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Will post all the rest of the cc asks tomorrow.
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Deux à Deux | thriller, drama, romance | 8 Nov. 2025
Title: Deux à Deux Author: Ray Wilson Genre: Thriller, Drama, Romance, Crime (and a tiny bit of comedy) ⭐ Demo Link ⭐ Tumblr Pinterest Spotify Email: if you prefer email for communicating feedback/questions/whatever else, PM me and I will send you my email address! Current Progress...
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I know you wanted a snippet with N, but trust the process. I’m calling this one part 1. So in Part 2, MC brings Morgan back to the Gumps mansion, and the mother is going to scold MC and berate MC, not even taking into account that MC saved her damn child. But then N will show up. So again, trust the process.
Snippet is below-For context, this is for Arson MC.
It’s late, almost past eight pm, and you shouldn’t be this close to the train tracks, but Misery has a way of pulling you back to places you know aren’t good for you. Besides sitting in the back pews of the church, or walking along the train tracks always helps you clear your head. It quiets the noise, the bad thoughts, and the yelling from the townies, and somehow, that makes living in this ****ing town bearable.
Gravel crunches under your shoes as you walk, eyes down, until something ahead makes you slow. A small shape, moving where it shouldn’t be, a backpack bouncing against a little spine. Then the light of the moon catches her hair, red, and your stomach drops.
Is that Morgan Gump?
Morgan is the youngest of the Gumps, six years old, and mostly kept out of sight unless the family needs to parade her for a photo or show off a polished front at charity galas.
“Hey,” you call out, keeping your voice soft. Non-threatening. The last thing you need is to spook a six-year-old into runniing straight onto the tracks. “Morgan?”
She whip around, backpack swinging with the motion. Those Gump-family freckles stand out even in the dark. Her chin juts up, defiant, but you catch the wobble in her lower lip.
“I’m not going back.” She clutches her backpack straps harder. “You can’t make me.”
You stop a few feet away, hands visible, trying to look as harmless as possible. “Wasn’t planning on making you do anything.” You crouch down, bringing yourself to her eye level. Gravel bites your knees through your jeans. “Just wondering where you’re headed this late. It’s pretty dark out here.”
Morgan’s eyes narrow. “I’m running away.”
“Yeah? Where to?”
“Anywhere that’s not here.” She kicks at the gravel, sending stones skittering. “My family hates me.”
You slowly nod. You know that feeling too well—the certainty that you’re unwanted, that you’re taking up space meant for someone better. Your throat tightens.
“Why do you think they hate you?”
Morgan shrugs. “${Noah}’s always at work. $!{noah_he} promised we’d play pirates yesterday but ${noah_he} had to go arrest someone. Again.” She counts on her fingers. “And Mom makes me eat carrots. And kale. Every. Single. Day. Even though I told her a million times they’re disgusting.”
Despite everything, you feel your mouth twitch. “Carrots and kale, huh? That’s pretty rough.”
“The worst.” She studies you, suspicious now. “Do you eat vegetables?”
“Hate them,” you admit, digging into your jacket pocket. Your fingers find the peppermint you grabbed from the church earlier. Father Gray keeps a bowl by the door, probably the only sweet thing in that whole building besides the communion wine. “Especially kale. Tastes like eating paper.”
You watch her tiny hand wrap around the candy, those freckled fingers working at the wrapper with the kind of focus only kids have. Morgan pops it in her mouth and looks up at you like she’s trying to figure something out.
“I know who you are,” she says, matter-of-fact. “You’re Town Trash.”
The insult makes you freeze for a second, even coming from a six-year-old. Especially coming from a six-year-old. Kids don’t make up names like that, they just repeat what they hear at dinner tables.
“That’s what my mom calls you.” Morgan kicks at a rock this time. Then her face scrunches up like she’s remembering something important. “My ${nbrother} calls you ${nickname}. But I think it’s because $!{noah_he} likes you.”
Your throat goes tight. ${Noah}. Of course ${noah_he}’d be the type to call you by your nickname in front of ${noah_his} little sister.
“Your ${nbrother}’s nice,” you manage, keeping your voice light. “$!{noah_he}’s one of the good ones.”
Morgan nods seriously. “$!{noah_he} is nice. Too nice. Mom says ${noah_he} needs to stop being so nice to everyone or people will take advantage.” She looks at you sideways. “Are you taking advantage?”
Jesus. This kid.
“No,” you say. “I’m not taking advantage of your ${nbrother}.”
“Good.” She swings her backpack around to her front, digging through it. “Want to see what I packed for running away?”
