#that's like the most unhinged crack fic ever

[jo-harrington]

Chuck (Eddie Munson)

Summary: It's just a regular closing shift at Benny's. Easy peasy. Nothing bad could possibly happen.

Word Count: 3.5k

Characters: Eddie, Jeff, Benny Hammond

Themes/Warnings: Boys will be boys, friendship, smutty intrusive thoughts, Masturbation(?), Food Fucking, Eddie has an unspecified romantic partner (could be Steve, could be Reader, could be anyone that's not what this story is about), Song Fic, What's a Little Psychological Torture Between Friends…

Note: You know what? In true unhinged fashion, I had to write this for @courtingchaos on her birthday and not only that but give her some credit here. This was born from us being stuck in a car on Lake Shore Drive, hangry and a little slap happy, on the way to Navy Pier after I witnessed something that was probably very similar (in the most innocuous way) at a suburban Burger King.

Meg, you are my life. My world. You are my Cheese. Burger. And this one's for you. Happy Birthday.

Thank you AGAIN to @dr-aculaaa for the beta and @deathbecomesthem for some of the diner lingo. Disclaimer that I never worked at a diner so this is probably horribly inaccurate...but just suspend your sense of disbelief if you have.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

If anyone wants to get the full effect of this fic, you need to put Mr. Roboto on repeat for the duration of your time reading.

---

5:55PM

Jeff stared at the clock as he wiped down the counter.

Every tick of the second hand had him gritting his teeth a little more, enough where he should probably worry that he was gonna crack a tooth. All because Eddie was late for his closing shift.

Their closing shift.

And not just late, late again. For the third time in as many days they worked together.

If he even showed up.

Now Jeff wasn't one to complain. Shit, Eddie was the one to suggest that he apply at Benny's in the first place and put a good word in for his best friend.

Ben was getting a little older and wanted to enjoy what was left of his youth while he still had it, instead of solely being stuck behind his grill for the rest of his life. An extra waitress on the weekends, an extra line cook during the week, and the business ran smoothly, even when he decided to take a day off.

And Eddie was pretty much employee of the month, knowing all of the regulars orders like the back of his hand.

Until Jeff started getting scheduled alongside him.

Until Eddie started going on dates, and started "going steady" with someone.

Until Eddie started playing hooky to go and suck face and god knows what else while parked up at the quarry.

Jeff let his fist slam against the counter as another minute ticked away, only for the bell of the door to chime and Eddie walk in, shrugging his apron on and shedding his leather jacket in a flustered rush.

"Sorry I'm late," he said with an easy smile on kiss-swollen lips. Jeff rolled his eyes at the sight and at the apology. "Oh come on, I promise I'll be on time tomorrow. Scout's honor." Eddie crossed his finger over his heart.

"You weren't a scout," Jeff retorted.

"Hey now," Eddie teased, starting in on one of his typical Munson-isms that usually ended up in forgiveness or forgetfulness. "I actually was. For one day before some snot-nosed kid pushed me over and I accidentally said fuck. Then they asked me to leave. But once a scout, always a scout."

Jeff hummed and turned on his heel to push back into the kitchen and start prepping for the dinner rush.

The thing was...they worked really well together. They had a good routine of noting what tasks needed to be done throughout the night. It's not like the diner was ever that busy on weeknights and Benny had been doing it alone for years, but it was nice to have someone you got along with at work.

Well it was nice...when they were there. It was nice when your work buddy was actually reliable and helped you out, which made Jeff feel bad because Eddie was his friend, his best friend. But Jeff could let Eddie's luck and charisma let him slide through his responsibilities.

So Eddie was about to find out what kind of hell it was when you were in the weeds alone.

---

Jeff had gone out to take an order when the phone rang.

Eddie grabbed the receiver with a quick "yello'" only to get a familiar voice rasping on the other end.

"Can I speak to Jeffrey please?" came the reply from someone dramatically sounding like Edith Bunker.

Eddie rolled his eyes. "Gareth, I know it's you," he sighed.

"No, this is Jeff's grandma," the younger boy kept up the ruse, snickering a little at the end. "I need to talk to him."

Eddie let his head roll back on his shoulders as he heard the stifled giggling of his friend over the line, and then he peeked his head out of the passthrough.

"Jeff!" he called out. "Your grandma's calling."

Jeff donned an exaggerated and fake look of concern; he jogged across the diner and grabbed the receiver from Eddie's hand.

"Hello?" he answered and Eddie watched as his expressions got more animated, as did his voice. "Grandma? Oh no, what happened...an accident? You need help? You need me to leave work and come home right away?"

"What?!" Eddie shrieked and reached out to snatch the receiver back from Jeff's hand. He placed it against his ear but only heard Gareth laughing and then the ring tone. He was about to ask Jeff what the hell was going on, only to find him pulling his apron over his head. "Come on now, where do you think you're going?"

