now. You may not like it but we are.”
You sit on the bed and hang your head in your hands. No more tears come but the rage remained.
Billy kneels on the floor in front of you, rising himself so he was at the same height as you.
“I am sorry”, he says once more.
His hands wrap around your wrists, pulling them gently from your face where he greets them with a kiss.
His eyes try to find the gold on your finger but find it bare instead.
“Where’s your ring?”, he demands.
You tug your wrist from his hold, pointing to the far wall.
Billy releases your wrists moving over to find your ring.
“Now that ain’t funny”, he scolds. He finds it next to the tables leg and brings it back you like a dog playing fetch.
“Be angry but don’t be stupid”, he places the ring back on your finger, sliding it to the very base, “We are married now, Y/n. I own you”, he says softly and without intent to scare you, “You own me. We’re one”.
You look at the gold on your finger. A symbol of a married woman. A owed woman.
You bury your face again out of shame
”Hey” Billy calls gently, “hey now, come on”,
He tugs your hands down again, placing the bakery packet into the open space.
“Have something to eat. You’ll feel better”.
He stands tall, placing a gentle hand to the side of your head as he departs to the table and pours a cup of water.
You take it from him when he offers, downing it with great thirst.
“If you’re not in too much pain, we can go to town. Get you some gloves and supplies for the road”.
”I am not in any pain”, you admit to him between a bite of your bread.
He smiles smugly at this. As if it somehow absolved him of his crime and proved him right.
“That’s good” he drawls, “real good”.
You throw the half finished bread on the table, standing up so he wasn’t looming over you as you spoke.
“I should write to my father. To let him know I am okay”.
”No”, Billy’s answer was cold, harsh and final.
“He will have the sheriff looking everywhere for us. We should tell him we are married so they will call off the search. He will be worried”.
”I will write to him” Billy offers.
You scoff at him, “You think he will believe you?”
”I don’t care what he believes. I’ll write for you. Because it would please my wife’’.
”It would please me if I wrote to him” you state.
Billy sighs, placing his hands on his hips in defeat. He gives a small nod
”If you find it too much, I will finish it for you”, he offers.
You move past him to gather your shoes from the floor to place them on your feet.
“I am not as weak as you think I am” you tell him.
“I don’t think that”, he refutes, surprised at your accusation.
He reaches out to touch you but you jump away from before his hand could land on your skin.
“Don’t” you warn him.
He holds his hand up and out in surrender.
“Okay” he says softly.
You walk past him to the door, not stopping as he locks up. He quickly catches up to you on the stairs, placing his hand on the small of your back as you descend.
“I have some gloves on hold for you at the store. Wasn’t sure they’d fit”, he tells you as you cross the foyer into the sunlight.
“I also need some bullets. The journey to Aratula is only a day but Buddy will need some more feed, and we should stock up”.
He leads you to a pale yellow store that reads ‘Hugo convenience’ in red letters.
”Can you think of anything else?” He asks you. The door jingles as he holds it open for you.
”Back again young man” the shopkeeper greets. He was a greying man, dressed in tailored black with circular glasses.
“Yes, sir” Billy returns as he follows you in, “back for those gloves. This is my wife y/n”.
Bile rose in your throat but you shook the mans hand when he extended it.
“Pleasure Mrs”, the older man greets, “‘your husband here has been pacing my shop all morning trying to find you the perfect gloves”.
You grace him with a thin smile before turning to a sheepish Billy next to you.
“They need only keep my hands warm”, you state.
“That they will do” exclaims the shopkeeper, rounding the counter and reaching for the stored item.
They were black leather with fur lining. Too extravagant for a woman of your standing.
”My husband seems to think we are rich”, you pester, “simple wool will do me fine”.
The reference to husband invigorated Billy who stood taller, closer and spoke with more authority.
“We’ll take them, sir” he addressed the shopkeeper, “ three rounds of 22’s as well and horse feed if you’ve got it”.
The Shopkeeper smiles at Billy, sliding the gloves across the counter to you.
“Young love. You should enjoy it little miss”, he told you, “one day you’ll have to fight him for a new dress”.
The man busies himself finding the correct ammunition. His back was turned to his locked shelves as he waded through his stock.
“Horse feed is around back. My shop boy will help you” the older man spoke, placing the ammunition on the counter.
He goes to ring up the items on his till. As his finger strikes the final button, you speak up.
”And we’ll take that gold pin” you point to it underneath the glass. Shaped as a horse shoe and marketed as luck with three small indents on either side where the tiny Diamonds sat.
”Since my husband is feeling so generous”, you remark.
The man looks to Billy for permission, who nods back in agreement.
“That too” he agrees, “It’s our honeymoon”, he adds bashfully.
”oh well” the man coo’s reaching for the pin, “may every day that you wear it remind you of his love”.
You scowl as the pin is handed to you. You can’t place it on yourself. Your fingers wouldn’t move from the thin pin.
The man said a number and Billy paid without too much thought before thanking the man and leading you back out the shop.
”Do I at least get a kiss for it?” He teases, taking off his hat so he could bend down for a kiss.
His lips meet yours gently before you can confirm your answer. Billy takes the pin from your hands, fastens it to the breast of your dress for you.
You don’t know why you asked for it? To spend his money? For the delusion of luck? You supposed it reminded you of him. The cowboy and the horseshoe. You wonder if you will keep it after everything is said and done.
“I love you” he promises, “I’ll take care of you. Make you happy”.
”Great job so far”, you scold.
You push past him, leading the way to the back for the horse feed. You greet the young boy working and state your purpose.
Billy takes the feed and you lead him on to the stables.
He is gentle with his horse. Affectionate even. He spoke to it kindly like it was an old friend. Took great care in its comfort.
Billy wouldn't be a bad husband to a different girl. One who could live the life of an outlaw. That was not you. You wanted a man gentle, meek. Someone you never had to worry about raising a hand to you.
Billy smiles at you as you stare at him. You quickly call on him to come. The day was wasting and supplies still needed to be brought.
The larger supply shop was busier than the convenience store. People bustled around. You looked for men who appeared to be moving on. Men who brought things like beef jerky and canned goods. Men who were leaving quickly.
You follow Billy around while he picks up all he needs. Matches, bandages, lamp oil. Your eyes never stop scanning the room. You seemed out of luck until you heard an older gentleman talking with one of the shopkeepers.
He was leaving for Scottsville. That was close to Westfield. Close to home. You tried to keep your excitement down. The man moved on to look at rope. You had to talk to him. Beg him for help.
“I am just going to have a look at the fruit. Some fresh food would be nice”, you tell Billy.
“Okay, darling. Stay where I can see you”, Billy commands.
You nod at him with a sly smile before quickly moving across to your target.
“Don’t look. Keep facing forward” you command the older man as you pretend to inspect an apple.
“Excuse me?” the man asks, turning towards you.
“No, no! Stay forward. He cant see us talkin” you scold.
The man does as he is told, turning back to the wall.
“Who can’t Miss?”.
“Sir, I need your help. I’ve been kidnapped. You need to take me back home to Westfeild. It’s close to Scottsvile”.
The man turns to you once more before snapping back forward.
“How did you know I was planning on Scottsvile?”.
‘God sent you to me, sir. Please, once we reach Westvile there will be a reward for my return”.
You place three apples in a sack, before inspecting a forth.
“Please, sir, please” you beg.
“Where is he? We should tell the sheriff. See him hang”.
“it’ s Billy-the-kid’, you admit.
The name turns the man towards you once more. He looked pale, and panicked. You regret mentioning the name but there wasn’t a shoot out Billy wouldnt win.
“God sent you to me, sir. Please I need your help”.
The man looks around the room, his eyes scanning for Billy. Once found they go back to the ropes in a dazed stare.
“My god, it is him”, he mutters.
“He cant know. We just need to disappear. Please, Sir. All I am asking is for you to be waiting outside of the hotel at 6am tomorrow. Nothing else. All I need is lift home”.
The man contemplates your request. You hold your breath until he finally responds.
“6am tomorrow’ he agrees, “I’ll be there”.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you”, you whisper.
You turn quickly, walking back to Billy with a fake smile.
“Got the apples?” he questions softly, taking them from you to hold, “Were you talking to that man?”.
“Yeah,” you say, he had already seen, “I reminded him of his daughter. He asked if I was with anyone, I said you”.
Billy smiles, bending down to kiss you.
The older man drops his supplies, rushing out the door. You hoped he wouldn’t get cold feet.
______________________________
Tomorrow, Billy confirmed you would make your way to Aratula.
You sat on the bed, twisting the gold ring around on your finger. How would Westfield react to you once you returned? Would you be held liable for Billy's sins?
”Honey?” He called, throwing the damp cloth on the table, “you haven’t said a word since dinner. You feeling alright?”
“What do you want me to say?” You ask him.
Billy shrugs in return, “Anything. I want you to tell me anything. Whatever is bothering you”.
”You know what’s wrong Billy. Being ignorant to the fact won’t change anything”.
He sighs, walking over to where you sat, and kneeling down next to you.
“You haven’t tried. Marriage takes two to work”.
He gathers your hand in his, bringing them up for a kiss.
“You shouldn’t have forced me. That wasn’t right”, you tell him.
“I know, I am sorry. But we are meant to be together. I know we are. From the first second I saw you, I knew. I can be the man you want me to be, just give me a chance. Once we get the bounty, we can start fresh. We can have a proper wedding if you want it”.
You rip your hands free from him, lying on your back away from him.
“I am tired”, you tell him, “turn off the lamp”.
He does as you request. The room darkens as he continues to ready himself for bed. He had already bathed and was dressed down but his gun need cleaning.
He takes it over by candle light to the table before breaking it apart. You watch him as he cleans his gun. It was almost like a second part of him. His hands moved so confidentiality around the parts. He almost didnt need the light, he knew what he was doing and he did it well. All his focus went into it. He quickly finishes his favoriate gun, clicking all parts back togeather before moving on to his second gun for the same process.
He disasembles, cleans and clears in a matter of minutes. He reloads it, with a flick of his wrist the chamber locks back into place and he points the gun out in aim. You see him; Billy-the-kid. Lit by candle light. A shiver runs down your spine.
He places the gun on the table, and blows out the candle before joining you in bed. He nestles up to the back of you, spooning himself against you and begins to kiss your neck.
“Don’t” you tell him.
“We’re married now”, he reminds you, forcing you to your back by pushing on your shoulder,
“This is what married couples do”, he declares, placing a kiss against your neck, “They practice”.
He scoops your shoulder up by sliding his hands under and raising you up to him. His face remains buried in your neck as he places deep, longing kisses against the skin.
“Billy, please” you beg him. You feel his fingers claw at the fabric of your nightgown as he simmers it down your body. You make no move to stop him with his gun freshly loaded at the table side.
“I love you” he states breathlessly between kisses.
Your core heats up from the contact. When he dips his finger into you, you knew he was going to find you shamefully wet. You feel his smile against your skin before he distances himself to prepare. The sheath is slipped over his cock which gave you comfort that at least you would not get pregnant.
“Ready?” He asks softly.
You don’t answer but your hips shift in preparation.
He inserts himself slow into you. Never forcing past your walls but allows you to open up to him in your own accord.
A groan escapes you as he fills your hole. The pressure of his weight on top of you engulfs whatever was left of your bodily anatomy.
“Let me know if you need me to slow down” he offers before he begins to thrust at a comfortable pace.
The rhythm annoyed you. It was enough to tease. A nice, comfortable slow pace but not enough to satisfy. You huff out dissatisfied beneath him. You couldn’t stop him, the least he could do was give you back the feeling last night.
Billy kisses your cheek before bringing his head back up to gaze at you under the moonlight searching for any discomfort or sign he was hurting you.
“You alright? Feel good?” He asks. In a misinterpreted effort to please you, he slows his pace further. Painfully slowly does his rock his hips into you. The strokes of pleasure too far in between.
Your hands latch on to his biceps, fingernails digging into the skin.
”Faster” you demand, wiggling your hips in annoyance.
“Faster?” He scoffs. He obliges, picking up to a quick pace. You hook your leg over his waist to stop yourself from being jostled away.
”What happened to ‘please billy?” He teases, slowing down away to a point where he was always inside you but his thrust halted and he was just dragging himself inch by inch down and up.
”Please billy” you whine under a different guise. You could feel the shame in your heart as you begged him to continue with your own rape. But your lust heated your skin, and lit your nerves on fire. You wanted to come in order to get rid of this uncomfortable wanting feeling between your legs.
“Say I want you Billy” he commands, “I love you Billy”.
You swallow the lump in your throat but still the words would not form. You shake your head no against the mattress. It was one thing for your body to betray you. You would retain your voice.
When he pulls out, it leaves you with a cold, damp feeling between your legs. The experience was unpleasant. A man’s warmth was nothing like you had ever experienced before.
“Damn you woman”, he scolds.
Billy flips you onto your stomach, grabbing your hips into position and spreads your thighs open. He inserts himself back in. His warmth fills your leaking pussy in the new position. His pace is more brutal than before. He takes more control, not allowing you to adjust to take any pressure off.
“More stubborn than a mule’, he criticizes, “you’re lucky I want you so god damn much otherwise I would put you away wet”.
You can’t move under his weight. The position pins you into the mattress. You claw at the blankets beneath you, groaning into them as he pounds into you.
“Say it. Please say it’ he grunts,
You babble something into the mattress, you weren’t sure what it was but it satisfied Billy enough.
“My little wife, my darling girl”, he grunts, “mine, all mine for eternity. Knew it was you. Knew it had to be you. You knew it too. Just too damn stubborn”
You feel yourself tighten around him. He feels it too you surmised from his next word.
“Y/n, don’t come. Not until I tell you”, he commands,”I ain’t stopping until I get my fill that’s my right as a husband”.
Inexperienced, you had no idea how to stop your body. Your mind had no control over it.
“Ugh” he sighs as he feels you pulsing. You tried to crawl up, away from him as his work became over stimulating.
His hands clasp over your wrists, forcing them back against your lower back to keep you still.
The heat and salty smell settle between the comfortable numbness you felt.
He continues without sound above you. Focusing on his only task while you lay spent against him.
A loud, deep groan precedents his release. Your eyes squeeze shut as he rolls onto the mattress next to you, taking off his stealth in the process.
His hands move you, repositioning you on his chest where he could enclose you tight against his bare skin.
Here you felt the shame cascading around you. You had given into your lust. No one would have any sympathy for you when you returned home. Would your father return you back to Billy? Would Billy remain the same or turn into something meaner once he had you back?
You think about the man that will be waiting for you tomorrow, would he be able to smell the sex on you?
You cover your face with your hands in shame, the metal of your ring pressing into the side of your head.
Billy’s finger drags up and down your spine in a smoothing manner while you spiral quietly. His hand landed possessively against the back of your neck as you wiggle but it was only to pull yourself closer, needing some form of comfort in your despair. Seeing no threat, he moves to rest his hand against the side of your head, lolling his own head to rest on top of yours.
He drifts peacefully off to sleep while you lay next to him, waiting for the sun to rise.
pairing: entity!bobby franklin/bb x f!reader
wc: 9.1k 💀
summary: BB has waited an eternity for someone to choose him. You finally let him in. All of him.
contents/warnings: 18+, explicit smut (entity sex, oral (f receiving), crazy amount of overstimulation, marathon sex, body worship!!!), non-human anatomy && shifting during sex, tummy bulges!!! (you're his cocksleeve i'm afraid <3), eldritch features (elongated tongue, additional appendages, iridescent skin), mutual praise && desperation, emotional themes of loneliness && touch starvation (yeah,,, in your monsterfucking smut ikik), references to emotional neglect in a prior relationship/guilt over moving on, past references to real bobby/reader.
notes: this took years off my damn life because I kept reworking parts but I did enjoy writing it overall. pic used is for aesthetic purposes only && is not representative of the reader character. I just like looking at Finn with his mouth gaping open mid moan :) also this is NOT canon compliant for the main series. y'all just want to fuck bb && I respect that (also this was put off twice & I reckon I owe you one after Part 6). essentially this can be read as "entity x/bobby/plot never happened & you chose to stay with bb forever" au.
✶ better bobby series.
“I found something for you.”
BB is crouching beside the nest when you open your eyes, his cool fingers turning something small and bright in his palm. A button. Red plastic, chipped at one edge, the kind that falls off a coat and rolls under a shelf and gets forgotten. He holds it out to you with the nervous care of a child presenting a drawing.
“It was in one of the lower hallways,” he explains, watching for your reaction. “Near a door I haven't opened yet. It's the same red as the mug you told me about. The one your mom had. I thought—” He turns it in his fingers. The yellow light catches the glossy surface. “I thought you might want something red. There's not a lot of red here.”
You take the button. It's warm from his hand, or rather warm from the contact with his hand, because BB himself runs cool, always cool, his body temperature a few degrees below what feels human until your skin draws the heat out of him. The red plastic sits in your palm. Cheap. Cracked.
It's the most thoughtful gift anyone's given you in over a year.
