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clown-bimbo · 2 months ago

Text

coastal conversation.

yandere!floyd leech x (female) reader cw: (soft/subtle) yandere, nsfw, breeding, obsession, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, slight delusion, floyd's kind of a pervert in this one note - everything is in bloom in spring: the plants, the incessant rain, romance… for floyd, it means mating season.

In the most unfiltered way, Floyd feels like utter shit.

He tossed and turned all throughout the night, drowning in an ocean of his own sweat. One minute, he was hot all over, thus the blankets were cast off, and the next he was chilled to his marrow so badly he had to cocoon himself in those same drenched sheets. Even though it’s early spring and the unpredictable forecast has hammered NRC’s campus with floods of cool rain, Octavinelle Dorm is kept at suitable temperatures for its residents.

Therefore, it shouldn’t be much of an issue. He’ll regulate and bounce back…or whatever it is human bodies do when throttled with wild weather.

Floyd has an innate sensitivity to everything, so it’s no surprise he’s able to immediately zero in on it—the creeping suspicion that something’s wrong. He knows he’s falling ill, but there are way too many human ailments for him to recall and some of them aren’t even worth pitching a fit over. He takes pride in his human immune system, which the doctors have observed is healthy every year he’s had to sit for his medical exams, so, really, he has no reason to fret.

And he’s not. It’s more inconvenient than anything. He has plans today—plans he’s not exactly thrilled about—but plans nonetheless. This mounting sickness is the perfect excuse to ditch them and sleep the weekend away. If he believed in all that universe-speaking-through-signs crap, he’d say fate is on his side. It’s destiny telling him not to go on this blind date.

That’s right. A blind date. Those are the plans.

He’s not even sure why he agreed to it in the first place. Maybe because it sounded interesting at the time it was proposed, but now he has to actually execute everything he once marveled at in theory. And dates are so much work, even more so when you’re not feeling it.

But Jade—the professional provocateur that he is—went and blabbed about this development to their mother, who was so thrilled on Floyd’s behalf and wished him all the best. If she wasn’t stuck in the sea with her own business to handle, she’d come up there to visit and cheer him on—something Floyd was quick to veto. He loves his mama, but sometimes she can be excessive in her affections. Any other day he’d be pleased to bask in it, but not when he’s feeling so volatile. It’s like the four seasons are at constant war within his body, each one battling for sole control over his temperament.

Still, he’s a little curious.

He’s never been on a blind date before. It was arranged through an app he’d downloaded for the sake of slaking his boredom. Find your next Charming Darling. That’s what the app advertised—purely fairy-tale experiences. True love and princesses and all kinds of lovey-dovey stuff Floyd scrunched his nose at. Azul had said the app itself seemed “dubious at best, but most certainly a scam,” as it worked only by pairing two anonymous users together for online chatting. It was a location thing, apparently. You wouldn’t know who you were talking to and neither would the other person—each profile kept private for suspense or some other stupid reason—but you’d both know where the other was in proximity to you.

And it just so happened that Floyd’s Charming Darling was close. On campus close.

He wondered which small fry had matched with him, and it was his theorizing that convinced him to melt out of bed and into clothes for the day. He can handle a few hours in town. He needs to pick up some things anyway, so if the date is a bust the trip won’t have been for nothing.

After confirming the meeting place with his so-called ‘darling’, he pulls his sneakers on, stuffs his wallet in his pocket, and then sets off to catch the bus into town.

Even though the sun is high in the sky, the would-be heat is chilled by the gentle breeze rolling in from the coast. His head is pounding and stuffed full of crackling static and wires, and he feels an impossible itch deep beneath his skin. But the pleasant weather manages to lift his spirits enough for him to let his date know he’s arrived at the café. He finds a table outside and plops down, content to wait after receiving an enthusiastic almost there text.

He smells you before he sees you.

Suddenly, the sticky-sweet aroma of candy and pastries and every other saccharine thing invades his senses. It’s thrilling like blood in the water, widening his pupils until his eyes are nearly twin pools of the deepest black, but instead of iron and injury he catches the floral notes of arousal. Or maybe it’s a scarily strong perfume.

Either way, it has his hunting instincts switched on, that predatory hindbrain of his prickling with the urge to chase and capture prey.

Just before he can sift through the other scents slamming his nose and narrow in on that very specific one, someone speaks up.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. You’re my Prince Charming?”

Oh, he knows that voice. Immediately, whatever bad mood was sitting on simmer in the back of his head shuts off and is replaced with a burst of positive energy. A malicious smile curls on his lips, one he’s all too eager to flash at you when he turns around in his seat.

He almost falls out of it.

You look different. It’s a good sort of different. In your pretty blouse and skirt, stockings pulled up to your knees, you look ready for a date. You’ve even styled your hair and done your makeup to match your outfit. It’s a stark contrast to how you normally look at school: perpetually exhausted, too lazy to do anything more than simply pull your uniform on and attempt a semi-presentable attitude. Enough to get through the day. But this… This is a genuine effort.

You got all dressed up for this little date. Even put on a pretty scent.

All for him.

Cute.

If this was the sea, you’d attract all sorts of predators.

Thankfully, your scowl is evidence enough that you’re too miffed to notice his uncharacteristic silence. He beams up at you, the picture of innocence.

“Heya, Shrimpy. Looks like you’re the one I’m s’posed to meet.” To prove it, he holds his phone up for you to see. The chat log glints back at you.

“Unfortunately.” You fix your purse strap and eye the surrounding area with a frown. Floyd can tell you’re searching for your real date because you don’t believe it could be him. When you check your phone for confirmation, your expression sours. “So it really is you.”

“In the flesh. Sooo. You gonna sit?”

“I guess. I already made the trip here, might as well.” You slide into the seat across from him.

“Ya look good.”

“And you look like you just crawled out of a cave.”

“Nope, not a cave.” He rests his elbows on the table and leans in, a giggle tickling the back of his throat. “Bed.”

“Yeah, that sounds like you.”

“If I’d known it was gonna be you, I woulda wore somethin’ nice.”

“Can’t get much nicer than this.” You gesture at him vaguely and he laughs. He’s glad he didn’t miss this. “Whatever. I’ll just get some cake to go and be on my way.”

“Whaaat? That’s lame. Aren’t ya gonna stay a bit?”

I’ll make it fun, so don’t go.

“Why? Are you?”

He nods.

“You don’t even like me. Why would I make myself—and you—even more miserable by staying?”

“Cuz,” he replies with a noncommittal shrug, like that answers it.

Instead of offering him a response, you pry the menu open and hide behind the flaps.

“Didn’t think you were the dating app type,” he tries, aiming for small talk.

You lower your menu to look at him. “Tell me, Floyd. What’s the ‘dating app type’ supposed to look like?”

He leans back in his seat, amused by your annoyance. “Dunno.” And then, before you can recover, a rapid-fire question: “Who were you hopin’ to meet today?”

Tell me so I can beat ’em into the ground.

He snaps out of the sudden territorial jealousy and, like the waves, feels the violent urge ebb away.