"I've gotta leave," Jeff shook his head frantically. "It's my grandma, she's in the hospital, I've gotta go."

"Jeff, come on."

"There's no one else to take care of her."

"Seriously. Quit it."

"You'll be ok by yourself tonight right?" Jeff ignored everything Eddie said and looked at him expectantly as he dug his hand in his pockets for his car keys.

For a moment, Eddie felt the panic rise within him; he figured Jeff was a little upset that he bailed the past few nights but...seriously it wasn't anything that Jeff couldn't handle.

Was his friend really that mad?

"Listen I'm sorry I bailed on work a few times this week," he apologized, but Jeff just shook his head and pulled out a roll of quarters.

Then another.

Then another.

And the panic Eddie had faded into curiosity, then realization.

No, Jeff wasn't mad; he was annoyed.

"Hey listen, it's just for tonight so I can check on my grandma, you'll be ok," Jeff explained as he walked over to the old jukebox in the corner of the dining room. He began loading the old machine up with quarters and punching buttons in rapid succession. "I'll even make it up to you. You can have all the tips in the tip jar from before you got here earlier and I'll put on some music that you'll like. Hey look, Ben took your advice and updated this a little.

"He even has your favorite Ed," Jeff glanced over his shoulder. "Styx."

Eddie groaned in loathing this time, thinking of the power ballads and synthesizer nightmares he was about to endure because his friend was gonna get back at him.

The Grand Illusion. Or worse Paradise Theater.

The records inside of the machine shifted as they queued up tracks for the next however-long Jeff had paid for.

"Don't do this Jeff," Eddie pleaded as his friend grabbed his jacket from the coatrack by the door. "I'll never skip work again. I promise. Just stay."

"But my grandma needs me Eddie..." he whined and then winked at Eddie before running out the door. "Have fun."

Eddie sighed and accepted defeat as the door shut and Jeff was gone, all while the sparkly synthesized voice began amidst electronic fanfare...

Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto...

---

7PM

You know what? It didn't start out that bad.

"You're wondering who I am," Eddie sang along and bopped to the beat as he flipped burgers on the flat top. "Secret, secret, I've got a secret."

He had food to cook and orders to take and he fell right back into the routine of those short staffed nights when Benny started to realize how much he valued his personal time, but right before Jeff was hired.

It would be fine.

And there was a little musical accompaniment? Even better.

He figured that he might start loading the machine up with quarters before his shifts from now on, instead leaving it up to the chance of the customers.

"Machine or Mannequin?" He did a little spin. "Secret secret, I've got a secret."

Eddie hadn't even realized that the song that started out the night--Mr. Roboto--repeated itself until he got back to the kitchen, and then it repeated again.

And again.

He had to admit it was growing on him though. Like a cancer, but still growing. So he either needed to adapt or it would kill him. The lyrics were catchy, he could dance to it a little, and there was a good beat that he could almost headbang to if he tried.

It wasn't even that he hated Styx, he just hated what Styx stood for. Mainstream popular music. It was commercial and sanitized. Yeah Babe wasn't that bad of a song. And neither was this one. Shit...if he really thought about it, was the band even really that popular? They were underdogs, and he always rooted for an underdog.

"With parts made in Japan," he sang into his spatula and slapped slices of cheese onto his patties for dramatic effect. "I am thee modern man!"

---

8PM

So if you see me, acting strangely, don't be surprised.

There was a little bell at the pass that got hit whenever an order was up.

Of course, with Eddie being the only one working it didn’t need to get hit.

Still, every time Eddie passed it, he just had to tap his hand on the bell along with whatever verse or instrumental was playing.

I’m a man who needed someone and somewhere to hide.

It wasn’t getting to him.

No. Not at all.

It was just a graduation from him playing air guitar with a broom and drumming on the counter with spoons.

Ding ding ding ding ding, ding ding ding ding ding.

Eddie tapped at the bell with both hands at the crescendo and then went to the walk-in to scream.

Nothing to worry about.

---

9PM

I’ve come to help you with your problems, so we can be free.

“Hey can you change the song at all? This one’s been repeating for a while.”

Eddie smiled tightly at the guy at the head of the long rectangular table and then dropped the blue plate special down in front of him with a clatter.

“It’s broken,” he explained, not wanting to get into it.

Several customers had asked already; it was getting as annoying as people who said they were tipping with kindness. Obviously if he could get another song on the jukebox, he would.

How many fucking quarters had Jeff put in there?

“Could you unplug it? Plug it back in again?”

He’d thought of that too.

But wasn’t it just his luck that they lived in the do-it-yourself amateur handyman Midwest…and the damn thing was wired into the wall itself.

And he really didn’t want to cut the line and have to explain to Benny how an electrical fire burnt down his diner.

“You know what?” Eddie took a slow, calming breath. “This is actually…my favorite song." There was a disbelieving blink. "A-and it’s my birthday.”