“Thank you, BB.”
He smiles. That shy, lopsided thing that doesn't belong on Bobby's face because Bobby never smiled like that; Bobby's smiles were teasing and self-aware and loaded, and this one is open and unguarded and a little bit terrified that you won't like it.
“You do? You like it?”
You lift your eyes toward him, and smile. “I love it.”
The yellow warms toward gold around you. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.
You hold out for months.
That's the part that's going to eat you alive later, the part you'll turn over and over in your head. The part where you knew.
You knew what kissing him did to you from the first time, that clumsy mortifying moment in the blankets when he'd come in his shorts and watched himself discover his new body. The look on BB’s face had carved itself into you like a brand.
You knew because kissing BB isn't kissing. Kissing BB is a substance. It enters your bloodstream through the point of contact, and within thirty seconds, you can feel it spreading. Warm and heavy and stupid, a fog that settles behind your eyes and at the base of your spine.
The longer his mouth is on yours, the worse it gets. Or better. You can't tell anymore which of those words applies. The two collapse into the same sensation when BB is touching you because his version of pleasure isn't built on the human axis where good and too-much are different categories.
His skin is cool when he isn't touching you. That's one of the things that took getting used to. The temperature of him. His hands when they find your wrist in the dark, his chest when you lean against him in the nest. Cool like marble or water from a deep well.
There's warmth underneath the surface, banked and dormant, waiting, but it only comes alive when he touches you. The warmth bleeds through contact, drawn out by your body heat, rising to meet you and then surpassing you. And once the warmth is going, it does things. It sinks. It reads. It feeds information back to him through his palms, fingertips, and mouth, a living scan of your nervous system in real time through his skin.
So you hold out. You let BB kiss you sometimes. Short, careful, your hand on his chest when it threatens to become more. His immediate compliance every single time, pulling back to press his forehead to yours. Just breathing even though he doesn’t need oxygen the way you do, hands shaking on your waist, always mortifyingly patient.
For months after the first kiss. Just that.
“Do you dream?” BB asks one evening, his fingers working over your hair.
You're lying with your head in his lap. The yellow hum is low tonight, and the ghost-flowers on the wallpaper have settled into stillness for once.
“Sometimes,” you tell him honestly.
“What about?”
You almost say Bobby. You catch it in your teeth. “Home, mostly. The apartment. My side of the bed.”
BB's fingers pause over your hair for half a second. Then they resume, slower.
“Do you miss it?”
You think about that. Really think about it, while his cool fingers stroke over your hair and the hum fills the silence with its tuneless drone. Do you miss it? Do you miss the apartment where Bobby's camera equipment colonised every surface? Do you miss the kitchen where he stopped looking at you? Do you miss your side of the bed, which was your side because Bobby took the other side and the middle and left you the edge.
“I miss what it used to be,” you say quietly. “Before it went bad.”
BB's hand settles on your temple. Warm now, from the contact with your skin. His thumb traces the curve of your eyebrow.
“Tell me about before,” he says softly.
Before was good. That's the thing, the thing that makes the after so unbearable. Before was so good.
Bobby in the early months was a revelation. Bobby with his camera aimed at you across a crowded room, lowering it to grin at you with his whole crooked face, saying the light's doing something crazy on you, babe and meaning it with every fibre of his skinny sun-browned body.
Bobby who kissed you in parking lots and edited footage with his head in your lap and rolled joints on the kitchen counter while telling you about his day in that low lazy drawl that made your stomach flip even when he was talking about lens caps.
Bobby who touched you like you mattered. Hands on the small of your back in a crowd, arm around your shoulder or waist, always. Fingers laced through yours during movies. His mouth on the back of your neck while you were doing dishes, warm and idle, a press of lips that said I'm here and I like being here. Bobby in bed in the early days, Bobby with his chain tangled between your bodies, looking at you with those pale eyes and saying come here, baby, let me feel you with a softness that undid you every single time.
The good was so good it spoiled you for everything that came after.
The good taught you what Bobby was capable of, what he contained, and that knowledge made the withdrawal so much worse. Because you knew. You knew he could be tender. You'd seen the inside of him, the soft unguarded core he showed you, and then he'd locked the door.
You'd tried to get back in. That's the part that hurts the most now.
You'd asked him what was wrong. You'd asked him if he was okay, if he wanted to talk, if he needed space, if you'd done something. You'd tried every key you could think of, and the door stayed shut. And the worst part, the very worst part, was that you could hear him on the other side. You could hear him breathing. He was right there, your Bobby, the real one, the one who filmed you sleeping because the light was good, and he wouldn't open the door for a reason you didn’t know.
That hurt more than the silence. More than the grunting. More than the nights he turned his back. Because the silence you could have explained away. You could have told yourself he'd changed, that the tenderness was a phase, that you'd imagined the depth of it. But you hadn't imagined it. You'd been inside. You'd touched the walls. And knowing what was in there and being locked out of it was a cruelty so singular it felt designed.
You tell BB some of this. Not all. You tell him about the parking lot kisses and the kitchen touches and the way Bobby used to look at you through the viewfinder. The way he hugged you with his whole body every time he saw you, nuzzling into your shoulder with a muffled sigh. You tell him about the door closing. BB listens with his head tilted, his fingers still in your hair, his pale eyes fixed on your face with that total, unwavering attention.
“He had all of that,” BB says quietly when you finish. “And he put it behind a locked door and won’t even tell you why.”
“Yeah.”
“And you kept knocking.”
You force a breath over the lump in your throat. “Yeah.”
BB is quiet for a long time after that. His thumb traces your temple. The yellow walls warm around you, trying to bleed toward gold again.
“I don't have a door,” he says softly, quietly. “I don't know how to build one. Everything I have is right here. You can see all of it.”
You close your eyes, and the purr starts low in his chest.
You don't say anything. But you reach up and press his hand against your cheek, keeping him there, close. BB's breath catches, and he holds perfectly still, and the yellow turns gold.
You hold out for months, and the guilt sits inside you like a stone.
Guilt for wanting it. Guilt for not wanting it enough. Guilt for thinking about real Bobby while BB's mouth is on you, and guilt for not thinking about real Bobby enough. Guilt for the fact that some traitor part of you has stopped flinching at BB's touch and started anticipating it, leaning into it.
You go to bed with your back to him and wake up curled into his chest, because your body made a decision before your conscious mind could.
And you didn't leave.
That's the thing you can't explain to yourself, the thing that damns you.
You didn't leave because after what happened with Bobby, after months of being invisible in your own space, being wanted felt so good. Being needed felt so good. BB looked at you every single day like the sun rose and set in the shape of your body, and that kind of attention was a drug more potent than anything his kiss could do to your bloodstream.
You were terrified of how much you liked it. You were more terrified of losing it.
The nest also changed. You don't remember when. You'd been asleep, and BB had been out, doing whatever BB does when he leaves the territory, and you'd woken to find your apartment.
Not exactly. A yellow-tinged approximation of it, laid overtop the warm patch of carpet. The blankets rearranged into a bed with your bedspread from Santa Clara, the one with the faded blue flowers. The pillows you'd left in the apartment when the wall took you. The little side table with the lamp from the yard sale in Sunnyvale. Even the pattern of the wallpaper had shifted, not away from yellow but around it, a suggestion of the flowered paper you'd hung in the bedroom, ghosted through the buttercup background.
BB had been sitting cross-legged beside the nest when you woke, watching your face for the reaction, hands twisted together in his lap. He'd looked at you with such raw nervous hope that you'd started crying before you understood what he'd built.
“I heard you,” he'd said, voice unsure, small. “You said you missed home. So I—” He gestured at the room, his hands shaking. “I don't know if I got the pattern right. I only saw vague glimpses in your mind. I could change it, if it's wrong.”
You'd crawled into his lap. Buried your face in his neck. His cool skin had warmed slowly under your cheek.
That was weeks ago. Months ago. Time is soft here. It's before you started noticing the flowers on the wallpaper moving when you weren't looking directly at them. Before you noticed the lamp doesn't have a cord. Before you noticed that when BB is happy, the yellow warms toward gold, and when he's worried it cools toward green, and the whole territory has become an extension of his mood.
None of it scares you the way it should. That's the part that actually scares you.
“Baby?”
BB is sitting on the edge of the bed. He's holding a blanket he found somewhere, a thick, dark green wool one, and he's folding it with careful absorption. His long fingers crease the edges. He’s already gazing at you when you glance his way. His eyes are Bobby's blue today, human-shaped, the entity safely tucked away behind the mask.
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something?” he asks carefully.
You nod. “Of course.”
He visibly hesitates, his head lowered. “Do you want to go home?”
Your chest tightens. “BB—”
“You don't have to answer.” He folds the blanket smaller. His voice is steady, and his hands are also steady, but neither of those things is true underneath. “I just… I've been thinking about it. About whether you're staying because you want to or because you don't know how to leave. And I want, baby, I want you to know that if you—” He swallows. “If you need to go... I won't…”
He stops, staring at the blanket in his hands.
“I won't stop you,” he finishes, practically choking the words out.
You gaze at him. At the green blanket folded in his lap. At his hands, which are familiar and gripping the wool hard enough to dimple the fabric. At his face, which is Bobby's face and isn't, which is the face of a thing that heard you crying through a wall and built itself a body to hold you and is now offering to let you go because it loves you more than it loves having you.
“I don't know,” you say honestly. “I don't know, BB.”
He nods, keeps folding. You sit together in the quiet, and the yellow is the palest green you've ever seen it, almost grey, and BB's hands are shaking slightly around the blanket, and he's pretending they're not.
That night you lie awake in the nest that looks like your old apartment with BB's arm across your waist, and you think about going home. Really think about it. You think about the apartment in Santa Clara and the kitchen and your mug on the drying rack and your shoes by the mat. You think about Bobby. You think about whether Bobby is sitting in that apartment right now, or if he moved on without you there to nag him.
You think about going back to him, walking through the wall and climbing the stairs. Finding him. And you try to feel what that would be like, the reunion, the homecoming, and what you feel is—
Grief. You feel grief.
Because going home means going back to Bobby, and going back to Bobby means going back to a man who locked the door. Who might open it now, might fling it wide, might weep and hold you and swear he'll be different. But you've spent months on the other side of that door. Months knocking. Months making yourself smaller and smaller to fit through the crack underneath. And even if Bobby opens the door now, you know what it's like when it's closed. You know the sound of his back turning. You know the weight of his indifference. You carry it in your bones.
The relationship was over months before you left. You know that now. The wall in Clark's basement didn't end your relationship with Bobby. Bobby ended it. Quietly, one day at a time, one turned back at a time, and you'd stood in the wreckage pretending it was still standing because the alternative was admitting you'd been alone for months in a room with someone who used to love you.
You're only here because you're finally letting the ghost of going home go.
Because letting BB in means choosing the yellow. Choosing the hum. Choosing a place with no sky and no weather. No yard sales on El Camino with golden retrievers named Mango. Letting BB in means letting the real world go, and admitting that the girl who fell through the wall in Clark's basement is not the girl sitting in this nest.
That girl was going home. That girl was holding on.
This girl has let go of everything except the creature beside her, and she doesn't want to pick any of it back up.
It means letting Bobby's ghost go, too.
The real one, the Bobby who exists in Santa Clara, the one who grunts at your goodbyes, that Bobby has been a ghost to you for longer than BB has been real. And the Bobby you've been holding onto, the candle in the draft, the one who filmed you sleeping and called you my girl, that Bobby is a memory.
A beautiful, aching, preserved memory of a man who doesn't exist anymore.
Loving a memory is not the same as loving a person. A memory can't change. A memory can't hurt you, can't grow, can't learn. A memory just sits in your chest, glows, and keeps you warm, and slowly, slowly starves you because you're using it to feed a hunger it was never designed to fill.
BB is not a memory. BB is real. He’s flawed in his own inhuman ways, learning in real time, and holding you right now, his cool arm across your waist, his purr a low vibration you can feel through the mattress. BB is the one who brought you a red button because your mom had a red mug years ago. BB is the one who offered to let you leave even though it would destroy him.
You love him. Not as a replacement. Not because he wears the right face. You love the thing behind the face. The thing that has no door, that never had it.
You turn over. Press your face into BB's chest. His arms tighten around you at once, his skin warming under your cheek.
“I'm staying,” you tell him in a tender whisper.
BB goes still.
“You—”
“I'm staying, BB,” you tell him again, pressing closer, tucking yourself close. “I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you.”
The purr cracks. Breaks apart. Reassembles into something so deep and so full it vibrates in your skull. BB's arms crush you against him and his face buries in your hair, and he's shaking, shaking, his cool body warming everywhere you touch him, and the yellow floods gold.
The whole room, the whole level, gold as sunlight, gold as the thing inside his chest that has waited longer than time itself for someone to say those exact words.
You kiss him the next day.
He's beside you in the nest, cross-legged, telling you about a level he found that loops back on itself, and you're half-listening, more focused on the shape of his mouth than the words coming out of it. You lean over and press your lips to the hinge of his jaw. Just there. A small, warm press between his ear and his chin.
BB falters mid-sentence. A stutter, a swallow, his eyes flicking to you and away.
“—and the walls change texture right where it loops, which is, um. Interesting because—”
You kiss the corner of his mouth. Lightly. Barely there. And your hand finds the back of his nape.
BB stops talking.
His neck is cool under your palm. Smooth, the tendons shifting as he swallows. Your fingers curl into the short hair at his nape. The change is immediate: his skin warming under your touch, temperature rising from mild to warm in three heartbeats.
“Baby,” he says carefully, his voice dropping half an octave. “What are you—”
You kiss him again. On the mouth. Full. Your lips part against his, and you make it different. You don't hold back. You don't keep your hand on his chest as a brake. You kiss him with your whole body leaning into it, and your hand on his nape tightens, pulling him closer.
BB makes a sound against your lips. Small. Startled. His hands come up to your waist on instinct, and you can feel them warm against your skin in real time, heat blooming where you're connected. He's bracing himself for the pull-back. He's already preparing to be patient about it.
You press forward instead. Your weight shifts, your knee coming up onto the blankets, your body tipping into his. BB's hands tighten on your waist. You can feel the exact moment he realises you're not stopping, his fingers digging in, his breath hitching, his mouth opening wider for you. And you push him.
Gentle but firm, both hands on his chest now, and BB goes where you push him.
His back hits the wall. The ghost-flowered wallpaper presses against his shoulder blades, and you're in his lap, knees on either side of his hips, chest against his chest. You kiss him fully. Mouth open. Tongue sliding against his. Your fingers in his hair and your hips pressing down against him and every last ounce of restraint you've been maintaining for months dissolving into the heat flooding through you.
The heat. The fog. It hits you the second you stop fighting it. Months of buildup pouring through. Your head swims. Your skin goes electric. BB's warmth blazes against you, drawn out by your body, his cool skin going hot wherever you touch him.
BB moans. Deep, ragged, pulled from somewhere below his chest, vibrating through his ribs into yours. Hungry and wanting. The sound of a creature starved, weak with wanting you so much.
His hands move. They stop being still on your waist, and they move. Both of them, everywhere at once, kneading. His fingers grip the fat of your hips. His palms slide up your ribs. His hands cup your breasts through your shirt, fingers pressing and kneading with a desperate, tactile hunger. He needs to touch all of you at once, and two hands aren't enough.
His tongue slides along your lower lip, longer than it should be, and you open your mouth wider and let him in. BB groans desperately, his hips rolling up against you.
The sound is wet. BB’s tongue slides against yours in a coil that tightens and releases in eager pulses, saliva building between your joint mouths. The kiss is messy and open, drool collecting at the corner of your lips because you can't swallow around the thickness of his tongue filling your mouth.
You roll your hips against him again, harder. BB makes a broken sound, and his head drops back against the wall, his throat baring. You kiss it. The spot his pulse should be, his Adam's apple, the hollow at the base. His skin is warm now, fully warm, almost hot.
You pull back, your face inches from his. Your hands settle on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slamming against your palms. BB’s eyes are half-black. His mouth is swollen and wet, gaping open. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, his whole body trembling.
“I want you,” you gasp against his lips.
BB goes still. Every muscle in his body locks, his hands freezing on your hips. His breathing stops. His eyes search your face with an intensity that has nothing to do with Bobby and everything to do with the ancient thing behind the mask.
“You—” His voice trembles, going thin. “You want—”
You press your forehead against his. “I want you, BB.”
“Do… do you mean—”
“I mean all of it,” you rasp, your hand slipping into his hair. “I mean you."
BB’s face cracks open. His expression unravels completely, and what's underneath is raw and enormous and terrified and so, so joyful. His eyes go fully black, the entity surging to the surface, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the universe.
“You want me,” he whispers desperately, testing the words, faint with disbelief.
You cup his face with both hands. Your palms on his jaw, your thumbs on his cheekbones. His skin is burning under your hands.
“I want you,” you repeat, and you kiss him. Deeper. Slower. His tongue coils around yours, gentle, trembling, the grip shaky because BB is shaking, his whole body is.