You shouldn’t encourage this, but you find yourself nodding. She pulls out items one by one: a stuffed rabbit missing an eye, three juice boxes, a handful of crayons, and what looks like half a peanut butter sandwich wrapped in a naptkin.
“That's… a good start,” you say carefully. “But you know what? Running away is harder than it looks. I tried it once when I was about your age.”
Her eyes go wide. “You did? What happened?”
Your knees give out, and settle onto the gravel. She plops down next to you without hesitation. Her knee bumps yours, and suddenly you’re aware of how small she is, and you’re happy you found her before some other weirdo did.
“Well, I packed my favorite toy and all the cookies I could find. Made it about as far as the gas station before I realized I didn’t actually know where I was going.” You pick up a piece of gravel, roll it between your fingers. “Turns out, the world’s pretty big when you’re little.”
“I’m not little,” Morgan protests. “I’m six and a half.”
“Right. My mistake.” You fight back a smile. “So where were you planning to go?”
She shrugs, suddenly interested in retying her shoelace. “Dunno. Maybe the city. Or Disney World. Somewhere they don’t make you eat vegetables.”
“Disney World’s pretty far. And I hate to break it to you, but they probably have vegetables there too.”
“That’s stupid.” She slump against her backpack. “Everything’s stupid.”
You know the feeling. God, do you know the feeling.
“Hey,” you say. “Want to hear about the time I accidentally set my mom’s curtains on fire?”
Her head snaps up. “You set them on FIRE?”
“Total accident. I was trying to kill a spider with hairspray and a lighter—”
“That’s so cool!”
“—and it turns out curtains are really flammable. Who knew?”
Morgan giggles. “Did you get in trouble?”
“So much trouble. But the spider definitely died, so… mission accomplished?”
She laughs harder, clutching her stuffed rabbit. For a moment, she’s just a kid again, not a tiny runaway with a backpack full of juice boxes and hurt feelings.
You tell her more stories, the time you got stuck in a tree and the fire department had to come get you down, the great food fight of fifth grade, how you once convinced half your class that the janitor was secretly a wizard. Each tale gets more ridiculous, but Morgan eats them up, adding her own commentary and gasping in all the right places.
“You’re funny,” she says eventually, like she’s granting you a title. “Not trash at all.”
This little acceptance shouldn’t matter. She’s six. But something in your chest loosens anyway.
“Thanks, kid. You’re not so bad yourself.”
She beams, then hesitates, “Do you think my mom will be mad? About me running away?”
“Probably,” you admit. “But I think she’ll be more glad you’re okay. That’s how moms work, even when they’re being annoying about vegetables.”
Morgan thinks for a second, chewing her lip. “Maybe I could go back. Just for tonight. To think about my plan more.”
“Yeah, maybe you should.”
She falls silent again, and this time you decide to act.
“Come on,” you say, standing and brushing gravel off your jeans. “I’ll walk you back. Can’t have Misery’s youngest runaway getting lost in the dark.”
She takes your offered hand without hesitation, her fingers tiny and warm in yours. The trust in that gesture makes something twist in your stomach. When’s the last time anyone trusted you this easily?
Never.
But somehow, having Morgan’s trust… it means a lot.
Part 2:
The Gump mansion sits at the end of Coal Street and you've seen it a hundred times from a distance. It's hard to miss with its pristine white columns, its manicured lawn, and looking so perfect that you sometimes want to throw a rock through one of the windows just to see it crack. But you've never been this close. Never walked up the stone path, especially not not with a six-year-old's hand in yours, her tiny fingers still sticky from the peppermint.
Morgan chatters the whole way. She talks about her rabbit, which is named Captain Buttons, he lost the eye in a "tragic accident" involving her mother stepping on the poor rabbit, she talks about the juice boxes, apparently grape is superior to apple, and anyone who disagrees is wrong, and lastly she rambles about the sandwich she saved for later.
"Do you like peanut butter?" she ask, swinging your hands between you.
"Everyone like peanut butter."
"Not my mom. She says it's for children."
You shake your head. Of course Eveline Gump would say something like that, to her own daughter no less.
You finally reaches the mansion, and your steps slow as you walk up to the porch. Every instinct tells you to drop Morgan's hand, point her toward the door, and bolt before anyone sees you. This is Gump territory, and you don't belong here. You're the "Town Trash" as Eveline calls you, the priest's bastard child, the living reminder of a scandal this town will never let die.
But Morgan tugs you forward. "Come on. The steps are slippery sometimes."
"I can walk you to the door, but..."
"You have to come inside." She says, insisting. "Noah's probably home. He'd want to say hi."