Weird. He’s not looking to start a fight today. So then why is he so…restless?

“Not you. You’re the furthest thing from my ideal Prince Charming.”

And he’s back in the ring, ready to swap verbal vitriol until someone succumbs to the blow. “Well, what’s your perfect, li’l prince look like?”

“I don’t know.” You huff and retreat behind the menu, and right then he knows he has you cornered. “Anyone but you.”

“Aww. C’mon, Shrimpy, ya gotta have an image of ’em, at least. If you’ve spent so much time thinkin’ about it—” and he knows you have because he was present for all of those midnight text exchanges, trading details on future partners like they were cards— “then you’ve gotta have an idea.”

“It’ll never be you, so I don’t see why you’re so interested.” But then you slam your fist against your palm. “Oh, I get it. You just want dirt on me.”

“What? No way. That’s boring.” He pulls a disgusted face. He’s not the type to rely on psychological warfare and mental manipulation. So not his style.

“Isn’t that your whole angle?”

His mood promptly nosedives. “Just cuz I’m in Octavinelle and I hang with Jade and Azul doesn’t mean I follow their flow by the letter,” he snaps.

Rather than flinch back, his irritated tone seems to smooth out your stiffness and he watches you visibly relax. He thinks that’s strange. Why aren’t you scared? Not that it’s his intention to frighten you. The last thing he wants is to chase you off. He’s waited so long for a moment like this one; he isn’t going to ruin it.

That’s why he’s so thrilled you’re you. The other small fry would just quiver like a bunch of babies, but you’re different. You meet his mood swings head-on, unflinching and unbothered. Patient, that’s what he’d call it. You’re patient. Not surgically so like Jade and definitely not meticulously like Azul. Your patience is like a tide pool. Calm and transparent. No ulterior motives.

It’s just you. That’s why he likes you so much. No elaboration needed.

“In that case, I could turn the question on you,” you continue, idly scanning the menu. “What does Floyd Leech’s ideal partner look like?”

Fuck. He wants you to say his name again. It pokes at some dormant part in his brain, the one that’s just starting to wake, humming with a queasy sort of desire. He fidgets with the menu, more focused on the extensive list of treats than the contents of your question.

He could say his ideal partner is you, but you probably wouldn’t believe him. And because of that it’s not worth using as a shock factor. Too predictable.

“Someone fun,” he says after a beat of quiet.

“So it was you… I can’t believe I didn’t realize that while we were texting.”

“Wasn’t obvious for me either. You talk so casually over text. It’s like a completely different Shrimpy.”

Equipped with this new information, it drapes another layer of context over your conversations. Because now he can associate your face with all of those flustered messages. He’s proud of that—of teasing you and eliciting such sweet reactions. To think it was you on the other end this entire time. He wonders if he made your heart skip a beat. Or maybe you stuffed your face in a pillow to hide your embarrassment. He pictures you holed up in Ramshackle, vibrating with nervous excitement.

Cute, cute, cute.

Refusing to dignify that with a proper retort, you fold your menu, pass it to the waiter, and voice your order. Floyd follows your lead, rattling off the name of the first dessert that caught his eye.

Just beyond the umbrella shielding both of you from the sun’s searing gaze, storm clouds begin to darken the pastel sky.

To shake off the ache that’s beginning to brew behind his eyes, he asks you about your plans for spring break. He must have won the small talk lottery because the suspicion in your stare disappears and you launch into a full-blown lecture about all the things you plan to get done. A whole grocery list. You’re going to be one busy Shrimpy come next week. A shame he won’t be around to witness it.

He’s keen to listen because it’s really all he can do with his waning focus. Your voice reels him in when his attention drifts. He doesn’t realize he’s admiring your mouth as it sounds out syllables he can only just register. Suddenly, it’s like he can’t even parse human speech. You’re looking through him, brows furrowed.

He’s always thought about kissing you. It’s in a moray’s nature to lie in wait, shrouded in the shadows, patiently waiting for the opportune moment. He doesn’t have anything to hide behind now, though. And if he kissed you here he thinks you might slap him. That would be invigorating.

Something stirs in him.

No. Actually, it’s…

The world.

The world is being stirred. Someone’s stuffed a spatula into the fluffy mixture and given it a steady whirl, and now everything’s a blurry mess of shapes and colors. He blinks rapidly to clear his vision.

It’s too hot. He needs to peel himself out of his skin and soak in the abyssopelagic zone.

Is he sweating? He must be. He’d lick at the liquid gathering between his armpits to determine that, but he’s on a date with you and human courtship dictates that he must impress you. So he can’t do things humans consider ‘gross’ or ‘indecent’. He has to leave a nice impression. He has to prove to you he’s just as good, if not better, than your lousy Prince Charming.

So he wipes his palms on his pants. Not that he’ll hold your hand. He thinks you’d sooner chop your own hands off than willingly reach for him, and the image of this extreme aversion is too funny to offend him.

Floyd swallows thickly. Your smell is so strong. Have you always smelled like this? Now that he’s looking at you, you appear…softer. He can’t explain it. Your skin looks healthier. The darkness sitting under your eyes isn’t nearly as sunken in as it usually is. Your lips shimmer with a beautiful shade of pink-red. It’s almost like you’re glowing.

If you were a mer, he thinks you’d be an ornamental fish. A pretty thing kept pampered, fins flowing like skirts, scales bright like individual chips of glass. A beguiling beauty who is just as fierce as she is stunning.

Maybe, he wonders, his gaze trailing down to your chest, you have eggs. Maybe that’s why you look softer.

“oyd… Floyd!”

He snaps back to himself. “Hmm?”

“Are you listening?”

“What part?” he asks without missing a beat, still smiling even though it hurts to do anything more than simply breathe. “Shrimpy’s got lotsa plans. You’re gonna be all diligent and hardworking. Hey, you should stay over at Octavinelle. We’ll keep ya nice and busy there.”

You roll your eyes. “Keep dreaming.”

He giggles. Oh, if only you knew of all the things he dreams about. Nothing can compare to the real Shrimpy, though. The one who glares at him like he’s an insect. The one who puffs up like a pufferfish when upset or angry. The one who always has such fun reactions to his teasing. How could he possibly stay away?

Just then, the desserts arrive. Floyd can’t find the appetite and is instead satisfied watching you eagerly receive your fruity drink and cake. He scoops a bite of pudding on his spoon and holds it out to you. Unsurprisingly, you scowl at it.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s a date, ain’t it? Gotta live up to your expectations.” And then, because he’s itching for your hands on him, whether to hit him or choke him out, he adds, “Shrimpy’s got some reeeal high standards.”

“Ugh. Gross. You’re the last person I’d want to feed me. And I’ve got my own food, thank you.”

“Ya sure? Should I manta it?”

“Should you what?” You fix him with a critical look, but he can see the interest bubbling beneath the thin veil of confusion.

“Y’know, manta it. Like this.” He moves his arm so that the spoon glides along an invisible current, moving smoothly like a manta ray. “Mama used to do that all the time when I didn’t wanna eat somethin’.”