He pulls back a centimetre, forehead nudging against yours. Eyes black and wet as they drink you in.
“I waited so long,” he whispers, his voice pained. “I waited so long for you. You don't know how long I was alone. And there was nothing. Just the hum, and the yellow. And then there was you. I heard your voice and I—”
His breath hitches, a wounded sound vibrating at the back of his throat.
“I'd rarely heard anything except the hum and the things in the dark, but then you were on the other side of the wall, and you were talking. Your voice… it was the first beautiful thing I ever heard. I built this—” He touches his own face. Bobby's face. His hand trembling. “I built all of this for you. Because I heard you crying and needed hands because you were sad. And I… I wanted to hold you, and I didn't have anything to hold you with.”
Tears burn your eyes. BB's thumbs trace your cheekbones lightly, wiping the tears as they threaten to escape.
“You were born for me,” he breathes, fierce and tender all at once. “I know that now. I was in the walls for—I don't have a number. But then you came along, and I knew. I was waiting for you this whole time. You were always going to be mine. I just had to learn how to deserve you.”
“I love you,” you choke out. “BB. I love you.”
He makes a broken, needy sound, pressing kisses to your face, your cheek, your jaw, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. “I love you. Let me touch you. Please. Baby, please. I've waited so long.”
“Yes,” you whisper. “Take me to bed.”
He carries you. Two steps, three, his inhuman strength on casual display, and he lays you down on the bedspread with the faded blue flowers.
His hands are shaking. The purr starts in his chest, a deep warm vibration you can feel through the mattress. He kneels between your legs and looks at you, just looks. His mouth swollen and wet. His chest heaving.
“I don't know how to. I've never—”
“I know.” You reach up and cup his face. His cool skin warms immediately under your palm. “I know, baby. I'll show you. I've got you.”
He drops down against you, his weight settling along your body, his face burying in your neck. His mouth opens against your pulse, and you feel his tongue, just the tip, tracing the vein under your skin. His lips close over your pulse point, and he sucks gently, the purr vibrating through his mouth into your neck.
“You're so warm,” he breathes against your skin. “Baby. You're so warm. I've been cold forever. And you're like a fire. I can feel your heartbeat through your skin. You're so alive. You're the most alive thing I've ever touched.”
His hands slide up your sides, pushing your shirt. His palms drag over your ribs, warming as they travel, and you can feel each finger pressing independently, the cool-to-warm transition happening in streaks along your skin. He pushes your shirt up and off, and his breath catches.
“Oh,” he exhales. Awed. “Oh.”
His hands hover an inch above your body, fingers spread, trembling. He looks at you like touching might break him entirely.
“It's okay,” you whisper. “BB. Touch me.”
Both hands settle on your breasts. Cool palms cupping you, and his temperature spikes, warming fast from the centre of his palms. His thumbs drag across your nipples, and you arch into the sensation, shivering.
“There,” he breathes. “Look at you. You're so soft. I've been touching concrete and monsters forever, and you're, you're so—”
He ducks his head and presses his mouth to the swell of your breast. Open-mouthed. Hot. His tongue slides out, the tip tracing the curve of you in a wet drag, and you gasp. BB makes a hungry sound against your skin, half moan, half purr.
“You taste alive,” he murmurs between greedy, slick licks. “I don't have a word, baby. You taste like everything I was missing.”
His mouth finds your nipple. His tongue coils around it, wrapping and squeezing gently, and he sucks. The purr intensifies, vibrating through his lips and his tongue into you. You cry out, sharp and broken, cupping his head to keep him there.
BB's hand kneads your other breast, fingers gripping, the wrong-textured pads of his thumbs dragging across your nipple. Between the attention to both at once, your head swims, your hips lifting off the bed. He murmurs praise into your skin, pulling off with a wet pop to press his open mouth to the underside of your breast, licking the crease there, nosing into the soft skin desperately.
“So beautiful. You have no idea what you look like. I didn't even know what this body was for until I saw you.”
He sucks a mark into the inner curve of your breast, suckling greedily. Then his mouth moves lower. BB’s tongue draws a long, unbroken line from between your breasts to your navel. He presses his mouth flat against your stomach and breathes in, eyes fluttering shut.
“I could stay here forever,” he mumbles against your belly. “Just breathing you in. You smell warm. I didn't know warm had a smell until you.”
BB’s fingers hook into your underwear and pull them down gradually. His breath catches as he bares you. His eyes go wide and fully black, fixed between your thighs. He's looking at you with such naked reverence it steals your breath.
“You're wet,” he says, hushed. His thumbs trace the crease where your thighs meet your hips, slow even as you sense the shaking still quaking his fingertips. “So wet, baby. Is that for me?”
You shiver at the touch, squirming. “Yes. All for you, BB.”
BB’s whole, borrowed body shudders at the confirmation. His tongue slides out, long and sinuous, and he licks his lips with it. The hunger on his face is staggering.
“Let me taste you,” he begs quietly. “Baby, please. I've never… please.”
Heat floods through your veins, molten and thick, at the pleading note in his voice. “Yes. God, yes.”
BB drops down immediately. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee. Cool lips warming as they drag up your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the soft skin there. His tongue traces the path, licking long wet stripes up your thigh. He pauses an inch away. Breathes. His breath is hot and damp, and your hips jerk toward him.
“You smell so good,” he murmurs. “And you're hot. I can feel it on my face.”
His tongue makes contact. Long and wet, dragging flat from the base of you all the way up. You sob, and your hands fly to his hair. BB makes a deep, guttural moan that vibrates through his tongue and into you, the purr kicking up so hard it vibrates the bed frame. His fingers dig into your thighs, and his mouth opens wide, and he licks you again. Slower. Longer. The tongue lingering at the top, the tip curling and pressing between your folds curiously.
“Baby. Baby. You taste… you’re dripping for me and so alive. I can't stop, I can't—”
He buries his face in you. His mouth open and his tongue extended to its full impossible length, lapping and stroking and coiling with the desperate, artless hunger. The sounds are obscene. Wet, squelching, sloppy. Saliva and your own arousal mix and drips down his chin. BB’s moaning into you with a continuous low vibration, his fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise, pulling you closer, pressing his face deeper, taking more.
“More,” you gasp through a breathy moan. “BB, more. Please.”
His tongue extends further. Longer. Longer. You feel it pressing inside you, and your hips buck, and BB growls against your clit then keeps pushing. The muscular length of it curls and coils inside you, filling you, reaching deeper than fingers could reach. Deeper than anything human could, and you feel it pressing against the back of you, the very deepest place, and your whole body seizes.
“BB, that's, oh God, that's—”
His tongue presses against the mouth of your womb. The tip of it, delicate and hot, nudging that innermost barrier, and the sensation is so deep and so foreign that your entire body goes rigid and your hands yank at his hair and you make a gasping, yelping sound. High and ragged, pitching toward half a scream.
BB moans into you. The vibration travels through the full length of his tongue, from your clit where his lips are sealed to the deepest place where the tip is pressing. Stimulation at both ends simultaneously and all through the middle, his tongue moving, coiling and uncoiling, massaging places that have never been touched. His lips close over your clit and suck, hard, and the tongue is so deep you can feel it in your stomach.
You're thrusting into his face. Your hips rolling, grinding against his mouth, and BB makes a pleased sound and holds you tighter to him, delighted. Then his hands clamp on your thighs, and he pins you. Presses your hips flat to the mattress with an inhuman grip you couldn't break if you tried, and the sudden loss of control makes you writhe.
Your sounds don't belong to you anymore. You're gripping his hair with both fists. BB is purring so hard the vibration sits at the back of your throat, and his tongue is touching places that have never been bordered. His chin is soaked, and you can hear the wet, filthy sounds, and you're sobbing, thrashing against his grip.
“You're gonna come for me,” he mumbles against you, his mouth never fully leaving. “I can feel it. So close, baby. Give it to me. I want to taste you when you come.”
You come. Hard.
Your whole body arches against BB’s grip, thighs clamping around his head, hands pulling his hair. BB moans into you and holds you down and licks you through it, his long tongue working inside you as you clench and spasm around him.
He's swallowing, sucking, drawing every last drop into his mouth and gulping it down hungrily. His lips close over your swollen folds and he laps at them, slow and thorough, licking you clean with long flat drags. Each pass over your over-sensitive skin makes you twitch and whimper, and he keeps going. Collecting every trace of wetness, every last drop, his tongue dragging through the mess of you with a patience that borders on worship.
“Every drop,” he's murmuring, practically slurring. “I want every drop. My perfect girl.”
His tongue retracts gradually, inch by inch, and you can feel every inch leaving you. The emptiness when it's gone is aching.
BB presses a kiss to your cunt. Right there. Soft. His swollen lips against your swollen folds, gentle and lingering. He pulls back just enough to breathe against you.
“I'll be inside here soon, baby,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your throbbing core as he speaks. “Right here. Right where my tongue was. I'll be so deep. I'll fill you up.” Another kiss. Softer, absent. Like he has no idea what his words and actions are doing to you. “I'll take good care of you. I promise.”
He crawls up your body. Wet open-mouthed kisses up your stomach, between your breasts, on your throat. He tastes like you. You can taste yourself on his tongue when he kisses your mouth, wet and deep, and the intimacy of it, tasting yourself inside his kiss, makes your whole body clench.
“I need you,” he pants against your lips. “I need to be inside you. Please. I need—”
You peck his lips, breathing against them, “Go on. Need you, too. But I want you to show me. Show me what you really are.”
He goes still. The fear rises behind Bobby's eyes. His whole body goes rigid, and his hands tighten on your hips.
“It’s fine.” His voice quivers. “I can keep the shape. You don't have to—”
You trace his cheek, outlining the ridge of his cheek. “I want to.”
“I don't—” He swallows hard. “I don't want you to see me and—” His jaw pulses from how hard he’s clenching his teeth. “What if you can't look at me after? What if I'm—”
“BB.” You cup his jaw, the constructed bones trembling under your palms. “Whatever you're comfortable with. Whatever you want to show me. I'm not going anywhere.”
He gazes down at you. Black-eyed and trembling, searching your face for the lie, for the flinch, for the moment you take it back. He doesn't find it.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. Just, just a little. Let me just…”
His jaw sharpens under your hands. Just slightly. The line of it going harder, more angular, the bone shifting beneath his skin. He watches your face the whole time, ready to snap back at the first sign of revulsion.
You stroke your thumb over his newly sharp cheekbone. “Beautiful,” you exhale.
BB makes a low, choked sound. His eyes go wider, blacker. The pupils elongate slightly, going vertical. He's shivering. Genuinely shivering, full-body tremors, and you can feel his skin gaining a faint iridescent sheen under your palms, cool and smooth.
“More?” he asks, barely audible.
You take him in, all of him. “More, baby.”
His shoulders lengthen. His neck gains an inch. The proportions of his face slide further from Bobby, the mouth too wide, the cheekbones too high, and you trace the new angles with your fingertips and press your mouth to his jaw and lick the iridescent skin and BB whines. High and desperate and pleased.
“You're… you're not—” He's stammering, trembling in your hold. “You're not scared?”
“I'm not scared, BB. Keep going.”
He gives you more. His spine gains extra vertebrae you can feel through his skin, his torso gaining a sinuous quality. The ghost of a diamond pattern moves beneath his skin, the suggestion of scales. His fingers lengthen slightly, extra articulation appearing in the joints.
You run your palms down his chest, trace the diamond pattern. You press your mouth to his collarbone, where the iridescent sheen is strongest, and kiss the skin there, open-mouthed, tasting the chilly smoothness of him.
BB drops his face into your neck. Hiding. He's hiding, his too-sharp jaw pressed against your shoulder, his shivering intensifying, and you can feel his features still shifting against your skin. He's giving you more, but he can't watch you see it.
“Hey,” you coax, putting your hand under his chin. Tip his face up. “Hey. Look at me.”
He resists for a second. Then he lets you lift his face.
He looks alien. His eyes are polished obsidian, no whites. His jaw is too defined. His mouth is too wide. The iridescent skin catches the yellow light in shimmering refractions. He looks terrified. He looks beautiful.
“There you are, baby,” you whisper, and lean up and kiss him.
BB produces a broken, grateful sound against your mouth, and the purr comes back so hard the walls vibrate.
He adjusts his position, still kissing you as he settles between your thighs, and you understand, immediately, that he’s not a copy.
The mimicry that he's maintained for months falls away the second BB pushes inside you. He's BB. A creature in a body he built to love you, figuring out what it can do in real time.
The shape of him inside you is not human. It's close enough that the entry works. But once he's seated, the texture is wrong, and the temperature is wrong, cool at first then warming fast, and he fills you in ways men don't. His anatomy is adjusting, learning you, reshaping moment by moment. Ridges where there were none. Swells of pressure in places human anatomy couldn't produce. The length of him moving with a sinuous quality. And it's still changing, adjusting his shape to hit exactly what makes you cry out.
“Oh baby,” he breathes, his voice cracking, ragged. “I can feel everything. I can feel your heartbeat through your—” He shudders, his back arching like it’s too overwhelming. “How do humans survive this?”
“BB, you feel so good, right there, don’t stop, baby—”
You press your hips up against him, taking him deeper, squeezing him with your inner muscles, and BB makes a choked, groaning sound, his whole body going taut above you.
You can feel the fullness of him shifting inside you, the ridges dragging, his cock reshaping in response to the pressure of your squeeze. Where you tighten, he swells. Where you release, he fills. It's a feedback loop made flesh, his anatomy learning yours in real time, and the sensation is so foreign and so full that your eyes water.
“Yeah? Is that good?” His voice breaks. His hips roll again, deeper this time, and the ridges snag and drag on the withdrawal, a slow slick pull that makes an obscene dripping sound. You both gasp at it. You both hear it. The slick, filthy evidence of how wet you are, how aroused, and BB's eyes go glassy, his mouth falling open. “Tell me. Tell me I’m good.”
You adjust your thighs again, opening even wider, hooking your ankles behind his back and pulling him in until he's nestled so deep you can feel the cool-turning-warm base of him flush against you. The fullness is immense, a stretch that borders on too much, and you squeeze him again and BB's arms buckle. His elbows hit the mattress on either side of your head, and his face is inches from yours.
His mouth opens, and the sound he makes is a raw, ruined whine.
“Y-You're perfect, BB. Don't, ah, stop.”
He rolls his hips again. Slow, sinuous, that serpentine wave he can't suppress anymore, and the motion drags his cock against you, every ridge and swell and shifting contour lighting up nerve endings you didn't know you had. The slick sounds between your bodies are continuous now, a gushing symphony between your joint flesh. You can feel your own arousal dripping down onto the sheets below, and you don't care because the fullness is extraordinary, and every roll of his hips makes the ridges snag against your walls and catch and pull, and each pull sends you closer to the edge.
You push your hips up to meet his next stroke. The impact makes you both groan. You do it again. Finding a tempo together, his wave and your thrust, the wet lewd sounds getting louder, and BB is panting against your mouth, his breath hot and damp, his eyes half-closed.
“You're so tight,” he gasps. “Baby, every time you squeeze me I can feel your whole body, I can feel everything tighten, you're gripping me so hard, and it's, it's—”
You squeeze him harder. On purpose. Clench around the shifting shape of him and hold. BB's eyes fly open, and his mouth stretches wide, and a sound comes out of him that’s pure entity, a harmonic moan that vibrates through his cock and into you and through the walls. His hips stutter out of the wave and slam forward, involuntary, and the ridges catch deep inside you and your back bows off the bed.
“There,” you gasp, your eyes burning from burning pleasure ravaging through your body.
“There,” he echoes, awed. “I can feel what that does to you. I didn't know anything could—”
He shudders, and his features shift with it. His jaw sharpens a degree. The iridescence pulses brighter on his cheekbones. He ducks his face into your neck, hiding.
“No,” you say, breathless, your hand tangling into his sandy hair. “Let me see you.”
He resists. His jaw pressed against your shoulder, his breath ragged against your throat.
“BB. Let me see.”
He lets you lift his face, his features having slipped further. Cheekbones too high. Mouth even wider. The iridescence brighter. His eyes are completely black and wet, and he's so scared, you can see it. You look directly into them and say, “Don't hide from me. You're beautiful.”
BB makes a strangled sound, his hips stuttering. The purr cracks and reforms. His features shift more, right in front of you, and you watch them move, watch his face rearrange itself in real time, and the intimacy of it makes you reel. Because it’s more intimate than the sex. He’s literally coming apart in front of you and letting you watch.
“Good,” you moan, stroking his shifting jaw. “That's it, BB.”
The pleasure isn't building in a line; it's accumulating in layers.
His hand under your back, lifting you. His mouth on your throat, usually cool lips searing. His thumb at the hinge of your hip, longer now, bending where thumbs don't bend. The appendages emerging one by one, warm and tapered, gripping your thighs, holding your legs open at an obscene angle. Each one a new layer feeding into the one beneath it.