You hesitate. Noah. God. You've been avoiding him for weeks. Especially since that argument you witnessed between him and Father Gray, and even though you have no proof it was about you, you just have a feeling that the only reason he would say "Stay away," would had to do with some protective instinct of his. Protective instinct about you.
"I really should—"
Morgan rings the doorbell. The sound echoes through the house like a gong, and you're trapped.
It barely takes a few seconds for the door opens. A maid in a gray uniform looks down at Morgan with an expression that cycles thhrough shock, relief, and exhaustion in about three seconds flat.
"Miss Morgan!" She clutches her chest. "Where on earth have you been? Your mother's been beside herself."
"I ran away," Morgan announces cheerfully, like she's reporting on a successful field trip. "But Ella found me and brought me back. We're friends now."
The maid's gaze lifts to you. You brace for the judgment, the narrowed eyes, the subtle shift in posture that screams you don't belong here. But instead, she just looks… grateful.
"Thank you," she says, giving you a fain smile. "Thank you for bringing her home. Mrs. Gump was about to call the sheriff—"
"It's fine." You take a step back, ready to flee. "She was just… it's no big deal. I should go."
"No!" Morgan grabs your wrist with both hands. For a six-year-old, she's got a surprisingly strong grip. "You have to come in. Just for a minute. Please?"
"Morgan, I should go, really."
"Noah's in his room. He always wants to see you. He told me." She looks up at you with those big Gump eyes, the same green as her brother's, same friendly expression that makes you feel like the worst person alive for even considering saying no. "Just for a minute. Please please please?"
You should say no. You should say no and walk away and go back to your side of town where you belong. But the maid is holding the door open, and Morgan is pulling your arm, and somehow you're already crossing the threshold into the Gump's mansion.
The inside is exactly what you expected. Hardwood floors so polished you can see your reflection. Artwork on the walls from some renown artists, maybe. A chandelier in the entryway that sparkles like diamonds. Everything is pristine and perfect and cold. But you know better. Sometime perfect houses hides ugly truths.
You've barely taken three steps when you hear it. The loud click of heels on hardwood, approaching fast.
"Morgan Elizabeth Gump!"
You feel a chill run down your spine and the temperature drops about ten degrees.
You turn, and there she is. Eveline Gump in the flesh. Tall, angular, her fake blonde hair perfectly styled even at—you glance at a clock on the wall—nearly nine at night. Her green eyes are cold as they stare at Morgan, and her mouth is pressed into a line so thin it might disappear entirely.
She doesn't look at you. Her entire focus is on Morgan, who has shrunk about two inches since her mother appeared.
"Where have you been?" Eveline almost barks. "Do you have any idea how worried I was? I was about to send your your brother out for you. I was about to call the Sherriff."
"I ran away," Morgan says, smaller now. "But I came back."
"Ran away." Eveline's eyes go wide. "You ran away. Like some, some—" She presses her hand to her forehead, as if Morgan has given her a migraine. "Where did you go? What were you thinking?"
"I just wanted—"
"You wanted. Of course you did. You never think about anyone but yourself, do you? Do you know what people would say if they knew my daughter was wandering around town like some—"
"Ella found me," Morgan interrupts, her voice wavering. "She was nice. She gave me candy and told me stories and—"
And that's when Eveline finally look at you.
You've felt a lot of things in your twenty-something years of existence. Shame, plenty of it. Anger, more than your fair share. But the way Eveline Gump looks at you, like you're trash on her pristine hardwood floor, it makes something cold lodge in your chest.
"You." Her voice is different now. Colder. "What are you doing in my house?"
"I brought Morgan back," you say, and you're proud that your voice ins't cracking. "She was out by the train tracks. I walked her home."
"The train tracks." Eveline's gaze flicks to Morgan, then back to you. "And you just happened to be there. Wandering around in the dark. Near my daughter."
"Mom—" Morgan starts.
"Be quiet, Morgan." Eveline doesn't even look at her. She's focused entirely on you now, and you can feel the maid shrinking into the wallpaper, probably wishing she'd never opened the door. "I know who you are. I know exactly what kind of person you are."
"I was just trying to help."
"Help." She scoffs. "That's rich. Town trash, trying to help. What did you want? Money? A favor from my son?"
Hearing the way she calla you "Town Trash" hurts more than the insult itself. You knew it was coming, Morgan already told you what her mother calls you, but hearing it from Eveline's mouth, almost like she's disgusted, is different.
"I didn't want anything," you say. Your hands are shaking. You shove them in your pockets so she won't see. "I found your daughter alone in the dark and I brought her home. That's it."