“So the fish version of the airplane.”

“Eeh? That’s what humans do?”

You shrug. “It works.”

Floyd thinks he still prefers the manta. “Sooo. Wanna give it a try?” He’s itching to prove he can provide for you, even if it’s just pudding and not heaps and heaps of fish or an entire shark carcass.

You eye his spoon warily. “What flavor is it?”

“Secret,” he hums, delighted.

“Fine. Just one bite.” You reach to grab it, but he moves his arm up and away.

“Nuh-uh. You gotta let me do it. Defeats the whole purpose if you do it yourself.”

You submit, albeit with a stubborn pout.

“Now say ‘aah’,” he prompts, thinking you might really swing your fist.

Begrudgingly, you lean in and open your mouth wide. “Aah.”

Floyd straightens up in his seat, his eyes the size of plates. He swallows thickly, curling his free hand into a fist. He feels his nails pierce his palm, sharpened points drawing the tiniest pricks of blood. You crack an eye open, all while your wide, impatient mouth gapes back at him.

“Never mind,” he mutters, stabbing the spoon into the pudding and shoving the dish at you. He avoids your searching eyes and instead burns quietly in the flames of his own embarrassed arousal.

“Ugh. I can’t believe I fell for such an obvious trick,” you scoff around a dainty bite of cake. “Honestly… Life was so much better before I found out you were my match.”

Awkwardly, he rubs the back of his neck. He could make dozens of home runs out of the depravity that’s become his thoughts, what with how frequently he’s batting them away. When he looks at his hand, he finds a thin membrane webbing between each of his fingers.

That can’t be good.

“You can have mine,” he blurts, nudging the pudding towards you. “’m not hungry.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “I don’t suppose you want something in return for your generosity?”

“What do ya have to offer?” he asks, swallowing the bucket of saliva pooling on his tongue. It coats his dry throat on the way down. He can’t think like this. Maybe he really is sick because you’re all he can smell right now. It’s like he’s zoned in on it, a shark drawn to blood. Nothing else matters. You’re the only Shrimpy in his sea.

Predators, he remembers, the reminder tacked onto his mental bulletin like an afterthought.

Restlessly, he glances about. He flexes his fingers, curling and uncurling them. Deep down he’s aware this doesn’t mean anything. You’re not his mate, but he wants to protect you anyway. That’s probably the last thing you want, though. You’re a capable Shrimpy. It’s one of your many strengths.

Still… It’s nice to pretend, if only for the moment.

“An actual date,” you say, sipping at your drink.

The way your lips close around the straw is so unintentionally erotic it brings him back to a few minutes ago, when you opened your mouth at him. He should’ve reciprocated, but then it wouldn’t have meant anything. Not to you, anyway.

To clear his head and hopefully cool his boiling temperature, he stuffs a spoonful of pudding in his mouth. It’s sugary but not nearly as much as he’s certain you are. If he licked a stripe up your neck, perhaps he’d know your taste for sure.

“Since we’re here, we might as well, right?” you add and he’s brought back to the present. “And then after that we never have to see each other again.”

“Uh-huh…”

He remains unconvinced. No matter how much you push him away, he’ll still be there to pop up and surprise you on campus.

He’s a bother, and you—sitting beautiful and shimmering in the glow of spring courtship—are everything he’s ever dreamed of.

So it’s definitely eggs, he decides, his mind made up. How else can he explain the smell and the softness, all tell-tale signs of a mate in waiting?

Floyd has never been one to pursue smooth seas, preferring the euphoria of a hard-earned success. But Sea Witch below does he wish today wasn’t so challenging. How is he supposed to express everything in his heart if you can’t even read his body language? He’s not even sure if he can gauge yours. Do you want to mate with him? That’s why you prettied up your fins and…

No.

No, no, no.

He has to remember this is a blind date. You had no idea it was going to be him and neither did he. He wants to come out and say it because the complexities of moray courtship are struggling to get through the muddiness of your own human signs.

It occurs to Floyd he could just cast a spell so that his thoughts are broadcasted to you and he can read yours. But that’s a dirty trick, one that would be heavily frowned upon in the sea and perhaps even on land as well. It’s all so complex. He doesn’t have the energy for all of this thinking.

With a petulant whine, he melts onto the table in a puddle of pouty Floyd.

You raise a questioning brow and finish off the rest of your cake. “I’m eating your pudding so it doesn’t go to waste.”

He waves you off. “Don’t got much of an appetite for it anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” Shrugging, you take a bite and hum in delight. The tiny smile that traces your lips stuns him.

Oh.

He’s never seen you smile like that before… Usually, if you’re smiling, it’s one of malice—directed at him and accompanied with the threat of a clenched fist.

From where his head rests against the table, he’s free to admire you and your gluttony. Will this be enough? If you have eggs, you need to eat so much more than a measly slice of cake and some pudding.

But before he can call the waiter over to order everything on the menu, there’s a loud tearing sound and then a heavy flop. He glances behind him and finds his tail is protruding from his lower back like a thick, winding snake. It thumps against the ground in anticipation, almost as if it’s wagging.

That’s fun!

“So,” he starts, lifting his head to look at you properly. He remembers something you told him over text, when it was well past midnight and the both of you had strayed into more private discussions. “Shrimpy’s never had her first kiss, hm?”

“And it’s not going to be with you, so don’t even try,” is your scathing comeback.

Fuck, he wants you.

A wild grin breaks out on his face, sharpening in time with the fins that pop out from his ears. Crisp sounds rush in all at once, as if the cotton has been tugged out. Traffic, nearby conversations, the shush-shush of the waves crashing against the rocks. He pulls a face at the cacophony assaulting his hyper-sensitive ear-fins.

You stare at him. “You’re…green.”

“Huh?”

But then his fins shred through his sleeves and it becomes apparent his mer features are starting to poke through his human disguise. Teal flashes across his skin in speckled patches, swallowing up what’s left of his previously pale coloration.

This is odd because, as much as he despises it, he choked back that nasty potion just a few days ago to avoid this exact scenario. What gives?

It’s in this transitional stage, the space between half-human, half-mer, that the haze really settles in. Floyd staggers to his feet, rifling around for his wallet, and slams a fistful of bills down. It’s getting bad. He needs something he can’t have, and if he spends any more time here…

“We should go,” you say before he can, already out of your chair. “You need to get back to school or… Well, I guess if it comes down to it we can go to Craneport and throw you in the water there. It’s not too far from here.”

“Aww. Worried I’m gonna dry out?” He manages a casual tone despite the heat bubbling in his blood.

“As if. I just don’t want to haul your heavy eel ass around.” Scoffing, you step out from under the shade of the umbrella.

Just in time for the first few droplets of rain to come pattering down. You and Floyd glance skyward before sharing a quiet look. He extends his hand to catch a few drops on his palm.

“Look at that. The weather wants us to stay together,” he remarks, delirious.

“Even the universe wants us to split,” you speak over him.

“Hee-hee. The universe’s gonna hafta try harder than that. This is nothin’.”