His hips slam deeper, and your breasts ripple with the force. BB is watching, his too-wide mouth lolling open, and his eyes are glazed, his features shifting faster now, responding to pleasure the way a human face flushes. His jaw sharpens then softens then sharpens again. His pupils dilate and contract in pulses seemingly against his control.
“Look at what I do to you,” he pants, his voice hitting a deeper register that’s decidedly not Bobby. “I can't stop touching you. Your skin is so soft, every part of you is burning for me, and you're—” His voice fails him. He ducks his face into your neck again, his features shifting against your skin, and you feel the rasp of scales that aren't quite scales, there and gone.
You pull him back up again, hold his face. He's whining, high and continuous, his eyes wet.
“Stay with me,” you say.
He moans loudly. His features ripple again, even further from Bobby, and his mouth is trembling, and BB looks destroyed, open, the ancient thing behind the mask laid bare while he fucks you, and the vulnerability of it makes your chest ache.
“You're incredible,” he breathes. “You're so wet for me, all of this is for me. I can f-feel how close you are. I can feel it building. Baby, please. Come for me."
Your orgasm rips through you, and BB snarls at the sensation, his features sharpening, the entity surging to the surface, and he doesn't stop, doesn't slow. His hips keep working ruthlessly. The shape of him inside you keeps shifting with each thrust. The appendages grip your thighs tighter, and your orgasm rolls into another one immediately, pinned down, taking whatever he gives you.
“That's it,” he purrs against your ear, nuzzling. “My girl. I can feel you fluttering around me. I've never felt anything like you.”
His tongue slides out, longer than it should be. Drags up the side of your neck. His teeth catch your earlobe, too sharp, and the tiny sting makes you gasp. His hand kneads your breast, gripping, his ridged thumb dragging across your nipple.
“You're so perfect,” he mumbles against your ear, his hips still working, the wet squelching symphony filling the room. “Every time I push in, I can feel you opening and closing around me, and it's—baby, it's the best thing I've ever felt, it's better than anything, you're better than anything—”
His length adjusts on every stroke, swelling and contracting, ridges rubbing against your sensitive walls. The sheets are getting damp beneath you. BB is moaning with every thrust now, layered over the purr, and the purr is vibrating through his cock and into you.
You can't control the sounds coming out of you. You're moaning and sobbing continuously, mindless, drool on your chin, tears on your face, your nails clawing at his back and leaving furrows in the iridescent skin.
The third hits. Your whole body seizes with it. BB cock swells inside you, expanding impossibly, and the stretch shoves you over again, a fourth on the heels of the third.
“That's it,” he gasps. “You're taking me so well. You're the first. The only one. There's never been anyone except you.”
The truth of those words hits you straight in the heart. He made this body for you. It has never known anyone else, and likely never will.
By the fifth round, you can't produce words anymore. Your mouth is open, and nothing's coming out. BB is murmuring into your skin, his tongue licking the tears off your cheeks, tasting your throat, your sweat, every available inch of skin. Your body is nothing but sensation. He's whispering, awed and dazed: “I've got you, baby. So brave. So warm. You're everything, my everything.”
Around the sixth, your hands go limp. Your whole body goes slack except for the involuntary tremors. You're drooling freely onto the pillow. Your eyes are glazed and half-open. You’re conscious but only just, held in a state of continuous pleasure that has dissolved every boundary between your body and his.
BB feels himself getting close. His breathing changes. His hips lose their fluid wave and become harder, urgent, perfectly ruthless. The purr breaks into a low keening sound, and he pulls back.
He cups your ass. Both hands, those long wrong-jointed fingers gripping the flesh of you. He raises your hips off the mattress, tilts you up toward him. Holds you there, suspended.
And he peers down. At your stomach.
You follow his gaze through the fog. You look down at your own body.
You can see him. The shape of him moving inside you. A subtle bulge beneath the skin of your lower stomach, pressing outward with every thrust, the length of him shifting and adjusting. The bulge presses up and recedes in time with his hips. Your stomach ripples with each motion.
BB is staring, transfixed. His black eyes are nailed to the sight of himself inside you, his mouth parted.
“Look at that,” he purrs, and this time you see and hear the predator underneath, satisfied with what he’s seeing. “Look at that. I can see myself inside you. You're so full of me.”
He presses deeper, and the bulge pushes higher. You moan, a thin broken sound, and BB makes a soft noise back, almost soothing, and his hips work faster, holding you up, watching himself move inside you.
“You're taking all of me,” he remarks appreciatively, head cocked. “Every inch. Look at what you're holding.”
His tongue extends, slipping to wrap around the spot where his cock keeps sliding into you, and you moan when the tip prods almost playfully at your swollen clit.
He thrusts into you twice more, hard and deep, finishing inside you with a pleased sigh.
Warm. Impossibly warm. It pulses in time with the harmonic, filling you, filling and filling, overflowing, spilling out around him. The faint gold glow. Pale and luminescent, pooling on your inner thighs, gushing down onto the sheets. Puddles of it. The bed soaked. His release casts a soft light upward onto both your bodies. BB is still inside you, still shaking through it, his mouth on your neck, licking slow grateful stripes up the column of your throat now.
You’ve never heard the purr going louder.
“You did so good, baby,” he rasps affectionately, peppering small kisses behind your ear. “Look at what you took. All of me.”
You can't answer. You can barely breathe. Your whole body is a limp pile of limbs beneath him. You’re boneless against the pillows, drool on your chin, tears drying on your face, hair plastered to your forehead.
BB pulls back to examine you. His face is a mess, too, half-slipped, jaw too sharp on one side and human on the other. Black eyes and swollen mouth, chin still dripping with you. He's grinning. That dark pleased grin, all predator, the purr rumbling on in his chest cavity.
His hips roll again. Slow, testing. Still hard inside you.
“Again, baby?” Low, dark, almost mocking. “One more for me?”
You don't have one more in you. You’re empty, wrung out, incapable of forming sentences.
You nod anyway.
BB whines, high and pleased, and drops his mouth back to yours and starts moving all over again.
He fucks you until you black out.
You lose consciousness somewhere in the middle because your body cannot sustain the amount of pleasure being poured into it and your brain, mercifully, shuts down. The last thing you're aware of is BB's purr vibrating through both your bodies and the faint gold glow pooling under you and his mouth against your temple whispering I love you, I love you, I waited so long, I love you.
When you come back, you have no idea how long it's been. You're clean. He's cleaned you. The bed is dry. You're wrapped in the blankets, wearing one of his shirts. BB is curled around you, human-shaped again, mostly, his face buried in your hair, his arm heavy across your waist. He’s purring. Low and pleased and constant. His skin is cool again, warm only where you're pressed together.
You stir. He notices immediately.
“Baby,” he calls out, his mouth finding your temple. “You're awake. Are you okay? Did I… was I too—”
“Perfect,” you slur, your throat aches from the sheer amount of moaning and screaming you’ve done. “You were perfect, BB.”
He goes still. Then he shudders, his arm tightening around you. He presses his mouth to your hairline and holds it there for a long time. The purr deepens into something so full it borders on mournful, loving, perfectly content.
“I love you,” he says, his voice small, shy again. “I love you more than anything.”
Your eyes burn, but for a different reason now. “I love you too, BB.”
He shivers at the words, a full-body reaction. Under the blankets, one of the appendages, not retracted all the way, probably never fully retracting again, curls around your thigh. Possessive. Settling. Warming as it holds.
“Again later,” he murmurs against your temple. That cocky dark satisfaction layered underneath the tenderness. “We're going to do that again.”
You should be terrified.
But you’re not. Because you’re finally home.
You fall asleep to the sound of BB’s purring, and his whispered I love you in the yellow light of a nest that looks like your old apartment, in the arms of an ancient lonely being that has finally, finally been chosen.
an: never written monsterfucking aside from that one shorter piece a few weeks back so if this sucks i'm sorry. I tried.
pairing: bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby(bb)
wc: 16.3k 🚬
contents/warnings: emotional manipulation, emotional neglect in a past relationship, internalised self-blame, discussions of infidelity, grief and loss, emotional dependency, body horror, strong violence, psychological horror, fear of abandonment, existential/cosmic horror, angstttttt.
notes: Strap in. This one is gonna be uh... fun! (thank you so much for your ongoing support btw, love you guys lots!!!).
📹 better bobby series masterlist.
You move before the thought finishes forming.
Your arms lock around BB from behind, tight around his waist, your hands fisting in the torn fabric of his shirt. Your face presses into the space between his shoulder blades, breathing hard. His body stands rigid under your grip, every muscle locked, the whole of him vibrating with a fury so potent you can feel it sinking into your own body.
He's burning hot for once. Hotter than you've ever felt him before, the cool skin scorched away by whatever he's become in the last however-many-hours, and the heat radiates through his tattered shirt and into your cheek, your palms, and the insides of your wrists where your pulse hammers against his spine.
“Stop,” you plead into his back. Into the ruined fabric, that hum that's pouring off him like radiation. “BB, stop. Don't hurt him.”
Bobby is kicking, his feet scrabbling against the wall behind him, his sneakers leaving black marks on the plaster, hands clawing at BB's wrist with a frantic, oxygen-starved desperation.
His face is darkening now, the veins in his neck standing out like cords. The sounds coming from his throat are wet and crushed. Because they're sounds of a body being denied the thing it needs most, but BB's hand doesn't loosen. It’s a closed system, a vice with a pulse rate of zero.
“He doesn't belong here.” BB's voice is gravel and sub-bass, the human register shredded, the words coming from somewhere beneath his chest. “This is my territory. You’re my—”
“You promised me.”
Your voice breaks on the word. Cracks open, raw and wet, and you press your forehead harder into his back, feeling the vibration of him against your skull and your arms tighten around his waist further. You hold on the way you held on in the meadow, in the nest you’ve shared.
“You promised you wouldn't hurt me, BB. And this—” Your voice drops, shaking. “This would.”
BB goes still.
The fury doesn't leave. You can still feel it, coiled, massive, a thing with its own gravity sitting inside his ribcage, pressing outward against the seams of him. But the stillness settles over it like a lid over a flame. His breathing—the breathing he doesn't need, the breathing that's been coming in ragged, animal bursts—slows. His shoulders drop by a degree, and the heat recedes, fractionally, from scalding to merely unbearable.
His hand opens.
Bobby drops down.
He hits the floor hard, knees first, then hands. Then he's on all fours, gasping, dragging air into his lungs in long, shuddering, tearing inhales that sound like they're being pulled through a crushed straw. The colour rushes back into his face all at once, from white to red, the blood flooding back into tissue that was seconds from permanent damage.
Kat is on the floor beside him in an instant, her hands frantic on his shoulders, his face, checking his throat, his pulse, and she's saying his name (Bobby, Bobby, breathe, look at me, breathe) and Bobby is coughing and gasping, his eyes streaming. The red marks on his throat are already darkening into bruises that will look, by tomorrow, like a handprint painted in purple and black.
You let go of BB, stepping back.
One step. Two. Putting distance between your body and his, and BB turns to face you, his hand lifting instinctively, reaching for your face, any part of you he can touch to confirm you're whole, and you step back again.
His hand halts mid-air.
You've seen BB confused many times before. You've seen him curious, amused, predatory, ancient, tender, wrecked with wanting. But you’ve never seen BB wounded.
His hand hangs in the space between you, reaching for a face that pulled away, and his eyes—still black around the edges, the warmth fighting its way back to the surface through the damage and the fury—registering the distance you've put between your bodies. Reading the enormity of your retreat with a precision that leaves no room for misunderstanding.
You stepped back from him.
You. The person who named him. The person who leaned into his forehead kisses and fell asleep against his cool chest and taught him to dance in a kitchen he built for you. You stepped back, and the distance is a sentence he can read, and the sentence says I don't trust you right now.
His hand drops to his side.
“What the fuck.”
Bobby. On the floor. Coughing, gasping, one hand on his throat and the other braced against the floorboards, and he's staring up at BB with an expression that’s blown past fear and into something else.
Incomprehension, horror, the cognitive whiteout of a man looking at his own face on a body that just tried to kill him.
“What the actual fuck,” Bobby says again, louder this time.
The choking has left his voice shredded, hoarse, each word dragged across damaged vocal cords. He gets to his knees. Kat's hand grips his arm, trying to hold him down, but he shakes her off and gets to his feet, his legs unsteady but his eyes are locked on BB. His jaw pulses, hands fisted at his sides, and he’s staring at his own face and finding a stranger peering back.
“That's me.” Bobby's voice is climbing, ragged with disbelief. “That's—that's my face. That's my face. Why does it have my face?”
BB's jaw tightens. The ancient thing flickers behind his eyes. A flash of contempt, of possessiveness, of the territorial fury that just had Bobby pinned three feet off the ground.
He looks at Bobby the way you'd look at a counterfeit of yourself. A draft. A rough sketch someone made before the final version.
“Answer me!” Bobby surges forward even as Kat scrambles to grab his arm. He shakes her off again without looking. “What are you? What the fuck are you?”
“BB.” You say it before you can stop yourself, before the anger and the hurt and the betrayal can seal your throat. The instinct to name him, to give him the dignity of the identity he let you choose for him, is still there underneath everything else. “His name is BB.”
Bobby stares at you both. The information moves across his face in parts. Confusion first, then processing, then a slow, horrible understanding that reorganises his features into something you've never seen on him. An emotion beyond anger, beyond hurt.
“BB. That BB? What kind of name even is that?” Bobby demands.
BB’s nostrils flare. “It stands for Better Bobby.”
Suffocating silence folds over the room. Kat’s mouth pops open in your peripheral, and you suck in a breath of your own.
“Better Bobby.” The real Bobby laughs. A short, ugly sound that's closer to a bark than a laugh, the kind of noise a person makes when the absurdity of their situation has exceeded their capacity for rational response. He barks out another laugh, then, “Better Bobby. Are you kidding me?”
BB's lip curls, a flash of teeth appearing. “I didn't choose the name for your benefit.”
“No, you just chose my face. You stole my face and my—and my—”
Bobby's gaze cuts to you, then back to BB. The calculation happening behind his eyes is visible, mechanical, each variable slotting into place with an almost audible click, and you can see the exact moment the picture completes because Bobby’s expression doesn't crumble; it hardens. Sets. His jaw locks and his eyes go bright and hot, the hurt underneath the anger so vast it makes the anger look like a puddle on an ocean.
“You've been down here,” Bobby begins, his voice pitching quiet. The dangerous quiet. The one that comes right before the blade. “This whole time. Down here with that.” He points at BB accusingly without looking at him. “With some thing wearing my face. A cheap copy—”
BB snarls. Low. A sound that makes the fractured windows rattle. “I'm not a copy—”
“—while I sat in a basement for seven months talking to a fucking wall, thinking you were dead." Bobby's voice cracks open, choking. "While the cops thought I killed you. The tapes went blank, and your face disappeared, and everyone forgot you existed. I thought I was going crazy because I was the only person left who remembered what you looked like—”
He's shaking. Full body vibration.
His hands tremble at his sides, and his jaw is trembling, and the chain at his throat is shimmering with movement. He’s a man coming apart at every joint because the grief and the fury are feeding each other in a loop that's spinning too fast to control, only amplifying the hurt beneath.
Each word comes out hotter than the last, each breath shorter, and Kat is standing behind him with her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide like she’s never seen Bobby like this because Bobby doesn't do this.
Bobby deflects; he bites. Bobby is the one who turns his pain into a joke or a weapon. But Bobby doesn't break. Except he's breaking. Right now. In a pink house on Level 974, looking at his own face on a monster and the woman he loves standing between them.
“Terrence forgot you.” Bobby's voice cracks on the name. Pure pain that sinks between your ribs. “Terrence. Our best friend, remember him? The only person who believed me when the whole neighbourhood decided I was a killer. He sat with me in bars and told people to back off and drove me home when I couldn't drive, and he was the last one—the last person besides me who still said your name. And then one day I said it, and he looked at me like I was speaking a different language. Like the word didn't mean anything. Like you were—like you'd never—”
He presses the heel of his hand into his eye. The old gesture. The grinding-the-tears-back gesture, brutal and effective. “I watched him forget you. In real time. I said your name and I watched it fall out of his head and he looked at me with this—this pity, like I was talking about someone who never existed. And I wanted to grab him and shake him. Scream she was real, she was REAL, I loved her, and she was real—”
Bobby sucks in a breath so hard his whole body jerks with it.
“Eighteen months,” Bobby croaks out hoarsely, the shaking getting worse. “I nearly died waiting for you. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping. I sat in that basement until my back seized up and I couldn't stand straight, and even then I went back. I kept going back, and you're here. You've been here this whole time. Completely fine. With him. Letting him—wearing my face while he—”
Bobby can't finish the sentence. His hand comes up and covers his mouth, his eyes squeezing shut, and the sound Bobby makes behind his palm is tiny and wrecked. You shouldn't be hearing it, but you can't stop hearing it.
“Bobby—” Kat whispers, reaching for him.
“Don't touch me.” He shakes his head, opening his eyes.