"That's it." Eveline steps closer. She's taller than you, and she uses every inch of taht height to look down at you like you're something she scraped off her designer shoe. "Let me tell you something. You don't belong here. You don't belong anywhere near my family. My daughter, my son—you stay away from them. Do you understand?"
"She helped me!" Morgan's voice cracks. Tears are streaming down her freckled cheeks now. "She was nice! She's not trash, she's my friend—"
"Morgan, go to your room."
"But Mom—"
"Now."
Morgan looks between you and her mother, her small face crumpling. You want to tell her it's okay, that you're fine, that her mother's words can't hurt you. But that would be a lie, and Morgan deserves better than lies.
"Go on," you say softly. "It's okay. Go find your brother."
Morgan sniffles, clutches Captain Buttons to her chest, and runs for the stairs. You hear her calling Noah's name, all the while she's sobbing.
And then it's just you and Eveline. The maid has vanished. Smart woman. You wish you could vanish too.
"Now." Eveline crosses her arms, her manicured nails tapping against her silk sleeve. "Let's be clear about something. I don't know what you think you're doing, worming your way into my family, but it ends here. Tonight."
"I'm not worming my way into anything." You make yourself meet her eyes. It's hard. Everything in you wants to look away, to shrink, to apologize and flee. But you've spent your whole life apologizing for existing. You're so ****ing tired of it. "I found a six-year-old wandering alone in the dark and I brought her home. That's what normal people do."
"Normal people." Eveline's lip curls. "You're not normal. You're the illegitimate daughter of a dead priest who had the gall to name you in his will. You're the reason this town has been gossiping for months. You're trash, and everyone knows it."
"That's not my fault."
"Fault?" She laughs again. "It doesn't matter whose fault it is. It matters what you are. And what you are is not welcome here. Not in my home. Not near my children. Not near my son."
She glares at you when she says my son, and you can't help but wonder what she would do if she knew that you and Noah have a secret spot by the train tracks where you always meet and talk. What would she do if she knew that your friendship with her son has been going on for years?
You take a breath and try to steady yourself. "I don't know what you think is happening—"
"I think you've got ideas above your station." Eveline steps closer. "I think you've looked at my son and seen an opportunity. A way out of your pathetic little life. Maybe you've convinced yourself he actually cares about you. Maybe you think if you smile enough, if you play the wounded bird, he'll sweep you off your feet and save you from yourself."
"That's not—"
"It won't happen." Her voice is ice. "Noah is a Gump. He has a future. A real future. And you? You're a scandal waiting to happen. You're everything this family has worked to rise above. So let me be very clear: stay away from him. Stay away from all of us. Or I will make your life in this town even more unbearable than it already is."
Your hands are shaking so hard you can feel it in your shoulders. Every word she's said is a knife, and she knows exactly where to aim. But you don't move. You don't apologize. You don't run.
"I didn't do anything wrong," you say, and your voice only shakes a liitle. "I brought your daughter home. That's all I did. You can call me trash, you can call me whatever you want, but I know who I am. And I know that your daugther was wandering around in the dark because she felt like her family didn't care about her. Maybe instead of yelling at me, you should ask yourself why a six-year-old thought running away was better than staying here."
Eveline's face goes white. For a moment, you think she might actually hit you. Her hand twitches at her side, her jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscles working beneath her skin. And just as she takes another step, you hear Noah's voice.
"What's going on?"
Noah stands on the stairs, Morgan tucked against his side, her face buried in his shirt. He's wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt, his hair is a little messy like he was lying down when Morgan found him. His eyes go from his mother's rigid fury to your defensive stance, and he sighs.
"El?" His voice is soft. Like you're something fragile that might break if he speaks too loud. "Are you okay?"
Eveline makes a sound of disgust. "Noah, this doesn't concern you. Go back upstairs."
But Noah ignores his mother and climbs down the stairs. His eyes stays on you the whole time as if you're the only person in the room, as if his mother isn't standing three feet away radiating fury.
"Morgan said you brought her home," he says. "From the train tracks."
You nod.
Noah finally looks at his mother, then back at you. His hand rubs circles on Morgan's back, who is still clinging to him.
"Thank you for doing that, El," he say. "I appreciate it."
You nod again, look down at Morgan, and smile before turning on your heels and making your way out.
Just as you reach the door, you hear Noah say, "Morgan, go to your room. I'll be right back. I need to talk to El."
The next thing you hear is Evelyn yelling at Noah not to follow you, but of course, he ignores her.
#ccmisery#N snippet part 2/3