As if in response to his challenge, lightning flashes across the sky in a crackling arc. It’s quickly followed by deep, rumbling thunder. Again, you and Floyd eye each other. His wide, toothy grin makes you frown. But that becomes the least of your worries when a smattering of rain comes pouring down on both of you.

You gasp, your hands flying up to protect yourself. “My clothes! My hair!”

Floyd watches you fall into a panicked sprint, his tail swishing to and fro. He doesn’t care about the many stares he’s starting to draw when he takes off after you, his obnoxious laughter echoing down the path. His clothes are already ruined. A rainstorm isn’t going to make any difference.

You take shelter in an alley, beneath an awning shared by conjoined buildings. Just beyond, a steady curtain of rain falls. Floyd marvels at it with a whistle. What a downpour… The forecast didn’t say anything about rain, but then he supposes that’s normal for springtime on land.

“As if this day couldn’t get any worse,” he hears you mutter. Floyd’s gaze pans from the slick street to you and finds you’re shivering. Your arms are wrapped around yourself and his mismatched eyes travel down, down, down.

Your blouse is clinging to your body and through the sopping fabric he can see the frilly outline of your bra. Unconsciously, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He tastes sweat-tinged rain as it trails down his face in salty streaks. When he brushes his matted hair out of his eyes—and it feels more like he’s draped a mop of seaweed over his head—he finds you’ve lowered your arms and are now attempting to check your makeup with a pocket mirror.

“Nooo. I spent so much time on it, too…”

Can you get any cuter? If he could afford just the smallest peek, maybe he’d see what type of panties you’re wearing. Are they as lacy as your bra? Are they thin like it, too, allowing him to see the pebbled peaks of your nipples poking through?

Damn it all to the deepest trench! Floyd can’t take it anymore! He needs to know.

“How big is it?” he blurts, grabbing your shoulders. He’s careful not to dig his claws into you, even though his instincts are telling him to shred that silky blouse to ribbons, snap through the strap of your bra with a voracious chomp, and make you his. But you’re precious, not prey, and so he’ll try to exercise some restraint.

You blink back at him in bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

“You know…” he trails off in hopes that you’ll fill in the empty space.

“No, I don’t.” You shake him off, but he’s quick to latch onto your wrists next. “Seriously, I don’t! What’s gotten into you? You’re acting weird.”

Floyd inhales through his nose. A bad move because your pheromones or perfume—whatever the fuck it is—invade his senses all over again. He can’t keep swatting the inevitable away. It’s only a matter of time before his biology incapacitates him. But while he’s still semi-coherent he’s going to take this opportunity to tell you everything that’s been on his mind ever since he first saw you.

That’s the plan, at least. How much of it he intends to follow, good question.

You’re staring at him like he’s lost his mind and maybe he has, drenched and looking like a teal Godzilla. He pulls back to rake his hands through his soaked hair.

“Y-Your clutch,” he mutters. “Can never tell in human form.”

“My…clutch. You want to know how big my clutch is. As in, like, eggs?”

“Mhm.”

He avoids looking at you out of sheer embarrassment—this sort of thing requires tact and sly communication, not direct fumbling that could be borderline begging—so he can’t imagine what expression you might be making. There’s a long, drawn out silence. He prepares himself to be slapped or berated—maybe both.

You touch his arm gingerly. He peers at you.

“If you were struggling, say so. Gosh, you’re so stubborn.”

Warmth and concern are hidden in those criticizing eyes. Even though your tone feels more like a scolding, it lifts his mood to know you care. He’d tease you for it, but he’s just not feeling it right now.

Floyd shakes off his reservations like a dog drying itself. For once, he doesn’t know what to say or do as he watches you through lidded eyes.

“I don’t really understand what’s going on, but you don’t feel good, right?” At that, he offers a small nod. “You were forcing yourself this entire time. Why didn’t you just leave? Why stick around and suffer?”

“Cuz Shrimpy was really lookin’ forward to this. Didn’t wanna disappoint ya.”

He wanted to impress you, show you that he’s a worthy mate, but that feels impossible now. With his back to the wall, he slides down until he’s sitting on the wet pavement. He’ll probably change back into a moray mer soon. Maybe the rain is delaying it. Maybe it’s the magical properties of the potion regulating what’s left of his human form.

You step into his line of sight then. His gaze travels up your stocking-clad legs. Before he can picture what’s beneath your skirt, you’re crouching down to view him. “I don’t think it matters whether you disappoint me or not.”

Yeah, it does. It matters cuz I like ya and want ya to have a good time.

“So you don’t have eggs,” he says, switching topics.

You sigh. “Yes, Floyd, I don’t have eggs. I’ve never had eggs. Not in the way you’re thinking. Humans don’t lay eggs.”

He knew that. Learned it in land boot camp. A shame. You’d look adorable saddled with a clutch or two.

But if that’s not the case, what’s with your smell? It can’t be perfume. Even the strongest of scents can’t compare to this. This is a sweetness that’s coming from between your legs, he’s sure of it.

You’re reaching into your purse now. “What’s Azul’s number? I’ll give him a call. Don’t push yourself.”

His tail moves without thinking, coiling around your waist to drag you closer. The force of it knocks you forward. With a startled yelp, you shoot your arms out to brace yourself against the wall, unintentionally caging him in. He gazes up at you, an unfocused stare that you hold with newfound intensity.

“Floyd,” you breathe, and he can see you’re scanning his face for answers.

Gently, you run your fingers over the dark swirls on his cheekbones. He gives a full-body shudder in response, biting back an enthusiastic trill when your touches trail to his ear-fins. He flexes his tail and squeezes your waist. He shouldn’t let it go further than this.

But if he does he could finally have you.

“I’ll help. Whatever this is, I’ll…do my best.”

Now it’s his turn to be confused. “You sure?”

You glance at his lap. Floyd follows your line of sight to find his cock pressed prominently against his pants. You swipe his hair back and hold your hand to his forehead.

“You’re burning up! Why would you even come out in the first place if you’re so sick?”

“Didn’t think it’d get this bad.”

You huff. “You’re unbelievable. Aren’t you scared?”

“Course not. How can I be when Nurse Shrimpy is takin’ good care of me?” He tries a playful smirk, but it falls short into a grimace.

“Whatever.” A serious look passes over your face next. “I’m not sure what to do, but… But I think it’s safe to…to do it. That’s what you need, isn’t it?”

Floyd drags you into his lap. “More or less, yeah.”

He doesn’t have to get into the details. That’s for future Floyd to explain…or not.

“Okay. Then… Hurry up and get it over with. The rain’s cold.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll warm ya up.”

“If I get sick from this, I’ll kill you.”

“Hee-hee.”

You shift awkwardly, searching for the right rhythm when you press down against his erection. Floyd hisses through his teeth. It almost doesn’t seem real. He thinks he can feel your pussy through your panties, and he wonders if they’re just wet from the rain or from something else. While you roll your hips, his hands move up to fiddle with the buttons on your blouse. It’s significantly harder to undo them when his claws are long and curved, and in a fit of impatience he grabs hold of the fabric and yanks it open. It comes away with a rip, buttons popping off and exposing your rain-slick skin and bra, much to his minacious delight.