And the expression on his face is the one from the doorway, the one you never saw because you were the one walking away. The expression of a man watching the person he loves leave and being unable to say the thing that would make them stay. Except now it's worse because you didn't leave. You were taken. And what took you gave you a version of him that does all the things he couldn't.
Then, in a dazed whisper, “Did you fuck him?”
The question lands like a grenade. Kat visibly flinches. BB goes rigid in your line of sight, and you feel numb shock slacken your expression.
“Bobby,” Kat says sharply. “This isn’t the time—”
“Did you fuck him?” Bobby's voice cracks, splitting, the words coming out jagged and shaky because he can't control himself. “This thing that stole my face—did you let it touch you? Did you let it—” He gestures at BB, at you, at the space between your bodies. “Were you playing Barbie and Ken down here with my—with a goddamn copy of me while everyone back home thought you were—”
He stops, pressing both hands over his face. His shoulders heave. Once. Twice. The sound he's holding back is massive, and he still won't let it out. He won't. Because he’s Bobby Franklin, and he doesn’t cry in front of people, not even now, not even here, when the girl he spent seven months talking to through concrete is standing five feet away next to the thing that kept her.
“They all thought I killed you. Our neighbours. Our friends. Clark. Strangers on the street. They'd look at me, and I could see it. He did it. The boyfriend did it.” Through his hands. Muffled, reedy, barely controlled. “Months of that. Of carrying that and going to the store every night, sitting on the floor and talking to you because it was the only thing—the only thing—that kept me—” His hands drop. His face is red and wet, ruined. “And you were here. Did you even try to go home?”
The room vibrates. The hum, the tension, the emotional charge of three people and two entities standing in a space too small for the volume of pain it generates.
You stare at Bobby's wrecked face, those bright, glassy eyes, his shaking hands. The man who loved you and couldn't say it and sat on concrete for seven months saying it to a wall instead. The man who grunted at your goodbye. The man who let you stand in a doorway feeling invisible. The man who came through the wall to find you.
“You moved on too,” you say lastly.
Quiet. Cold. The voice the Backrooms gifted to you. The flat, unmoved, survival-voice, the one that doesn't shake because it can't afford to do so.
Bobby's mouth opens. Closes. His features spasm like you’ve struck him despite the distance between you.
“You moved on too, Bobby. You're standing here with her—” you gesture at Kat, who shrinks back— “shielding her with your body, doing all the things you stopped doing for me. And I'm supposed to—what? Feel guilty? Because I survived? Because I found something down here that you couldn't be bothered to give me up there?”
“That's not—”
“You left first.” The words tear out of you before you can weigh them, before the part of you that knows this isn't entirely fair either can catch up to the part of you that’s been carrying this for months and is finally, finally letting it spill. “You left me in that apartment, Bobby. You left me standing in doorways waiting for you to look up. You left me lying next to you in bed wondering if I was still visible. And I don't know why. I've never known why. I loved you more than anything I've ever—”
Your voice fractures, words catching in your windpipe. You press your knuckle against your mouth, mouth wobbling, try your hardest to breathe through it.
“I loved you,” you repeat, steadier, lower. Your anger holding the grief upright the way a spine holds a body. “More than anything. And I didn't need to hear it. I never needed you to say the words, that’s the thing. But I used to feel it. In how you touched me and kissed me and held me. In how you looked at me in the morning. And then you stopped. You just… stopped. And it wasn't sudden. It was slow. So slow I didn't even notice it happening until I was already standing in it. This—this absence. Where you used to be. And I tried to talk to you about it, and you said don't be dramatic, and we're fine. I tried again, and you turned up the TV. I stood there in the kitchen watching the back of your head, and I thought—”
You choke on the words. Your eyes burn, but the tears won't come because the anger has dried them at the source.
“I thought maybe this is what love becomes. Maybe this is normal. Maybe I'm asking for too much. And I made myself smaller and smaller and smaller to fit inside whatever you were still willing to give me, and it was never enough. I didn't know why and you wouldn't tell me—”
“I was scared.” Bobby. Raw. Stripped to the bone. “I was so scared of how much I—”
“I don't care.” Flat. Final. Your voice hardens despite the thickness of your voice. “I don't care that you were scared. I was scared too. I was scared every single day that you were going to wake up and decide you didn't want me anymore and instead of telling me that. Instead of saying I'm terrified and I don't know how to love you without losing myself… you just stopped. You made me feel so alone. I used to talk to the walls at Clark's store because the walls were better company than you were.”
You suck in a ragged breath. It shakes on the way in, steadies on the way out. Bobby’s peering at you wide-eyed, his mouth parted, tension between you thrumming. You exhale, chuckling shakily, pained.
“And the worst part, Bobby?” you pose, not waiting for a response. “The worst part is it took me disappearing for you to care. It took me falling through a wall and vanishing from the face of the earth for you to sit down and say the things you should have said when I was standing right in front of you. You had me. I was right there. Every day. For years. And you couldn't be brave enough to tell me you loved me or hold me like you needed me. But the second I'm gone—the second you can't have me anymore—suddenly you're on a concrete floor pouring your heart out to a wall. Suddenly you remember how to feel.”
Bobby flinches. Full body, his blue eyes bright and shining. Like you've hit him again.
“And you want to know the thing that really kills me?” Your voice is shaking now, the anger fracturing, the grief bleeding through the cracks again. “I was working the late shift alone. In that basement. Alone, Bobby. Because you stopped coming. You used to come keep me company, and you stopped. I was down there by myself, sorting inventory, and that's where it happened. That's where the wall took me. And if you'd been there… if you'd just walked through that door one more time, if you'd come to the store instead of staying on that couch…”
You shake your head, glancing down. BB jerks, like he’s fighting an urge to reach for you, to comfort you somehow. “I wouldn't have been alone when it happened,” you go on, lifting your head again. “I might not have been standing in front of that wall at all. You want to know who's to blame for me being here? It's not the Backrooms. It's not BB. It's the fact that the man I loved couldn't be bothered to keep me company like he used to.”
The silence that follows is absolute. Suffocating. The hum drops to its lowest register.
Bobby stares at you. His face is open in a way you've never seen before. No armour, no grin, no deflection. Just Bobby. The raw, messy human underneath all the performance. And the expression on that face is not anger. It's devastation.
Because he’s just heard the exact truth he's been telling himself for eighteen months spoken aloud by the person he failed, confirmed, verified, stamped and sealed.
Kat stands behind him, her arms heavy at her sides, face tight with an attempt to hold her composure. She’s just learned the full dimensions of the wound she's been dressing for over a year and finally understands it goes deeper than she knew.
BB watches you with an expression you can't read. His black-edged eyes roam over your face, cataloguing the anger, the grief, the terrible release of words held back for so long. His hand twitches at his side again. The instinct—to reach, to touch, to soothe—still running underneath the barrier you imposed.
“Come with me,” BB urges, his words low. His hand lifts again, reaching for your elbow. “You don't have to stay here. Let me take you—”
“Don't touch me.”
BB's hand freezes midair.
“You're no better.”
You watch the impact of your words jolt through him. The way BB’s whole body registers it, a flinch that travels from his face through his shoulders to his hands. He absorbs it the way Entity X absorbs damage, except this doesn't regenerate. This is a cut that stays.
“You—” BB starts, his brows furrowing. His confusion is genuine, nothing performed in it. There’s no curious tilt he does when encountering new concepts, but real confusion, the bewildered processing of a being trying to understand what went wrong.
“Did you know?” you bite out.
You ask it quietly, peering at his face. Bobby's face. The face that heard you through a wall and chose to want you, that built you a kitchen and kissed your forehead and promised you things and held you while you cried.
“Did you know Bobby was out there? For months. Did you know he was looking for me? Sitting in that basement, talking through the wall. Did you hear him, BB? Did you hear him saying he loved me while you were holding me and telling me it was all his fault?”
BB's expression goes smooth.
The warmth and confusion drain, followed by wounded bewilderment. What's left is closed. Perfectly, terribly closed. The face flattening into something that's neither Bobby nor BB but something older, something that predates both of them.
You laugh. A short, bitter sound, no joy in it.
“Yeah,” you exhale. Shaking now, because anger can't hold your grief forever, the frame is buckling, and you can feel the tears starting to press against the backs of your eyes like a tide against a wall. “That's exactly what I thought.”
The room is quiet.
Bobby is on the floor with Kat's hand on his shoulder and bruises darkening on his throat. BB stands in front of you with a closed-off face and a frozen hand, the ruins of every tender moment you've shared settling around him like a ring of ash. Mr Kitty lingers in the corner, his dark shape motionless, his blank face oriented toward the centre of the room with the patient, unhurried attention.
“I need time,” you say, your voice thin. “I need… to think. I can't—I can't be in this room right now.”
You spin on your heels, walking toward the staircase, your bare feet on the floorboards. You clutch your notebook against your chest, your shoulders set in a rigid line, your chin up, and your eyes burning, but you don’t cry.
You will not cry. You’ll walk through this door and find a corner of this level that doesn't contain Bobby or BB or Kat or anyone else, and you’ll sit down and breathe.
You’ll figure out what is left of you underneath all of this wreckage.
BB moves after you. You hear it more so than see it. The shift in air pressure, the displacement, his body orienting toward yours the way it always does, the magnetic pull that has governed his movements since the first day. His footstep on the floorboard behind you.
Mr. Kitty steps into his path.
The tall dark shape moves from the corner to the centre of the room in a single fluid motion, interposing itself between BB and the door, between BB and you. Mr Kitty doesn't speak. Simply stands there. Immense, faceless, filling the doorway with the calm, absolute certainty that informs everyone, silently, that no one is getting past him.
BB snarls.
The sound fills the room, saturating it. Harsh, emotional, stripped of the controlled fury from earlier. This isn't the predator defending his territory. But something hurt and desperate, unable to reach the only thing that makes the hurt bearable, and the snarl carries all of it—the confusion, the desperation, the agony of watching you walk away from him and being told he doesn’t get to follow.
“Get out of my way.”
BB's voice is low. Vibrating. The hum in the walls responding to him, the floorboards creaking around you, the cracked windows rattling in their frames. The power coming off him is palpable. A pressure change, a density in the air, the room bending around the force of an entity that’s existed for longer than these walls have stood.
Mr. Kitty doesn't move.
The house begins to vibrate.
A deep, foundational tremor that runs through the floor and up through the walls and into the ceiling. The scones on the counter rattle. A crack appears in the plaster above the kitchen doorway. Two forces pressing against each other. BB's vast, ancient fury and Mr. Kitty's quiet, absolute sovereignty over this level, this house, this ground.
Mr. Kitty may not be as old. May not carry the same raw, limitless power that BB channels from the Backrooms itself, but Level 974 is his. The pink walls and the Hello Kitty figurines and the golden light.
His domain, his territory, his rules.
And in this space, on this ground, Mr Kitty doesn’t yield.
The vibration deepens. The figurines on the shelf chatter against each other. Bobby grabs Kat and pulls her toward the corner, away from the two entities locked in their silent standoff.
“Enough.”
Your voice. From the doorway, looking over your shoulder at the room. At BB, rigid and his mouth snarling, at Mr Kitty, immovable and calm, at the house shaking around them.
“Stop it. Both of you. Right now.”
BB's eyes are black, wild, fixed on Mr. Kitty's faceless head with a fury that has nowhere to go.
You look at BB.
It's the look that stops him. Your eyes on him, meeting his, and the expression in them—cold, hurt, closed, the warmth he's spent months earning withdrawn behind a wall he can't charm or claw his way through. You look at him the way you looked at Bobby in Santa Clara, in the doorway, in the kitchen, during all those conversations he refused to have.
“Leave me alone,” you say coldly. “I mean it, BB. Leave me alone.”
The vibration cuts out.
The house settles around you into eerie silence, the figurines stilling. The crack in the plaster stays but doesn't spread further.
BB's snarl dies in his throat, not released but swallowed, pushed down into whatever deep place he stores the things he can't process. His fury collapses inward, his features rearranging not into Bobby's easy mask but into something fragile and deeply, fundamentally lost.
Because he’s just been told by the only person who matters to him that he’s not wanted here.
Mr. Kitty steps aside.
You walk through the door, up the stairs that don’t make a single creak, and don’t look back.
BB does not follow.
The bedroom is pink.
Every surface of it. The walls, the ceiling, the bedframe, even the dresser with its rows of small ceramic figurines. All Hello Kitty, some with bows, others with tiny painted expressions of vacant, cheerful contentment that feel deeply wrong in a place where nothing should be cheerful.
The bed is covered with a pink duvet and pink pillows, a stuffed Hello Kitty the size of a small child propped against the headboard. You’re sitting on the edge of said bed in this aggressively pink room, clutching a pillow to your chest and crying so quietly your body barely moves.
You washed your face in the bathroom with shaking hands. The soap smelled like strawberries, which is either a kindness or a coincidence and in the Backrooms you've stopped trying to tell the difference. You scrubbed the tear-tracks and the grime and the black residue of Entity X's blood from your skin, and you looked at yourself in the mirror, but the face peering back at you was thinner than you remembered. Sharper. Older in a way that has nothing to do with age and everything to do with the kind of living you've been doing down here.
You looked at your own face, and you didn't recognise the expression on it, and then you did, and that was somehow worse.
You press the pillow into your chest, tears soaking into the fabric, leaving dark spots as you wipe them with the back of your hand.
A plate appears on the bedside table.
Cookies. Round, golden, slightly uneven. Arranged in a careful circle on a pink ceramic plate with a Hello Kitty border.
You didn't hear Mr. Kitty enter. You never do.
He's simply there, filling the corner of the room, his dark shape folded into a crouch that brings his smooth, featureless head level with the top of the dresser. His long arms drape over his knees. The posture is oddly casual for something that nearly went to war with a fellow ancient entity an hour ago.
You glance at the cookies. A wet, exhausted laugh escapes you. Because there's a faceless being the height of a doorframe crouched in a pink bedroom offering you baked goods, and this is your life now, apparently.
Are you feeling better, little one?
His voice settles into your skull with that warm, furred pressure, gentle and unhurried. Little one. He's been calling you that since the third time BB brought you to 974, and the tenderness of it used to make you bristle. You're not little, not a child, not something to be diminished with a pet name, but you've come to understand that little is relative.
To Mr. Kitty, everything is little. The Backrooms are little. Time is little. The enormous, life-destroying pain you're feeling right now is little. Not because it doesn't matter but because it exists within a framework so vast that even devastation is a passing thing for him.
“No,” you answer honestly. “I feel awful.”
Mr Kitty's head inclines. A slow, measured tilt that you've learned to read as acknowledgement. He doesn't offer comfort. He doesn't say it'll be okay or this too shall pass or any of the empty phrases that people deploy when they can see someone hurting and don't know what else to do.
“Have you ever experienced anything like this?” you ask, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. “This mess. This kind of—”
You gesture vaguely at the room, at yourself.
No.
A pause.
I'm not human.
You stare at him. His blank face gives nothing back. The delivery is so flat, so matter-of-fact, so completely devoid of inflection that it takes your exhausted brain a second to register that the seven-foot faceless entity crouched in a bedroom full of Hello Kitty memorabilia has just delivered the driest possible response to your question.
You snort wetly despite yourself, wiping your nose.
“Is everyone okay? Out there?”
The humans are safe. They've eaten. I've provided almond water. It helps with the psychological effects of prolonged exposure. The mind frays here. Theirs will fray faster than yours did. A pause. The blank head angles slightly, as if consulting a source of information you can't perceive. The older man… he was located. But he refused to come with my guidance. He's making his way back toward the entry point on Level 2. Alive, as far as I'm aware. Frightened. But alive.
“Thank you.” The words come out thin. Insufficient. You're thanking a being older than human civilisation for babysitting your kinda-boyfriend and his new girlfriend while tracking down your former employer through an interdimensional nightmare. “For all of this. For letting us—”
You're welcome in this house. You've always been welcome.
Your fingers dig into the pillow. “What about BB?”
Mr. Kitty's head tilts again. The angle is different this time, sharper, more deliberate.
The Backrooms are in disarray. An observation, not a complaint. Entity X's presence has had an unusual cascading effect. Smilers are ranging further. Skin-stealers have been reported on levels they typically avoid. Another pause. His faceless head angles toward the window, toward the levels that stretch below and above and in every impossible direction. Your boy is clearing up the mess.
Your boy. Indulgent, slightly bemused. You don’t correct him, not even now.
Entity X seems to have an unusual ability to affect other entities. Amplifying their aggression. Destabilising their territorial patterns. As if its presence is contagious. An emotional frequency that spreads through the hum, agitating everything it touches.
You think about Entity X. About the burning yellow eyes that never looked away. About the argument it played through the walls to lure you out. Why that conversation? Why your argument, specifically?
Why did it know what Bobby sounded like when he was shutting you out? The questions stack up in your head the way the entries stack in your notebook. Pattern without explanation. You can feel the shape of it, the edges pressing against the inside of your skull, but the centre won't resolve.
“Why me?” you ask, peering at Mr Kitty. “Why does it want me?”
Mr Kitty is silent for a long moment. His blank head angles toward you with that sharper tilt. As if he's reading something written on you in a frequency only he can perceive.
I have a theory. Measured. Careful. But theories without sufficient evidence are just stories. And stories can be dangerous in a place that listens and can make them a reality.
“Tell me.”
When you're ready to hear it, little one. When the answer won't do more harm than the question.
The deflection is gentle but absolute, and you know better than to push. Mr Kitty doesn't withhold out of cruelty. If he's not telling you, it's because the telling carries a weight he doesn't think you can hold right now.
You file it away. Another entry in the private section of the notebook. Another question with no answer.
“Has it—is it gone?”
Retreated. Very suddenly. For reasons I can't determine. Mr Kitty's face tilts back toward you. That concerns me more than its presence did. An entity of that power doesn't retreat without cause. It either ran into an unexpected problem, or it decided to wait for a better opportunity.
The words settle on your shoulders.
You sit for a moment longer. The pink room. The cookies. The faceless being in the corner, patient and still. The faint sound of voices from the living room floats over. Low, murmured, too indistinct to make out words. Bobby's voice. Kat's voice. Talking about you, probably. Talking about what comes next. Discussing whatever people do when the world has ended, and they're sitting in a pink house eating scones and trying to pretend their worldview hasn’t just shattered.
You reach for a cookie. Bite into it. It's good. Buttery, slightly sweet, with a texture that's almost right. The Backrooms' version of homemade, close enough that your tongue can't argue.
“I can't hide here forever,” you mumble, chewing. Your voice is scraped raw, and the cookie is doing nothing to fix that, but it's doing something for the rest of you. The simple, animal act of eating, of taking a thing and putting it in your body, of fuelling the machine. “Even though I want to.”
Mr Kitty says nothing. His blank face radiates with the particular silence that means I agree, and I'm glad you arrived there yourself.
You stand, pressing your palms against your eyes. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. In. Out. The way you breathe before entering a new level, before turning a corner in an unmapped corridor, or opening a door whose other side you can't predict.
The survival breath. The steadying edge you didn’t have back in the real world and only developed here. The willingness not to run away and hide.
You wipe your face one final time. Set the pillow down. Pick up the notebook from the bedside table where you placed it beside the cookies, pressing it against your chest. The weight of it is familiar, grounding, the only possession you have that still feels like yours.
“Thank you, Mr. Kitty.”
Eat another cookie before you go. You’ll need it.
You do as he instructs, then open the bedroom door. You walk down the short hallway of Mr. Kitty's house, past the framed Hello Kitty prints and down the stairs, stepping into the living room.
Bobby and Kat are sitting at the kitchen table.
Their heads are bowed. Close together. Kat's hand is on Bobby's forearm, and Bobby's other hand is pressed flat against the table, fingers splayed, bracing himself.
They're speaking in low voices. You catch the edge of a word. Your name, maybe. Or something that used to be your name before it became something else.
Bobby spots you first.
He stands immediately, like the sight of you alone gave him an electric shock. The chair scrapes the floor. His face is a mess of competing expressions: relief, tension, the careful, wary hope as eh drinks you in. The bruises on his throat have deepened. Dark purple against his tanned skin, four finger-marks and a thumb-mark, BB's handprint developing like a collar on his neck.
You catch the flicker across Kat's face, brief and involuntary. The subtle tightening around her eyes, the tiny pull at the corner of her mouth.
She was saying something to Bobby, and you interrupted it, and the hurt of being interrupted is tangled up with the hurt of being here at all, of sitting in a nightmare for a man who’s looking at another woman with that expression. That searching, desperate, is-she-okay expression that Kat has probably been working for months to earn, and you just walked in and collected without trying.
You see it. You look away from it.
You wrap your arms around yourself. One hand on each elbow, holding yourself together.
“You need to leave,” you tell them flatly. “Both of you. Right now. The Backrooms aren't safe for humans. They were never safe, but right now they're worse. Entity X destabilised everything. Every entity on every level is more aggressive than it should be and you don't have the training or the knowledge to survive that.”
“I'm not leavin' without you.” Bobby. Immediate. Jaw set, chin up, the Bobby-stubbornness that looks like courage and has always been, underneath, a different kind of fear. “I didn't come through a wall, walk through hell and get choked out by my own doppelganger to leave you down here alone. No way in hell.”
You level him with a flat look. The one you learned living here. A part of you wants to remind Bobby that he tore into you less than an hour ago, but he's calmer now. Past the initial, ugly shock.
Bobby surprises you by holding that look.
For a moment that stretches into two, then three. Then his jaw flutters, his gaze dropping, and you see it: the fight leaving him. Not because he agrees, or wants to, but because the woman standing in front of him is not the woman he lost.
The woman he lost was standing in a doorway with her keys and her heart in her eyes, waiting to be seen. The woman standing in front of him now has a notebook and a survival instinct, and she's not waiting for anything.
“BB,” you call out.
The air shifts. Between one breath and the next, there’s a displacement, and the pressure changes in your sinuses.
BB stands at the edge of the living room like he's been there the whole time, like he materialised from the wall, which he probably did. He's more put together than the last time you saw him. His face reset, the fissures sealed, the eyes back to Bobby's blue with only a thin ring of darkness at the outer edges. The black blood is gone. The torn shirt is the same, but he's cleaned the rest, reassembled the human costume with great care.
He looks at you and his whole body orients again. That magnetic pull, that compass-needle pivot, his weight shifting forward onto the balls of his feet, his chin lifting, his eyes searching your face with a hope so raw it makes your heart ache.
Because you called him. And the part of BB that lives underneath the fury and the ancient power and the territorial instinct—the part that learned to kiss you in a kitchen and asked am I doing it right and pressed his lips to your forehead because you taught him that tenderness—that part heard his name in your voice and came running. And he’s standing in front of you now, practically vibrating with a desperate, transparent hope that calling means forgiving.
It doesn't. He can see that too. The hope flickers. Dims. Holds, just barely, at the edges.
“I need you to take Bobby and Kat out,” you tell him calmly. The survival voice. “Back to the real world. Through the wall in Clark's basement.”
BB's expression morphs. A crease appears between his brows, a tightening at the corners of his mouth. He glances at Bobby, at Kat, and the glance carries a weight that isn't quite hostility. Closer to resignation.
“I can't,” he says.
“BB—”
“The path is gone.” He says it plainly, without the smooth, closed expression he wore when you asked if he knew Bobby was looking for you. “Entity X destroyed sections of Level 0 during the fight. The corridors between here and the adjacent entry point to the storage basement on Level 0 are collapsed. The hum no longer reaches those sections. They've been severed from the level entirely.”
You can feel everyone staring at BB as you absorb his words.
“Then find another way,” you say. “There are other exits. Other entry points. You've said—”
“The only feasible exit I can guarantee right now is the M.E.G. outpost.” BB's eyes are on you. Only you. Bobby might as well be furniture. “The one on the far side of Level 4. But the direct path from here is gone. We'll have to go through the Poolrooms, and cut across to Level 4 through the threshold at the deep end. From there it's a straight corridor to the outpost, but that corridor runs through a section of Level 4 that's been unstable since the cascade.” He pauses, weighing his words. “The Poolrooms should be passable. Level 4 is the risk. Entities might shelter there because the layout gives them cover. Under normal conditions it's manageable. Right now, with the aggression spike, it'll be hostile.”
You run the route in your head.
Level 974 to the transitional stairwell. Through the Poolrooms, warm chlorinated water and blue tile, a level you've mapped partially, three pages of the notebook dedicated to its spanning layout and the way sound carries across the surface.
You know the Poolrooms. BB took you there multiple times. You used them in the past for hygiene and a change of scenery both.
The water was warm, and the light was washed-out blue, and nothing lived in it that wanted to hurt you, at least not then.
From the deep end threshold into Level 4. The endless office complex, the one that looks like every corporate building you've ever been in hollowed out and stretched to infinity. Dark. Echoing. Full of cubicles and conference rooms and hallways that dead-end without warning.
You've only been there once, briefly, and your notes on it are thin at best.
Half a page, a rough sketch, a warning symbol in the margin.
“How far?” you ask.
“Through the Poolrooms, it's distance without danger. Level 4 is the gauntlet. Maybe an hour on foot, if the path holds without shifting and nothing's nesting in the corridor.” BB's expression goes tense, focused. “I'll clear what I can ahead of you. You navigate.”
“Wait, who's M.E.G.? What’s Poolrooms?” Kat’s voice floats over from the table, cautious but steady. “What even is that?”
“Research group,” you reply, turning to her. It's the first time you've spoken to her directly without anger in your voice, and you can feel the shift, the effort of treating her like a person instead of a scapegoat to your jealousy. “Explorers. They study this place. Map it. They've been operating down here for… I don't know how long. But they're organised. They have resources.” You pause. “I think they can be trusted. It might be the safest option.”
Kat nods, quick and decisive. The relief on her face is visible. Not at the thought of leaving you behind, or at winning some unspoken competition, but at the prospect of a plan. A structure. An exit with a name and a direction and people on the other side who might know what they're doing.
Kat is a practical woman in an impractical situation; you can tell as much, and the offer of practicality is the first solid ground she's stood on since she climbed through a wall in Clark's basement.
“Fine,” Bobby says quickly, his voice rough. “M.E.G. Great. Let's go.” He pushes off the table. “All of us.”
You inhale deeply. “Bobby.”
“I said I'm not leaving without you.” Louder. More determined. The Bobby-edge again, the blade under the casual, except there's no casual left. It's all blade now, all sharp. “I'll go with Kat. But I'm not walking through some—some exit and leaving you in this place. I'm not.”
BB's lips peel back. A flash of teeth behind the Bobby-mask, involuntary, predatory, the territorial snarl surfacing before he can catch it.
The sight of Bobby refusing to leave you, refusing to relinquish, insisting on staying close to the thing BB considers his triggers something primal in the entity underneath.
He catches it at once, swallowing over it. His lips close over his teeth, jaw clenching painfully. He doesn't speak. Just stares at Bobby with the flat, unblinking intensity that tells you he’s choosing, with considerable effort, not to put Bobby through another wall.
Bobby, to his credit, ignores him. Pointedly and aggressively, with that specific brand of human stubbornness. Bobby will not look at BB. Will not address BB. Only pretend that the thing wearing his face is not standing six feet away radiating enough barely-contained fury to crack plaster.
This is Bobby's version of control: the refused glance, the turned shoulder, the full-body declaration that you do not exist to me deployed by a man who’s terrified and is handling it the only way he knows how.
BB turns to you.
His expression changes immediately. The snarl evaporates. The territorial fury, banked. What replaces it is… you haven't seen this expression on him before. Grim. Drawn.
“The Backrooms are more dangerous than they've been in—” He pauses, choosing a unit of measurement you'll understand. “A very long time. Entity X's effect on the other entities hasn't fully dissipated. Level 4 will be a problem. The interior section between the threshold and the outpost is normally dead space. Empty offices, dead lights, nothing worth hunting in. Right now it's contested. Things are sheltering in the cubicle rows and conference rooms because the layout gives them cover, and they're angrier than they should be.” He twists his head, and you hear a crack follow the near reptile movement. “I'll move ahead. Clear what I can. You bring them through behind me. Move only when you’re certain, and stay together.”
You look at him. Really look, for the first time since earlier. Past the anger, and the betrayal, past the closed-off face and the too smooth expression and the omission that restructured everything between you. You look at BB, and you see—
He's thinner somehow.
The word isn't right, but it's the closest you have.
The Bobby-suit fits differently. Looser. The cheekbones more prominent, the jaw more defined, the chain at his rebuilt throat sitting lower against collarbones that press closer to the surface than they used to. He looks worn in a way that has nothing to do with clothing and everything to do with consumption.
And you understand, then, that the fight with Entity X and the sustained lockdown and the perimeter patrols and all the emotional turmoil earlier have been drawing from a reserve that isn't infinite.
As if even ancient things have a fuel line and his is running lower than you've ever seen it.
You choke the worry back. Push it down. Below the anger and the hurt, into a place where the things you can't afford to feel right now go to wait.
“Fine,” you say. “The M.E.G. outpost. Through the Poolrooms, across Level 4.”
You turn to Bobby and Kat. Bobby is standing by the table with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched rigid, staring at a random spot just past BB’s shoulder.
“Grab anything useful,” you instruct. “The almond water Mr. Kitty gave you if there's any left. Take that, don't spill it. Anything you can carry that isn't too heavy.” You glance at Bobby, stopping him in his tracks when he tries to approach you, his mouth open. “We're leaving right now. Not in ten minutes. Not after another argument. Now. Every second we stay is a second Entity X might come back and cause more damage.”
Bobby sucks in a breath, but the argument dies on his tongue. You watch it happen. He could spit back a thousand arguments, but you’re the one speaking and he hears the authority earned through months of exploration, notebooks, and close calls.
He doesn't trust the Backrooms. He doesn't trust BB. But somewhere underneath the hurt and the anger and a thousand unspoken things, Bobby Franklin still trusts you.
He grabs the water from the table without a word, shoving it in his jean pocket. His camera is gone—left on the floor in the junction room on Level 0, the first camera Bobby has ever abandoned—and his hands look wrong without it. Empty. Painfully exposed. Like a man missing a limb he didn't know was prosthetic until it was gone.
Kat gathers the remaining almond water, tucking what food she can into her hoodie pockets. Practical. Quick.
“Let's go,” you say.
You don't look at BB or at Bobby when you say it. You look at the door, at the path beyond it, at the route in your head that threads from 974 through the transitional stairwells to the Poolrooms and across Level 4 to the outpost, and you start walking.
They follow.
“Stay close to me at all times. Don't touch the walls and don’t trust any voices you might hear.”
Your voice rings flat. Instructional. Bobby and Kat fall into step behind you. Bobby first, Kat behind him, the formation you established at the threshold of Level 974 and haven't had to explain because the hierarchy asserted itself the moment you started walking.
You lead. They follow.
The notebook is open in your hand, a pen gripped in your other, and you're annotating as you move. Small marks in the margins, corrections, new landmarks added to half-finished maps.
The stairwell between 974 and the Poolrooms is narrower than you remember. The lights are different. Dimmer. The hum is carrying a frequency you've never heard before. A low, dissonant undertone, like a second voice buried beneath the first, and you don't like it.
Something skitters in the walls.
The sound is dry and rapid, claws or teeth or something with too many joints moving through a space between surfaces, and it tracks your group for three corridors before fading into the deeper dark.
Bobby's breathing changes behind you. Faster. Controlled, but faster. He's holding it together for now, jaw locked, hands fisted, the physical performance of calm layered over a body that is screaming at him to run.
Kat grabs the back of his shirt, her knuckles blanching from how hard she grips. He doesn't shake her off.
The stairwell descends, the air changing the lower you go. Warmer, carrying a chemical sweetness that prickles in your nose and coats the back of your throat. Chlorine.
The smell of it hits your chest like a memory: public pools in the valley, summer afternoons, the way the chemical tang used to cling to your hair for days. Except this chlorine is wrong. Too sweet, too warm. Like the Backrooms took the concept of a swimming pool and replicated it from the smell up, getting the details slightly off.
“What is that?” Kat wonders from behind Bobby, her voice raspy.
“Chlorine,” you answer. “We're close to the Poolrooms.”
“Right. The Poolrooms."
You don't answer. The stairwell opens up, and Level 37 unfolds in front of you.
Water. Everywhere. Still, warm, impossibly blue; a type of blue that doesn't exist in nature, that sits somewhere between swimming pool and bioluminescence, casting its light upward onto tiled walls and low ceilings and pillars that descend into the water at regular intervals.
The room is vast, the ceiling dipping low. The combination creates a sort of compression. Intimate and infinite at the same time, the sense of a space that goes on forever in a room you can almost touch the top of. The water is clear to the bottom. The tiles beneath it are white, clean, pristine, stretching into a distance that the blue light eventually swallows.
No sound except the dripping water. The gentlest possible lapping against tile, rhythmic, hypnotic, the sound of a surface that is barely being disturbed by something you can't see. The hum is different here. Softer, rounded, the dissonant undertone from the stairwell dissolved into sound almost musical.
The Poolrooms absorb aggression the way water absorbs heat. BB was right. Nothing agitated shelters here.
“Jesus Christ,” Bobby says quietly, staring at the water with wide-eyed awe.
You wade in first, and the water is mercifully warm. Body temperature, lapping at your ankles, then your calves, then your knees as the floor descends in a gentle gradient. Your bare feet find purchase on the tiles below.
You've been here before and know the depth map. There’s shallow sections that hug the walls, and the deeper channels between the pillars which intercut with the point near the centre. That’s where the floor drops and the water reaches your waist, the blue light intensifying until the whole room looks like the inside of a sapphire.
Bobby and Kat follow behind you. Slower, less sure.