“Floyd!” You yelp as he tips you backwards, pressing you against the cobbled ground. This new position allows him to slot himself between your legs, where he ruts like a mindless animal.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he promises, his mouth laving over your neck.

He just barely remembers to tug his pants and boxers down enough to free his cock, now more moray in structure, the shaft tinted teal and peppered with dozens of nubs. He nearly shreds through his underwear when his claws catch on the waistband. All you can manage is an aggrieved whine, which soon tapers off into a low moan when the head of his cock bumps against your clit.

“Off.”

“Wait, wait! I’ll do it. This is my nicest pair—don’t you dare ruin them.”

He’s sure they’re nice, but right now he doesn’t have time to appreciate them in full. He needs to be inside you or else he’ll pass out. The want is unbearable. Fuck, he wishes this was the sea. It would be easier to entice you there, with colors and scents and shows of strength. It’s way too complicated on land.

Your panties aren’t even halfway down your legs before he’s burrowing himself between your soft folds. It feels better than anything he’s ever known before. You’re warm and gooey inside, squeezing him like you’re intent on snapping his dick in half. And suddenly he can’t think or speak. Everything is blank as he grabs your hips and pulls you down. Your pussy swallows him up in one reckless thrust, and you squeak in surprise when it knocks against your deepest part. He feels your arms wrap around his neck, your legs twisting around his waist, and you cling to him like you’re afraid the storm will sweep you away.

He can’t muster another second of patience or restraint, so he slams in and out of you at an erratic pace, chasing the euphoric bliss that’ll finally satisfy every instinct buzzing beneath his skin.

“S-Slow down, Floyd! I ca—aah—can’t! S’too much,” you babble and dig your nails into his back, which only serves to embolden the brutal snap of his hips against yours.

“Shorry,” he rasps against your skin, his mouth watering with so much drool it drips in fat, warm drops and puddles in the slope between shoulder and neck.

He’s a pathetic moray. He can’t even offer you a nice cave to curl up in. He can’t even manage the patience to prepare you, to work you up until you’re glistening with desire. The best he can do is this filthy alley during the worst weather ever, and even then it’s far from romantic.

To offer you a modicum of comfort, he slides his tail beneath you to raise your ass for a better angle and provide a pillow for your head. You cry out a string of incoherent words. He pants against your pulse, the little heartbeat pounding in time with his own.

It’s wet and filthy and desperate. He’s not even sure if he’s breathing. All he knows is that he needs to fill you until you’re heavy with his seed, until your pussy weeps nothing but cum. You can’t walk around with your fins all prettied up, smelling like a sweet treat, attracting the worst kinds of predators with each step. If you smell more like him—if every inch of you is marked by him—no one else would dare to approach you. He’ll make damn sure of it.

Oh, that’s what this is.

Mating season.

Perhaps he could’ve gotten it out of his system if he stayed on campus and swam laps in Octavinelle’s special pool. He’s not used to feeling it in spring, but then his cycle has never followed any set schedule. It’s only this bad because he saw you—because he caught your scent and it flipped the switch in his brain, the one that’s screaming at him to breed his mate.

Because that’s what you are, even if you don’t know it yet.

That’s what you’re going to be. Biology won’t give you a choice.

Floyd grits his teeth, his pace mostly uneven now. He won’t bite. He’s not sure he can control his strength, and if he sinks his teeth into you what’s stopping him from tearing the flesh from your bones? Instead, he presses sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the space above your heart. His arms twist tightly around you to keep you trapped in place.

It’s fine if you think he’s scum or the worst moray in the Coral Sea.

Nothing is more titillating than a challenge.

Wrapped up in you and your hypnotic scent, your breathless voice in his ears, he cums so hard his vision whites out. You seem to have done the same, for your pussy clenches like a vise, rendering you boneless beneath him.

The haze in his head is dizzying. He blinks until color returns and that’s when he tugs your skirt up to see where you’re connected. He’s buried snugly inside, keeping all of his cum plugged deep. Your chest rises and falls with every wheezing gasp, and in this moment you are so fragile he thinks you might shatter if he fucks into you without warning again.

A feral smile widens on his lips.

“Hey, Shrimpy.” He nudges your cheek until your head lolls to the side. He knows you’re still conscious because your eyes, ringed with ruined eyeliner, find his. “There you are. Don’t fall asleep on me, ’kay?”

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

He leans in close. “Didja know? You came to this li’l date smellin’ suuuper sweet and I came sick.”

It takes a moment for you to register his words, but when you do all you can provide is an intelligent: “Huh?”

His hands settle on your spread legs, claws digging shallowly into the meat of your thighs. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wha… I don’t…” You shake your head. “Don’t get it.”

“Hee-hee. Did I fuck all the brains outta ya? Oops. Guess you’ll figure it out later then.”

We’re each other’s cure, he thinks, his form shadowing yours.

And now a mated pair.

#THE HAPPIEST MERMAY #TY TY TY #scrumdiddlyumptious

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clown-bimbo · 6 months ago

Text

I love this fic so fuckin much

Lives in my head rent free

Needle in to a bug (part 2)

I recall being told years ago that many surgeons have an unusually perceptive sense of touch, able to feel and palpate things that others struggle with or can’t feel at all. I think that could describe Derek.

Also, I know why it’s usually not mentioned wtf a kidnapped darling does when they need to pee, but I personally prefer it. Being able to just use the bathroom and clean ourselves up plays a big part in feeling human and dignified for so many of us. Whether they’d treat it like nothing at all, enjoy your humiliation, or degrade you for just having human needs, I think it would all stress me out way more than getting slapped around a lil bit every now and then.

Summary: 4.7k. You finally get the chance to move around and learn more about Derek, but he’s studying you, too.

Alt summary: Your hot surgeon is really hands-on and gives you the worst sponge bath you’ll ever have.

Pairing: yandere!Derek Stiles x reader x (in the future) yandere!Victor Niguel

Warnings: author’s medical trauma is showing, general medfet, kidnapping/captivity, bondage, urine (but like not in a sexy way, it’s just there), reader refers to having a period, noncon, violence, use of pet names (princess, honey), general yandere and obsessive behaviors

part 1 part 2 part 3

MDNI – NSFW – 18+ only – take care of yourself

Needle in to a bug (part 2)

You’re still sleeping. You breathe quietly as your eyelids flutter. You’re dreaming, and Derek hopes it’s of him. Whether it’s of him holding your hand, fucking your brains out, or slicing you open, it doesn’t matter—he just wants it to be of him. Derek glances at your throat. The blade has left red circles on your chin and chest, but it doesn’t look like you tried to scream at all, and that brings a smile to his face.

He hopes this means that you’ll adjust quickly, but he’s not against the idea of you putting up a fight, either. You could squirm and swing at him, and he’d smack you in the face and shove you on to the floor and—he’s getting carried away. Derek clears his throat and adjusts his glasses; heat is flowing from his neck up to his face. And down to his pants.