Kat gasps when the water reaches her thighs. Bobby is silent, wading after you without a word. He scans the surface, the pillars, the low ceiling, and you can see him searching for threats the way you used to. With that raw, untrained hypervigilance you had in the beginning when you could tell something was wrong but didn’t have the vocabulary to describe what.
You navigate by the pillars. Third from the left, then straight, then angled right toward the far wall where the tiles change colour. White to grey to a faint, barely-visible green that marks the deep-end threshold.
BB showed you this path. BB walked it with you, his hand at your back, his cool skin a contrast to the warm water.
And BB's presence now is a pressure at the edges.
You can't see him. Haven't seen him since you left 974. But you can feel the evidence of his passage all the same. A corridor that should have been obstructed, clear. A sound in the distance that starts hostile and cuts out abruptly.
Then a silence that follows when something deadly, fast and ancient has moved through a space and left nothing alive behind it.
He's ahead of you, running interference, clearing the route the way he said he would. And even through the hurt, the reliability of it—the kept promise, the maintained commitment to your safety—swells a lump in your throat you can’t quite swallow over.
Behind you, Kat mumbles something, a joke maybe, chuckling weakly even when Bobby doesn’t join in. His reply is swallowed by water churning around your waist.
“How long did it take?”
You say it without turning around. Your voice carries across the water, bouncing gently off the tiled walls, and the acoustics of the Poolrooms give it a quality that sounds almost peaceful, almost conversational.
Bobby's wading pauses. A half-step. Then he catches up. “What?”
“Before you slept with her.”
Behind Bobby, Kat makes a small, indignant sound, an inhale that she catches in her throat, and then silence again. Just the three of you wading through water in a room that shouldn't exist.
You wait for the usual: the blade, the joke, the easy redirect, maybe even anger. But he surprises you again.
“Fifteen months.” The damaged vocal cords give the words a rough, scraped quality. “After you disappeared. Not after—not after the store. Not after Clark kicked me out. Months after that. She'd been...” He trails off, water sloshing around his hips. “Kat was just there. Every day. And I was—I wasn't okay. I wasn't anything close to okay, and I thought I’d never see you again. And one night I just—” He pauses, breath catching in his chest, refusing to look at you or at Kat while he speaks. “Fifteen months. It took fifteen months.”
Your stomach turns. A slow, visceral roll, nausea that has nothing to do with the chlorine and everything to do with the number.
Fifteen months of absence before the body you loved pressed itself against someone else.
Fifteen months of grief before the hands that used to find the small of your back in a crowd found someone else's waist in the dark.
You do the math. You can't help it. The inventory brain, the cataloguing brain, calculating: he thought you were dead. Everyone had forgotten you. The tapes were blank. Fifteen months is a long time when grieving. Fifteen months of believing the person you love is gone is a long time.
The math doesn't help. Not even a little bit. The pain blooming in your chest is too blinding and too scalding to lean on logic right now.
You nod. Once. Keep wading, your teeth sunk into your cheek to stop yourself from being petty, trying your hardest to understand.
“Did you?” Bobby asks. His voice is different now, quieter, stripped of the combative edge from earlier, carrying instead a fragility that doesn't suit his face. “BB. Did you—with him?”
“No.”
Bobby exhales. A breath he's been holding since Mr Kitty’s house, maybe longer, released through his nose in a long, shuddering stream. The relief on his face is naked and immediate, and you can see it from the corner of your eye even without turning to look at him.
“I taught him to kiss,” you admit, still staring straight ahead. At the pillars, at the blue, at the threshold approaching in the distance. “But it took months. He didn't… he'd never touched anyone. Never been touched. I taught him to dance first. Then the kiss.”
Bobby lets out a soft, bitten scoff. Air pushed through his teeth, his head turning away, and you brace for the quip, for Bobby's deflection mechanism deploying against the image of his own face learning to kiss from the woman he loves.
But the scoff dies without becoming a sentence. It lacks heat., and it lacks edge. It's just a sound a man makes when he's hearing something that hurts in a way his defences can't react against.
When you glance at him, Bobby's face is sad. Not angry like earlier, just sad.
The anger burned out somewhere in the Poolrooms, extinguished by the tranquil water and the washed light, and what's left is just Bobby. Heartbroken. Worn to the bone by grief and stress. Looking at you in the blue glow with his eyes full and his jaw loose, his whole face creased with emotion Bobby Franklin has spent his entire adult life refusing to let sit on his features unchecked.
He opens his mouth. His lips form the beginning of a word—your name, maybe, or something else, something that's been sitting behind his teeth for eighteen months waiting for you to be close enough to hear it—but you turn away. Keep walking.
The water parts around your waist and the threshold is ten metres ahead, and you keep walking because if you stop, if you let Bobby say whatever he's about to say with that face in this blue light, you will not be able to handle it.
You're not going to have this talk with him now, while Kat is right there.
“We're close,” you say instead. “The threshold is at the deep end. Keep your heads up.”
Level 4 is wrong.
The threshold deposits you in a corridor that looks like every office building you've ever been in.
Fluorescent-lit, drop-ceiling, grey carpet, cubicle partitions stretching into a distance that the lights don't fully reach. It should be mundane. It should be the most boring level in the Backrooms. An infinite corporate complex, all right angles and fire exits that don't actually exit and conference rooms with whiteboards still carrying the ghosts of meetings that never happened.
You've seen it before. Your notes describe it as low-threat, low-entity, dead space.
Your notes are wrong.
The lights flicker. Every third tube is dead, creating pockets of darkness between the lit sections, and the darkness is too deep. A dense, weighted thing. The cubicle rows stretch to the left and right, and the partitions are higher than you remember. Head-height, blocking sightlines, creating corridors within corridors, and the air smells like old paper and burnt plastic.
“Stay behind me,” you whisper, your heart rate picking up even as you fight to keep your tone level. “Single file. Don’t speak above a whisper.”
Your feet carry you through the cubicle rows. Past desks with dead monitors and phones with their receivers off the hook, and coffee cups with something growing in them that you don't look at closely. The carpet muffles your steps. Bobby and Kat are ghosts behind you. Silent, moving when you move, stopping when you stop, their breathing controlled, shallow, and terrified.
There’s sudden movement in the cubicle row to your left.
You freeze. Hand up, the signal you developed on Level 1 with BB, palm flat, fingers spread, stop now. Bobby and Kat stop at once.
The movement continues, a shape passing behind the partition, visible through the gap between the top of the cubicle wall and the drop ceiling. Tall. Hunched. Moving with a liquid, boneless gait that doesn't match any anatomy you've catalogued. It passes through the row parallel to yours, separated by one partition, close enough that you can hear the sound it makes. A wet, clicking respiration, each breath accompanied by a small pop, like a joint dislocating and relocating with every inhale.
It passes, the clicking fading into the background as it goes. You count to thirty before you move again.
Two more corridors follow. You pass a conference room with the door ajar, and inside you spot something that looks like skin draped over a chair. Smooth, pale, and gently rising and falling with a respiration you can see from the doorway. You steer them around it. Wide. Bobby's eyes find it through the gap, and his face goes grey while Kat presses her face into his shoulder and doesn't look.
The evidence of BB is everywhere.
A corridor that ends in a smear of black against the wall. Fresh, wet, still dripping. A fire exit door buckled inward from a force applied on the other side, the metal warped around a handprint that's too large to be human. A section of cubicles reduced to kindling, the partitions shattered, the desks overturned, and in the centre of the wreckage a shape. Crumpled and motionless, its limbs arranged at angles that suggest it was alive when it was rearranged and is not alive now.
You don't let Bobby and Kat see this one. You route them around the long way, through a break room with a vending machine that hums with a frequency that makes your ears ring.
The M.E.G. outpost is close. You can feel it.
A shift in the hum, a thinning of the air that means a threshold is near. The levels get permeable around outposts, BB told you once. The boundaries soften.
You round the corner into a wider corridor—open-plan, the cubicles giving way to a broad hallway with glass-walled offices on either side—and you see the equipment. Monitors. Cables. A mounted camera fixed to the wall at head height, its red recording light blinking steadily. Sensor arrays bolted to the ceiling tiles. Data collection equipment arranged along the corridor walls with the organised, labelled precision of people who’ve been here a long time and plan to stay.
“M.E.G.,” you say, exhaling. The relief that pangs your chest is almost physical. A loosening in your shoulders, a softening in the grip of your hand on the notebook. “We made it. This is their monitoring station. The outpost should be just ahead. We just need to—”
The hands come from behind you.
Three sets. Gloved. They grab your arms, your shoulders, the back of your neck, practised and coordinated.
You're yanked backwards off your feet, and the notebook hits the floor, your spine slamming against a body wearing tactical gear, a muffled voice barking something clipped into a radio, and the hands are everywhere. On your wrists, pinning your arms, dragging you sideways toward a section of corridor you haven't mapped.
These aren't M.E.G.
The gear is different. Same black from the first attack, not yellow. No patches, no insignia, no identification. The faces behind the balaclavas are blank and professional, and they are not studying you. They’re collecting you, the way you'd collect a sample they failed to collect the first time around.
Bobby's scream rips through the corridor.
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER—GET OFF—”
He's fighting. You can hear it behind you, the sounds of a man throwing himself at something larger and better-armed, the crack of a fist against body armour, the grunt of impact. Bobby's voice, raw and shredded and operating on pure adrenaline, screaming obscenities that echo off the walls while someone restrains him.
“Leave them,” one of the agents says into the radio, his voice clipped, indifferent. “The woman is the objective. Leave the other two for the others, it’ll buy us some time.”
For the others. The words register with a cold, clinical clarity. Leave Bobby and Kat in a Level 4 corridor swarming with agitated entities and walk away. Leave them to die. Leave them as discarded variables in whatever equation these people are solving, the irrelevant remainder, the human wreckage.
Your rage swells to near blinding.
A sudden, massive, tidal expansion in your chest, filling every cavity, pressing against your ribs and your throat and the backs of your eyes.
The agent's hand is on your arm, and the grip is iron and Bobby is screaming. Kat is somewhere behind you shouting, and these people are going to leave them here to die. And the anger is so total, so complete, so enormous that it bypasses your brain entirely and becomes a physical thing, a vibration, a frequency—
The hands holding you fall off.
You stumble forward. The grip just… released. You spin, expecting to see BB, expecting the displaced air and the black eyes and the sound of the hum—
The agent who was holding you is staring at his hands. What's left of them anyway. His gloves end at the wrist, and below the wrist there is nothing. Smooth and cauterised, the flesh sealed as if the hands were never there to begin with.
He hasn't started screaming yet. The shock is still travelling from his eyes to his brain to his vocal cords.
You turn.
Entity X is standing in the corridor behind you.
The fluorescent lights are red again. That deep, arterial crimson that transforms the office corridor into a living organism. Red light pulses, filling the hallway from floor to ceiling, its matte, leathery skin absorbing the crimson until it looks like the corridor itself has grown a body. The featureless face is smooth and wrong, but then the eyes peel open again at your presence, and the burning yellow fixes on you at once.
On you. Only you. As always.
You stumble backwards, your heel catching a cable on the floor. You barely keep your feet.
Entity X is three metres away, and it reaches for you—the arm extending, elongating, the joints clicking with a sound like knuckles cracking in an empty room—and its chest produces a noise.
Low. Gurgling. A wet, clicking sound that lives somewhere between a purr and the settling of bones, repetitive and rhythmic and deeply, fundamentally wrong in a way that your brain can’t place.
It's a sound without analogue. A sound that a body makes when it has no face to express what it's feeling and must channel everything through the mechanics of its torso, and the sound is fixated. Directed at you.
The audio equivalent of the eyes that never leave.
“Get away from me.” Your voice comes out harder than you expect. Sharper. The fear is there. Your heart is slamming, your palms are slick with sweat, your legs trembling beneath you, but your anger is louder. The rage that swelled in your chest hasn't receded. It's sitting right behind your teeth, and when you speak it comes out as a command, not a plea. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
Entity X cocks its head.
The motion is slow. Curious. The massive featureless head tilts to one side with an almost canine quality. It’s almost the same tilt BB does, just wrong, and for one terrible second the gesture looks interested. Like it heard you. Understood what you meant. Like your anger registered as something other than a feeble attempt at resistance, and the fury in your voice is a thing it recognises, that it wants.
The agents regroup behind you. Three of them. The handless one is on the floor, in shock. The others raise weapons. Compact and military-grade, and open fire.
Entity X doesn't look at them.
The bullets hit its torso and sink into the matte skin like stones into mud, and Entity X's arm sweeps sideways, casual and unhurried, the way you'd brush a fly, and the agent closest to it comes apart.
Messily. The one behind him fares worse. The sounds are wet, almost mechanical and over very quickly, leaving nothing but puddles of gore on the floor.
Entity X does all of it without moving its eyes from you once. Bored. Performing violence with the same disinterested efficiency that a human swats insects. The agents are not a threat, not an obstacle, not even a distraction.
Entity X silences them and returns its full focus on you, and the clicking sound continues in its chest, steady, rhythmic, almost gentle.
BB arrives like a thunder crack.
The air splits around you, the pressure wave alone knocking you sideways. Kat hits the floor rolling, and Bobby staggers into the glass wall of an office.
BB hits Entity X at full force, and the two of them crash through the corridor wall and into the space beyond. Cubicles disintegrate around them, ceiling tiles raining down, and the fluorescent tubes shatter in cascading waves as two things too large for this hallway tear it apart around each other.
BB's hand finds your shoulder. Between one collision and the next, between heartbeats. He's there, beside you, in front of you, his black eyes wild and his damaged face cracking, his grip on your shoulder bruising.
“The outpost. Go. Now.”
You run, reaching for Bobby blindly.
Bobby is already moving, Kat's hand in his, pulling her along, his legs unsteady but functional, his face a mask of focused terror.
You grab the notebook from the floor as you pass it, scrambling on your hands and knees. The three of you sprint down the corridor toward the monitoring equipment, toward the thinning in the air that means exit.
You spot them in the distance first.
Yellow suits and masks on. Four of them, clustered at the far end of the corridor around a section of wall that looks slightly different. Smoother, carrying a faint shimmer that you recognise as the visual signature of a no-clip point.
M.E.G. operatives. Real ones, in their trademark gear, and they're waving at you, frantic, urgent, beckoning you forward with the full-body gestures as the fight behind you intensifies.
Bobby's hand closes around your wrist, pulling you forward, and you're running together, his callused fingers locked on your pulse point.
For about three seconds, it's the parking lot at Clark's store, it's the apartment doorway, it's every moment he should have reached for you and didn't. Except now he's reaching, his hand is on you, now he's pulling you toward safety with a bruising grip that says I’m not letting go—
Entity X's hand closes around Bobby's torso.
The grab is sudden and massive, an arm extending from the wreckage of the corridor behind you, reaching over your head, the joints clicking in rapid succession as it unfolds to its full, telescoping length.
The clawed fingers close around Bobby's ribcage and lift. His hand tears from your wrist. His feet leave the ground. His body rises—up, up, Entity X hoisting him like he weighs nothing, his legs kicking, arms flailing, his face contorted with a terror so complete it erases everything else.
Entity X holds Bobby in the air and looks at you.
The burning yellow eyes, fixed. The clicking purr in its chest, steady. Holding Bobby in one hand the way you'd hold up a lantern, displaying him, presenting him, showing you the man in its grip and watching your face to see what you'll do.
“Let him go!” You slam your fists against Entity X's arm—the matte skin fever-hot and yielding and horrifyingly close to organic—and the contact sends a jolt through your system that feels like recognition, like touching a live wire, like something in Entity X's body responding to something in yours. “Let him go, put him down—”
Entity X peers down at you, his head tilting. Curious. Reading. The same interested quality from before. Your hands are on its arm, and it's letting you hit it, absorbing the blows with the patient stillness of a thing that wants to see how far the anger goes.
It throws Bobby.
A casual, underhanded toss, its wrist flicking, the arm releasing, Bobby's body sailing through the air of the corridor and hitting the wall near the no-clip point with a sound that empties your lungs. He crumples. Slides down the wall. You lurch towards him, but Entity X’s clawed hand closes over your throat, yanking you back toward it.
Kat's scream is a bright, piercing thing that cuts through the red light and the clicking, and the M.E.G. operatives move. Two of them grab Bobby under the arms, a third seizing Kat, who was running toward him, dragging them toward the shimmer in the wall.
Bobby is dazed.
His head rolls to one side, his eyes unfocused, blood from a gash above his eyebrow streaming down the side of his face. But he's fighting.
Even concussed, even barely conscious, his hands are grabbing at the M.E.G. operative's jacket, his body lurching back toward the corridor, back toward you, and his mouth is forming your name.
You can see it, can read it on his lips, the shape of the word you taught him to say in a hallway in high school in your junior year, and his eyes find yours through the blood and the chaos and the red light and for one second the corridor contracts to the width of that gaze.
You and Bobby. Looking at each other across a distance that is about to become permanent.
The M.E.G. operatives haul him through. Bobby's reaching hand—the same hand that dropped a camera for you, that grabbed your wrist, that used to find the small of your back in a crowd and cup your face before he kissed you—disappears through the shimmer, still reaching. Kat follows, and the wall smooths over again. The no-clip point seals.
They're gone.
Entity X stands behind you. The clicking sound in its chest shifts, lowering, a frequency that almost sounds satisfied. It adjusts its grip on you.
BB's fist connects with the side of Entity X's torso.
The impact sends the massive red body sideways, slamming into the corridor wall with enough force to buckle the drywall and shatter every remaining light tube within a fifty-foot radius.
The red light dies, plunging the space into darkness lit only by Entity X's yellow eyes and the faint, colourless glow leaking through the cracks in BB's ruined face.
BB's hand finds your shoulder.
The world folds.
The displacement dumps you onto the grass of Level 14, and the impact is soft, yielding, the earth absorbing you the way the Poolrooms absorb sound.
You land on your hands and knees, and the grass is cool and damp against your palms, and you gasp. Pull air in through your teeth. Your lungs are burning. Your ribs ache from the displacement, from the running, from the screaming, from the hours or minutes or however long it's been since you ate a cookie in the pink bedroom and walked into the worst day of your life.
BB is beside you. On his knees. His hands on your arms, your shoulders, running over you with that focused, diagnostic urgency. He’s checking for injuries, for broken things he can fix with his hands, because the broken things he can't fix are piling up faster than he can count.
His fingers press against your ribs. Your wrists. His eyes search your face with a desperation that’s stripped away the last of the Bobby-mask. What's looking at you is BB, just BB, the cracks in his face leaking that pale light, his jaw pulsing, his mouth pressed into a tight line.
“You're not hurt,” he says. Half-statement, half-question, his hands lingering on your shoulders. “Tell me you're not hurt.”
You shake your head because you can't speak yet.
The breath is still caught somewhere between your diaphragm and your throat, snagged on the adrenaline. On the afterimage of Bobby's reaching hand disappearing through the wall, and the sound of Entity X's clicking purr.
You fall back onto the grass, press your palms over your eyes, and breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The stream somewhere behind you moves over its stones with the gentle, trickling sound while golden light drips over your shaking hands.
It takes minutes. Several.
The shaking subsides in stages. Hands first, then arms, then the deep tremor in your core that's been running since since the red light, since the first time you heard Entity X's clicking in the corridor and knew, with a certainty that bypassed logic, that it was coming for you.
The shaking stops, your breathing evening out. Your hands drop from your face, and the meadow is still there. All of it. The tall grass, the fallen log, the amber sky that never changes. BB sits across from you with his knees drawn up and his forearms resting on them and his face wearing the careful, watchful expression.
You rub your face. Drag your fingers across your eyes, your cheekbones, the tight muscles at your jaw. Working off the edge. Pressing the panic down into the place where it can be stored and processed later, when BB isn't watching, when the aftershocks have enough room to shake without an audience.
“Entity X is gone,” BB says quietly after another moment, testing. His voice is low and rough, stripped of its usual easy warmth. “They retreated. Again. Whatever he wanted—” He looks troubled, genuinely so. “Bobby and Kat are through. The M.E.G. have them. They're out of the Backrooms.”
You nod, staring blankly at the grass between your knees.
“You did it.” Softer now. Almost gentle. The voice from the kitchen, from the dance, from the mornings he'd say hey, baby and the world would shrink to the width of his full mouth. “You got them through. They're safe because of you. And I can—I'll rebuild. The apartment. The sublevel. I'll find Entity X and after I've dealt with it, we can—”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
BB falls silent.
A bird, the same small brown bird, or one just like it, lands on the branch above the fallen log and tips its head and watches you with one bright black eye.
“About Bobby.” Your voice is calm. Scraped clean of anger, clean of accusation. Just the question, unadorned, sitting in the air between you. “You heard him. Through the wall, same as me. For months. You heard him looking for me. You knew he loved me. You knew he was sitting three inches away from the entry point, saying the things I needed to hear.” You look at BB. His face, Bobby's face, the face you touched and kissed and studied in firelight and fluorescent light and the blue glow of the Poolrooms. “Why didn't you tell me, BB?”
BB is quiet for a long time. The bird chirps a few times in the tree above. The amber light paints his cracked and healing face, and the tense silence between you fills with the full weight of every answer he could give and the inadequacy of all of them.
“I heard how lonely you were.” Picking through the words the way you'd pick through wreckage, testing each one before putting weight on it. “Before you came through. When you were alone in the basement, on the late shifts. I heard what loneliness sounded like in your voice. And when you were here—when you cried, when you talked about him, when you said he stopped seeing me—I thought—” He falters, shifting in such an shy, human way you almost soften. “I thought we were the same. That our loneliness was the same. Mine and yours. And that I could—”
“That's not what I asked,” you intone coolly.
BB flinches. His fingers curl against his forearms, pressing into the fabric of his ruined shirt as he ducks his head lower.
“BB. Tell me the truth.”
BB's face visibly contorts with pain, his features rearranging around an admission he's been carrying for months the way you carried your anger. Not smoothing over. Not closing off. Just hurting.
“I knew you still loved him,” he admits, barely above a whisper. His eyes fix on the grass, unable to look at you. “I could hear it. Every time you said his name. Every time you cried about him. Every time you talked about the apartment, the mornings you shared, the way he used to look at you. You never stopped loving him. And I—” His voice thins, fraying. “I thought if you knew he was looking, if you knew he was right there, you'd leave. You'd go back through the wall and I'd—”
He stops, swallowing thickly. The sound is audible. The borrowed mechanism of a throat that doesn't need to swallow performing the gesture anyway because the emotion behind it is real even if the body isn't.
“I know it was selfish,” he adds in a hushed whisper.
You gaze at him blankly for what feels like a small eternity.
“You didn't just withhold it.” Your voice is steady, but your hands are shaking again. Anger and grief coiling together so tightly you can't separate them, can't feel where one ends and the other begins. “You used my loneliness. You heard me at my lowest, and you leaned into it. You built a life around my isolation because as long as I was isolated, as long as I didn't know there was something to go back to, I'd stay. With you. That's not love, BB. That's keeping.”
BB's head snaps up. His eyes are bright and wounded, but the expression on his face is gutted. Sheer hollowed-out devastation of hearing the worst possible interpretation of the best thing he ever did and recognising, with a clarity that makes his whole face crumble, that the interpretation isn't wrong.
“But it's what you did.” Quiet. Final. “Regardless of what you meant. Regardless of how well you meant it. That is exactly what you did. You heard a woman crying about being invisible, and instead of telling her she was being looked for, you made yourself the only thing she could see.”
The amber light falls on his struck face, and the cracks in it have stopped leaking, the damage from the fight slowly closing, and the face that's left is Bobby's, wearing an expression he never wore.
Raw and open, and so deeply, completely sorry that the air around it seems to bend.
“You were happy,” he says quietly. Almost to himself. Like he's testing the memory against the accusation, holding them up side by side to see if they can coexist. “You started smiling again. Laughing. When we walked through the Poolrooms the first time, you laughed at something I said and the sound—” His voice catches. “The sound was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. I thought—I thought I was fixing it. The loneliness. The pain. I thought if I could just—keep you safe, keep you close, give you everything he didn't—you wouldn't need to go back. You wouldn't want to. And that would be enough.”
Your eyes burn, tears pressing forward, hot and insistent, and you clench your jaw against them.
Because you can hear his sincerity. The genuine, unperformed, unhuman sincerity. He heard you cry through concrete and decided, with the full weight of its ancient and limited understanding, that the solution to your pain was its presence.
BB didn't think he was trapping you. BB thought he was saving you.
The distinction doesn't make it okay. The distinction makes it worse because it means the thing that hurt you was trying, with every tool it had, to love you well. And its best tool was deception.
“You should have told me.” Tears are falling now, and you don't wipe them. “You should have given me the information. All of it. And then you should have let me choose. Even if the choice was leaving. Even if the choice was him. You should have let it be my choice, BB. That's what love does. It doesn't decide for the other person. It doesn't curate the options to guarantee the outcome you want. It gives them everything, and it lets them choose, and it survives the choosing, even if the choice breaks it.”
BB says nothing. His eyes fix on yours, and his expression is accepting. Terrible, slow, grinding acceptance. The kind that arrives not all at once but in layers, each one heavier than the last, pressing down on whatever passes for his heart.
“I didn't want to lose you,” he whispers, his voice catching. “I'm sorry. I—I didn't want to lose you.”
You sit across from the being who built you a kitchen and taught itself to kiss and pressed its mouth to your forehead every morning so it could lie to you with every tender gesture because the truth would have set you free and freedom was the one thing it couldn't give.
You breathe in, glancing up at the sky. At those breathtaking gradients of gold and amber, laced with violet at the edges. The sky that never changes, the eternal late afternoon of a level called Paradise that exists inside a place that shouldn't exist at all.
You look back at BB.
“Do you know why I stayed?” you ask softly. “In the beginning. When I found out you weren't actually Bobby. Do you know why I didn't run?”
BB's face tightens, and the pain that crosses it is visible, bright hot.
“Because of the face,” he says, low and pained. The words dragged out of him like splinters from beneath the skin. “Because I look like him. Because you love him. Because you wanted him—always him, always Bobby—and I was close enough.”
Your eyes fill. The tears spill over fresh, tracking down your cheeks, and you stand. Cross the distance between you. Close it. Three feet. Two. One. Until you're standing in front of him and he's looking up at you from the grass with Bobby's blue eyes and BB's anguish and the meadow light on both of you.
You touch his face.
Your fingertips on his cheekbone. The line of his jaw. The scar from the cabinet door that happened to someone else's body. Your thumb traces the corner of his mouth. That corner where the grin starts, the lopsided one, the one that's his and not Bobby's.
BB makes a sound. Low. Wounded.
A vibration that starts in his chest and comes through his throat as something between a sigh and a moan. His eyes close and his head turns into your palm, nuzzling closer. Desperate, pressing his face into your hand the way he did the first time you touched him. The sound he's making is continuous, a keening that he can't seem to stop, and his hand comes up and covers yours on his cheek and holds it there, feeling him shake.
“It was never about the face,” you choke out, your voice breaking. The tears fall freely now, and you let them. “It was you. Just you, BB. The way you listened. The way you learned me. The way you held me like I was the first thing you'd ever wanted to hold. The way you asked am I doing it right after kissing me, and the answer was always yes. It was always just you.”
BB's eyes crack open. Wet. Bobby's blue, glassy with a moisture that shouldn't be there, that his body doesn't produce, that has no biological mechanism to explain it… and yet. His lashes are dark and clumped, his eyes full and the expression in them is so devastated, so completely and utterly undone, that you have to look away.
You pull your hand back.
BB makes another sound. Louder. A moan that cracks open midway through and becomes something raw and guttural, a noise that comes from the place beneath the face, beneath the voice, from whatever vast and ancient thing lives at the core of him and is now experiencing, for the first time in its incomprehensible existence, the human agony of being left by the person it loves.
“No,” he breathes. “Please. No, no.”
You lower your head. “Take me to the M.E.G. outpost.”
“Please.” His hand reaches for yours but catches only air. You've stepped back and his fingers close on nothing and his face—Bobby's face, BB's face, the face that learned to smile because you smiled first—contorts. “Don't. Don't leave. You can't—I'll fix it. I'll tell you everything, I'll never keep anything from you again, I'll—”
“BB.”
“—the apartment, I'll make it better. I'll find Entity X and end it, and you'll be safe. You'll be safe forever, I can keep you safe, please, I can—”
You can barely speak. “BB. Stop.”
He stops, his mouth trembling. The word he was forming dies on his tongue. His eyes rest on you, wide and wet, terrified.
“All that's waiting out there is a life that hurt you,” he blurts out, desperate. The words tumble, tripping over each other. BB, who is rarely inarticulate, is now struggling to assemble sentences fast enough to change the outcome. “Illness and old age and people who forgot you and—and a man who didn't see you until you were gone. That's what's on the other side of the wall. You’ll d-die. I… no. Please, no. Not you, not you.”
Your heart is ripping apart. A physical sensation of something in your chest being torn in two directions at once, the fibres separating, the tissue rending.
He's right. He's right about all of it. The world on the other side of the wall is the one that hurt you. The one that made you invisible. The one that let you stand in doorways waiting to be loved and answered with grunts and cold sheets and blank tapes that erased your face. There is nothing on the other side of the wall that is gentle the way BB is gentle, nothing that listens the way he listens, nothing that will press its mouth to your forehead every morning and hold you through the night and learn your name syllable by syllable.
But it's your life. The miserable, broken, painful, mortal thing. Yours.
“If you love me,” you say in a quiet rasp, each word costing a piece of your heart you can feel being subtracted from the centre of your chest. “If you love me the way you say you do. If that promise you made me meant anything at all, or the name I gave you meant anything... then you'll let me leave.”
BB stares at you. The tears—his tears, not Bobby's, the moisture that has no biological origin and exists only because the grief demanded a vessel—tracking down his cheeks, and where they fall the skin glows. Faint. Luminescent. A soft, shimmering iridescence that blooms along the tracks of the tears like bioluminescence, like foxfire, a visible signature of an inhuman emotion marking inhuman skin.
His agony written on his face in light.
BB reaches for your shoulder slowly. His hand is gentle, his touch almost absent.
The meadow folds around you, your stomach lurching. The golden light compresses, narrows, and when the world straightens again, you're standing in the corridor on Level 4.
The monitoring equipment. The cameras. The wall with the shimmer. The remains from operatives are mostly gone. Absorbed by the Backrooms, consumed by the level itself, the corridor healing over the evidence of violence the way skin heals over a wound. A few remain. Dark shapes at the periphery that you don't look at.
The no-clip wall is there. The shimmer and behind it the real world. A place where it rains, and people eat hotdogs and phone calls go unanswered. Where love atrophies through neglect and everyone you've ever known has forgotten your face.
And BB's hand rests on your shoulder, trembling openly. A hand that was built to hold on, that heard you, chose you, kept you, loved you and lied to you, and is now standing in a corridor doing the one thing it has never done.
Letting go.
His hand lifts from your shoulder.
You feel the absence instantly. The place where his palm was goes cold, the last physical connection between your bodies dissolving into air.
“Please,” he rasps behind you, low and shaking, stripped of everything. The charm, the cockiness, the ancient resonance, the hum's harmonic, all of it gone, the voice of a thing that has been reduced to its simplest possible setting: a being, in a hallway, begging. “Please stay. Please don't leave me alone again. Please.”
You turn, walking toward the wall. Your notebook tight against your chest.
“Please.” Louder, more frantic, the word cracking. “I'll be better. I'll tell you everything. I'll never lie to you again. I'll—I can change. I can learn. You taught me how to dance and how to kiss. How to hold you. Teach me this too, teach me how to let you be angry and still stay, teach me how to—”
You keep walking. The shimmer is close now. Five metres. Four.
“Please don't go.” His voice is climbing. Not in volume, in pitch. In frequency. The human register giving way to something else, something that vibrates in the walls and the floor, fillings in your teeth. “Please. I can't—I'll be alone. I'll be alone again. I was alone for so long, and then you were there, and I heard you. You were the first voice in—in—”
The sound fractures. Becomes a keening. A high, sustained, inhuman wail that has no words left in it, just the raw frequency of loss, a being older than language grieving in the only language it has left. Sound itself, vibration itself, the hum turned inside out and made to carry a weight it was never designed to hold.
You stop.
Your composure breaks. Silent tears pour down your face, and your mouth contorts, your chest heaving and you press the notebook against your sternum until it hurts. The keening behind you is the worst sound you’ve ever heard. Worse than the Smiler, worse than Entity X, worse than Bobby's voice saying baby? in a yellow corridor, because this sound has your name in it.
This sound is the noise a heart makes when it's too old and too vast and too full to survive what's happening to it.
You turn and look behind you.
The corridor is empty.
The shimmer on the wall pulses gently, waiting. And the space where BB stood—three metres back, in the corridor, where his voice was—is vacant. Just the flat, beige, infinite emptiness of a level that's been suddenly abandoned.
He's gone.
For all his power. For all the corridors he owns and the entities he's unmade and the levels he moves through like blood through a vein. For all the ancient, vast, immeasurable force that lives inside the Bobby-suit and behind the borrowed eyes and underneath the face he chose because he heard a woman crying and wanted to be the thing that made her stop.
The one thing BB couldn't do was watch you leave him.
You press your hands over your face, and you sob. Hard. A sound that comes from the bottom of your gut and fills the corridor and bounces off the walls and comes back to you changed, louder.
You scrub your face. The heels of your hands grinding against your eyes until white spots swim in your vision. You breathe wetly, straightening, and look toward the wall. The shimmering exit.
You step through.
an: in which everyone has a no good, very bad day ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
yousharknotpass
jimmyeatworldofficial
tangentwithtanner
theartofmadeline
amandla
titsay
romaincrisis