You’re here. You could help him fix that. And it’s tempting—but you’re still healing, and he also hasn’t had the decency to feed you yet. Derek pinches his thigh in an effort to calm his raging libido, before kneeling down beside you and smoothing some of your hair out of your face. He always thought you were cute, even when you two first met, but you look adorable when you’re sleeping.

He should have just taken you back then. He gave you a pass and didn’t kill you because you were so sweet, and then you were smart enough to not come back for a while. He thought he wouldn’t be so soft this time, that he’d rip you apart and be done with you, but then you had to go and look so adorable while he was cutting you apart.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” Derek coos, running his finger down your cheek. You eyes flutter open, showing only your white sclera for a moment, before your eyeballs roll to the correct place and slowly focus on him. “How are you feeling?”

He knows you can’t speak without getting hurt, and he knows you’ve likely forgotten in your current state. “I—” You wince and whimper when the blade digs in to your flesh, and you snap your mouth shut to try to end the pain.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot,” Derek says in a tone that is far too chipper. He undoes the leather collar around your neck, returning your ability to speak. “Better?”

As if you fear the ghost of it will manage to hurt you, you hesitate, slowly opening your mouth to test it before actually speaking. “My—my back hurts. My lower back.” Your sacrum is both numb and aching, likely from the pressure of being against the hard tub for so many hours. The pool of your own urine underneath it only added to the damage.

Derek doesn’t want you to get a pressure ulcer. Those are nasty and annoying to heal. Even so, you haven’t been here that long. “If you behave,” he begins, touching his finger to the irritated red spot on your chest. “I can let you move around a little bit.”

You immediately nod. Ugh, that hurts. The back of your head feels like the skin is ready to slough off.

“No running. You stay by me the whole time unless I give you permission not to, okay? No screaming,” he lists, tapping the spot on your chest with each new rule. “No silly ideas.”

“Okay,” you quickly agree, eyes wide at the thought of actually getting to move. Maybe you can’t escape with him right next to you, but you can at least get your bearings and start mapping the place—and take some pressure off your sacrum and head.

Derek smiles at your agreeableness and reaches down to pull you upright. It hurts; if anything, you expected relief, but you were only met with more pain. Your muscles are already sore and stiff from being contorted behind and underneath you for so long, unable to stretch, flex, or extend. Your hips click loudly. Your knees pop. You can feel cold urine running down your skin and it makes you want to throw up a little, but there’s nothing in there for you to expel.

“I should get you cleaned up first,” Derek muses. He’s unfazed by what a fucking mess you are. He’s a doctor, a literal goddamn surgeon, of course he isn’t bothered by the sight of your red skin and dried blood and urine all over you. The mats at the back of your head. The indents and edema left by the rope he bound you with. The fluid that oozes from the flesh he tore in to. This is the reality of the human body, a reality he is very familiar with, and one that he can now make a personal show of through your trembling little form.

You’re stupid for expecting hot water. You’re dowsed with ice cold water from the shower head and you suppose you should just be grateful that it isn’t a tub full of it, but you’re not. Urine, blood, and sweat run off of you and flow down the drain. He’s careful to avoid wetting your sutures; those need to be cleaned differently, he says, but you already know that, right?

Derek runs a rough, soapy washcloth up and down your arms. You’re shivering like he’s dunked you in an ice bath, but you haven’t complained, at least. His gaze trails down your spine, to the blooming red over your tailbone, and he presses his fingers against the center of it. As he expected, your skin doesn’t blanch from the pressure, but you do wince.

“That hurt?” Derek asks automatically.

“Y-yes.”

Of course it fucking hurts, it’s a pressure injury, but it made his cock twitch to hear you say it. Derek isn’t gentle when he scrubs your back or washes your hair with his soap and shampoo that just dry you out because he isn’t the kind of guy that has figured out how to take care of all that yet. Even he can tell that you’re in need of something gentler by how tight your skin feels now, but you’re still pretty soft, so it’s not that big a deal.

He drags the washcloth down to your inner thighs. You jump and wriggle, your limbs instinctively trying to lash out at him, but you make no progress. The ropes around your wrists and ankles might be wet, but they’re still tied tight around your limbs.

“You’d rather get an infection?” Derek mocks, pressing the harsh cloth in to the soft skin of your thighs. “Do you think that would make me stop?”

“No,” you whimper, averting your gaze. “I-I can do it myself.”

“No,” he mumbles, his eyes fixated on the soap running down your mound, “I don’t think you can.”

He was already harsh when he washed your back, and he was even worse when he started scrubbing your inner thighs and folds. Fuck. The soap burned and this washcloth was made of sandpaper.

“Stop,” you hiss, squeezing your thighs together. “That hurts!”

Derek mutters something you can’t hear past the water rushing out of the shower head. He doesn’t even look at your face; he just forces your thighs apart enough for him to wedge his hand in between them again. And then you see that his cheeks are flushed, and his lips are parted as he takes in deeper and deeper breaths.

“Stop,” you plead again. It’s no longer just the washcloth against you; you can feel his fingers exploring, teasing, prodding. You should have known, you think. You should have known that the man who cut you apart and kidnapped you and tied you up would be a fucking pervert, that he wouldn’t leave you with any kind of dignity intact. You feel your hope of escape draining from your soul when you look in to his eyes. He won’t look at your face. He looks exactly like the kind of man who could cut a person open, take out their heart, and feel nothing about whether they lived or died.

The kind of man who would never let someone go if they had even the slightest chance of fucking up the life he crafted for himself.

“I told you to stop!” you screech, throwing yourself against the wall of the tub in an effort to escape his touch.

“No screaming,” Derek reminds you. His eyes lock with yours for only a second, long enough to remind you of the rules he laid out for you. He shoves his index finger in to you without any warning and thrums. You’re squirming and writhing and whining, your face red from salty tears stinging your skin. You feel hot and soft around his finger, even with how cold the water still is. “You’re tight. I wouldn’t be able to pull out if I tried.”

You don’t hide your disgust at his words; not like it matters when he just keeps staring at the finger he pushes in and out of you. It’s invasive and gross, and there’s nothing you can do about it except cry and growl and sniffle. He’s done after just a few more moments; he clears his throat and does a little shake of his shoulders, like he forgot himself. He looks at your face now and smiles, smiles like the kind doctor you met years ago that you would have never expected to be a probable murderer and rapist.

“All clean,” he says with a grin. “Let’s get you dried off.”

The towel he uses is as rough and miserable as the washcloth. His bathroom might be fancy, but he’s still a young and clueless single man who doesn’t know the first thing about maintaining a home. He tousles your hair dry, inevitably filling it with more knots, and doesn’t bother to brush it.

“Remember the rules,” Derek said, grabbing the ropes around your wrists. “You said you’d be good.”

“I will be,” you assure, leaning away from him.

Derek leans closer, of course, and tightens his grip on your bindings. The soaking wet rope scrapes away a layer of your skin. “I mean it,” he warns, “Don’t test my patience, princess. I use most of it for work.”

You feel his breath on you. You want to spit in his face—he’s certainly close enough—but you also don’t want to die yet, so you simply nod and bat your lashes at him. He looks at you for another moment, but finally undoes the ropes around you. You immediately shift in place and bring your hands in to your lap to stretch.

“Don’t get too excited,” Derek says, rising to his feet. He looks between your hands and your hair, and ultimately decides to pull you up by your hair instead. Punishment for your scream earlier, he thinks as he watches you wobble in your attempt to stand. “I can’t let you keep your hands and your eyes.”

Your eyes widen, and you hide your hands behind your back. He was going to amputate them? “I—n-no, I—”

“Not like that,” he laughs, his eyes crinkling as he watches your plight. He looks so genuinely happy in this moment; he’d be pretty cute if he weren’t joyful over your suffering. “Come on, princess. Follow me.”

Like you have a choice. Your feet feel heavy and borderline useless from pins and needles as you stagger after him. You get only a glimpse at the bedroom connected to his bathroom before he throws a blindfold over your eyes. No use in fighting it—you’re too weak on a good day and still shaking from the shower.

“And… there.” He’s slid something over your hands. Mittens, by the feel of it; the kind of soft restraint you sometimes saw applied to patients who kept grabbing at tubes and lines. They’re soft and useless and utterly harmless. The most you could do is bat at him like a kitten would at a toy. “You can stretch and move your legs, but stay by me, honey.”

You grimace at the pet name—a pet name you probably would have enjoyed before all this shit—and nod. He guides your covered hand to his arm and has you hang on as he leads you further in to his apartment. Your plan of learning the environment has failed. Your head is too foggy from pain and drugs to keep track of how many steps you take or the turns you take. You’ll have to try again another time, if there is one.

Your foot catches on something soft—a rug, you realize—and Derek is nice enough to catch you before you can bust your face open on his living room floor.

“Careful,” he warns, placing your other hand on his arm.

“I can’t see anything,” you grumble. You’re pouting like a kid who was scolded, and it just gets worse when you realize that and hate yourself for it.

Derek pulls you towards his couch and lets you fall against the stiff cushions. It feels like a couch that was bought for looks over function and that badly needed to be broken in. There was no wear on the fabric, something you could feel even without putting your hands down, since this man did not have the decency to give you your clothes.

Maybe your period would strike and you’d bleed right on his fucking couch. You bet it’s a white couch. Judging by his bathroom, his apartment is probably a soulless, monochromatic bachelor pad that costs an absurd amount to rent; a place that looks more like a picture in a magazine to advertise one of the three pieces of furniture in it than a place anyone actually lives in.

“You can relax,” Derek tells you, seeing how rigid you are. Back straight and tense, legs squeezed together; you’re even tightening your core. You look pretty cute—it’s not like he’s immune to what it’s doing for your tits and waistline—but also pretty uncomfortable. “I’m not going to do anything to you right now, princess. You sit here and I’ll get you something to drink.”

The thought of your captor continuing to hang out next to you on his couch that felt like it was stuffed with books wasn’t appealing, but somehow the thought of being entirely alone here was worse. You tried grabbing on to his arm, but the mittens don’t allow you to actually grip anything. Still, he feels it and chuckles at your attempt.

“Cute,” Derek purrs, “I’ll be right back, honey.”

Honey. Princess. You feel his weight leave the couch as the saccharin sweetness of his voice leaves an aftertaste in your mouth that makes you grimace. You run your mitten-covered hands over your thighs in some attempt to soothe yourself and then pat the cushion you sit on. Stiff. You can hear the roughness of the fabric. You can hear his footsteps, too; he’s awfully loud for a criminal.

You hear liquid splashing, the sound of a fridge door opening and closing. What was he going to bring you to drink? Your mouth was so dry. IV fluids did not feel the same as oral hydration. A cold glass of water would be heaven in liquid form—but what were the odds he’d actually give you that?

He’d cut you open. Peeled your flesh back and toyed with your sinew. Probably took a fucking souvenir, unless you in your entirety were that souvenir. Assaulted you while he bathed you, bound you so you couldn’t scream without a serious injury, and left you without the dignity of being able to use the toilet. This little excursion, his offer of a drink, were both more likely to end in more pain than anything that could restore some of your humanity and comfort.

Your anxiety grows in your chest as he approaches. You feel the air pressure change around you; he’s to your… right. Leaning over you, exuding warmth. Cool glass touches your lips.

“Here,” Derek says, pressing a glass to your mouth. “Drink up.”

It’s fizzy; you feel bubbles popping and misting your face. It smells sweet. Your thirst outweighs your fear, and you take a hesitant sip that quickly turns into a desperate guzzle when you recognize it as lemon-lime soda.

“Slowly—you’ll upset your stomach, princess,” Derek laughs. You can already feel your stomach expanding from its shriveled state and starting to ache. He pulls the glass away from you; you follow it, but lose it immediately. “You can have more in a little bit. If you do well with this, then we can see about moving to full liquids. Okay?”

He tilts your head up, holding you by your chin. He can’t look you in the eyes like this, but he can still see your quivering lip. “Okay,” you breathe.

“I’m going to get a few things to clean your incision. In the meantime, you should stretch,” he says, pulling his hand away. “And make sure to take deep breaths regularly. I don’t want you getting pneumonia or a blood clot.”

“Okay,” you say again, in a strained voice. He’s leaving you here? Alone? Your hands might be soft and close to useless right now, but even you can bat off this blindfold with enough effort.

“I’ll be right around the corner, cutie,” Derek warns, his finger tapping the shallow wound on your chest. “No silly ideas.”

That makes much more sense. He leaves you on the couch to bitterly stretch out your tight calves. You can hear him rustling around somewhere nearby; any attempt to leave will end in tears.

He speaks to you like you’re a patient. Not only like you’re a real patient in a real hospital, but like you don’t know this shit anyway—like you don’t work at the same stupid hospital he does, the hospital that doesn’t pay you enough to afford real medical care, so you end up going to coworkers that are kind enough to treat you even though you can’t pay and they fucking kidnap you. Greatest goddamn hospital in Angeles Bay—in the nation, even—and they won’t pay their non-physician staff members a wage that would afford them something so basic. Caduceus was evil enough just for that without Derek slicing and dicing in their empty units.

You thought he was nice, once. When he worked at Hope Hospital and he saw you needed help, he pulled you aside after you refused treatment and offered to help you at no cost. It wasn’t an emergency, so you just had to come back later; he’d take you to the little office he worked out of for this and treat you. And he did. Your desperation paid off, and you left with the hope that you could be like him and never lose that kind of compassion when you started your career.

You wanted to be like him, as disgusting as it is to admit that now. You ran to him for help again. Let him put his hands on you once—a murderer’s hands—and then asked for more.

You slouch forward and let your mittens touch the hard floor beneath you. You’re stretching, technically. The fold is hurting your belly, but it distracts you from your thoughts, at least.

“Feeling any better?” Derek asks as he approaches you again. You look like you’re broken in already, and it’s better that you can’t see the overjoyed grin on his face at the thought of that.

“A little,” you mumble honestly. Your muscles feel ten times better, although your back is still a tad sore.

“Good, good,” Derek chirps, guiding you back on to the couch. “I’m going to clean your incision so it doesn’t get infected. All you need to do is lie down, honey.”

You stay put, bringing your hands close to your chest and your arms over your abdomen.

Derek’s eyes narrow in the slightest, but he remains smiling to keep his voice sweet. “You can have more to drink after this, princess—if you’re good,” he bribes.

That’s enough to get you to behave again. You lie down on the couch, and it feels only a little more comfortable than the tub. You twitch each time a package rustles as he readies his equipment. A bottle opens—antiseptic. Paper rustling—a box of gauze. Plastic peeling—a transparent dressing.

You hiss and bristle when icy antiseptic runs over the inflamed incision on your belly. One of his gloved hands grips your thigh, as though he’s trying to steady you.

“Breathe and relax,” Derek orders, running a new piece of wet gauze over the wound. “You’ll be fine.”

The kind thing to do before dressing a wound is provide pain medication. You are not in a position where you are afforded any kindness, so you bite your cheek and accept the pain of antiseptic sinking in to your flesh. It dries quickly, at least, and he’s soon applying antibiotic gel and a transparent dressing.

“There. It shouldn’t need to be changed for a while, if it heals normally,” Derek says, peeling off his soiled gloves. “I think I promised you a drink, right?”

Your brain digs up a memory at that word—promise. “You promised something else, too,” you say in a weak voice. Your incision still burns, and the dressing feels itchy and sweaty.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You said—before you left, you said you’d tell me why,” you remind him, sitting up from the couch.

Derek sighs and adjusts himself so that he’s sitting down on the floor in front of you. “I did say that,” he mutters, furrowing his brow. His smile returns to his face and voice, and he rests his hand on your knee. You’re still cold to the touch; probably from low blood sugar, he thinks, so he gives you another sip of soda. “You want to know why I took you as my patient?”

You grit your teeth. “Why you kidnapped me and tortured me,” you whisper.

“Well, I’ll admit that my ways are unorthodox,” Derek says, tapping his fingers against your thigh. “And maybe the medical board wouldn’t be thrilled with me—they’re pretty clear that they don’t want us pursuing our patients.”

What the fuck is he talking about? You widen your eyes behind your blindfold and think that he’s somehow crazier than you thought—again. “Pursuing? Do you… Do you think this is romantic?”

Derek laughs. “Are you asking me, Derek, or are you asking Dr. Stiles, the man who cured GUILT?” He grins at the sight of you swallowing.

“You,” you quickly say, “I’m asking you. I want a real answer—please.”

“So polite,” he praises, just as you expected. “I think it is. You’re the one person I’ve changed my mind about killing, after all.”

That’s not romantic, you think and nearly say aloud. You don’t want to know how he’d respond. Instead, you ask, “Why did you try? Why did you change your mind?”

“You were an easy target,” Derek admitted, letting his fingers freely wander up and down your thigh. “You know, I mostly get older patients. They’re used to this. They’re calloused, inside and out. But not you; you’re still young and soft. Softer than normal. I’ve operated on hundreds of people, but you felt… different. Like an actual human, not just another body on my table.”

He leans his face against your thigh; his cheek feels hot, so hot you think he’s actually blushing as he murmurs this delusion against your skin. His fingers brush against the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis; it tickles, but you’re too focused on his words to react. He’s murmuring it like a confession of a crush, rather than a confession of how much he wants to see you suffer.

“It felt incredible to touch you like that,” Derek breathes. He presses his lips against your thigh, gripping your legs in place when he feels you lean away. “You don’t need to be shy with me, honey. I know you need me, too.” He drags his lips over your skin, his fingers trying to pry your thighs apart.

“Stop,” you whimper. You raise your hands to push his head away, but he grabs them by their straps and pulls them to the side. “I don’t want this! Just let me go and I—”

“Won’t tell anyone, you swear,” Derek finishes. The warmth in his face is gone, as is his smile. “I’ve heard this before, princess. You aren’t clever. Now, I’m going to give you another chance because I know you’re scared. Try to be good this time.”

Refuse again and he’d tie you back up. And probably worse. You can’t stop shaking as he kisses up and down your thigh, like he’s your lover and not your captor. You want to throw up every ounce of your drink, but the most you can do is pathetically try to pull your hands away from him.

“Be good,” he says against your flesh, “I won’t need to hurt anyone else if I can just feel you, princess. Think of all those people you’ll save.”

If you weren’t so panicked and weren’t blinded, maybe you’d see the tension in his shoulders and the way his eyes widened. Maybe you’d see his lower lip tremble and the desperation he held back in his kisses. Maybe you’d realize it’s been a long time since he was last given someone’s vulnerability, instead of taking it by force. But you can’t see him, and he’d never admit just how much he wants to hear you moan.

“I don’t want you,” you spit, twisting your hands out of his grip. “Get away from me!” You tear at the blindfold, managing to push it above one eye, when you hear him laugh and feel his hand leave your thigh.

“Well, that’s too bad, princess.”

You’re grabbed by your hair and dragged kicking and screaming across the floor of his living room. He’s taking you back to the bathroom, back to that stupid fucking tub. You gnash your teeth at his hand when he reaches for your face, but it only earns you a slap across the face. Fuck, that stings.

“You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not,” Derek growls, tightly gripping your chin in his hand. You squint your half-revealed eyes up at him; your cheek is bright red and starting to swell from his strike. “If you want to keep acting like a bratty little girl, be my guest, but don’t expect to get anywhere. I don’t reward noncompliance.”

You wriggle and thrash and bite and yell and it gets you absolutely fucking nowhere because he flips you on your belly and ties you up before you can so much as blink. The Healing Touch. The power that made him a surgeon above all other surgeons—the power that probably made it possible for him to get away with murder all these years.

“We could have had fun,” Derek laments, dropping your rigid body back in the tub. “And I would have been nice at the end and given you your pain medicine, but it seems like you’re refusing my treatment… So I guess we’ll try again tomorrow.” He’s all smiles as he speaks, and you’d give your life savings to smack that stupid grin off his face.

“Fuck you,” you gnarl, glaring up at him.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Derek straps the bladed collar around your throat and takes the blindfold off from around your face. You grit your teeth as you glare up at him; he can see every bit of fire and poison in your eyes, every unspoken curse you want to spit at him, and every ounce of fear that keeps you from opening your mouth with a blade at your throat and his presence threatening your life. “There. Maybe we’ll try again tomorrow. See you in the morning, honey.”

And he leaves you. You’re back in your porcelain prison, counting ceiling tiles again and trying to block out the pain going through your body. You should have kept your mouth shut and gone along with it; all you did was delay the inevitable.

#dark fic #mdni #dead dove #dead dove do not eat #yandere!derek stiles x reader #dark!derek stiles x reader #yandere derek stiles #yandere trauma center #yandere trauma center under the knife

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