The withering look he received made him second guess burning down the place; it actually didn’t seem so bad after all. He could deal with Benny.

I’m just a man whose circumstances went beyond his control. Beyond my control. We all need control.

---

10PM

I am the modern man, who hides behind a mask…

Eddie wore his Freak label proudly.

He accepted it, everyone else accepted it.

But maybe this music was getting to him a little bit as he started noticing of the different inanimate objects around Benny’s that he could potentially fuck.

That was a level of Freak that he really hadn’t embraced yet.

So no one else can see my true identity!

Well, it was sort of always there simmering beneath the surface. He had been a horny teenager and was now a horny young man. There was always a question about what objects he could stick his dick into.

But he’d tried to curb that curiosity after the pool noodle incident.

Now though…he was far enough gone that things were starting to appeal to him again. And it scared him a little bit for those thoughts to pop up during work.

Not enough to stop though.

Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto. Domo. Domo.

First it was a bagel with the perfect hole.

Actually, was it even the music causing this? How dare that bagel look so damn fuckable. Cream cheese wouldn’t be the best lube, he had to admit. But he didn’t mind trying. Unfortunately that bagel was needed for someone’s sober-up sandwich.

Then there was a hole in the vinyl of one of the booths. He stared at it every time he brought out an order or bussed a table. Eventually he couldn’t help himself and he lightly ran two fingers over it and then plunged them inside the hole, like a lover would, only to find the edges were jagged and rough…and he was disappointed that it wouldn’t be the most pleasurable experience.

He wasn’t one to say no to a little bit of teeth when getting his dick sucked but that wasn’t what he was looking for right now.

At one point he even considered fucking the jukebox itself. Get it to shut up once and for all.

The logistics weren’t right.

Where would he even put his cock? Just rub the head of him along the coin slot while he jerked off? Pass.

His depravity needed to be put on hold though, because as he was in the walk-in trying to cut a channel into a head of iceberg that might be the perfect fit for him, he spotted a tub of hamburger with a label in Benny’s chicken scratch saying “discard” with the date.

He froze and let his thoughts swirl before he shook his head and put the iceberg down. He slammed his hand against his forehead as though that would make his internal monologue right itself.

Because what the hell was he doing?

Regardless of the absolute torture he was enduring, he was still at work and had a job to do.

Why was he trying to fuck a head of lettuce? Or fingering a hole in a booth. No, he was absolutely losing his mind, he needed to control himself, he needed to get back to work.

He was about to exit the walk-in when he glanced back at the tub.

“Can't forget that tonight,” he muttered to himself as a reminder.

Then back into the kitchen he went.

Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto. Domo. Domo.

---

11PM

“Thank you very much Mr. Roboto,” Eddie muttered as he dropped maraschino cherries into milkshakes. His voice was ragged, desperate. Pleading. “For doing the job nobody wants to.”

“Thank you very much Mr. Roboto,” he deadpanned as he numbly swept the floor. “For helping me escape when I needed to.”

Thank you.

Thank you.

I wanna thank you.

Please thank you.

Thank you thank you.

Thank you thank you.

“Thank you,” Eddie smiled, as the joy finally die inside of his body as he rang out the last customers. But it was rapidly born once again as he waved goodbye. “Thank you thank you!”

---

12AM

The doors were locked, the lights in the dining room closed.

And Eddie stood in the kitchen with a lit cigarette in his mouth as he concentrated on the task at hand.

The problem was plain to see. Too much technology. The jukebox still played out on the floor.

Machines to save our lives? No. Machines dehumanize.

He shouldn’t be fucking the jukebox or a head of lettuce or a bagel. No. He needed something warm and malleable.

Living.

Or well…close enough.

It was the perfect idea! Instead of taking it right to the dumpster, he’d taken the tub of ground chuck out of the walk-in and let it get to room temp at the end of his shift, and now he was standing there molding it into the right shape.

He was ready and aching after palming himself in anticipation. He’d meticulously wrapped his hard cock in plastic wrap, for lack of a better option. He needed this.

He deserved this.

Why hadn’t he ever thought of this before?

The time has come at last…

He put out the cigarette in the meat then lined up with the channel he'd crafted. He hissed as he sunk in—synthesized angels sung all around him, guitars strumming in harmony—and finally felt relief for the first time all night.

Secret, secret, I’ve got a secret.

His hips rocked in time with the beat, driving deeper and deeper. He felt the slightest bit of cold when he finally bottomed out, the center of the Chuck not entirely at room temp yet. It was an unexpected thrill and he shuddered as pleasure shot through him.

He let his head fall back and he laughed with the feeling, laughed uncontrollably, and the sound echoed through the diner, forever scarring the walls with wicked glee.

To throw away this mask.

It was strange, fucking what was essentially a mass of viscous sludge. Not bad, just strange. Not entirely wet but not dry either. Maybe it was perfect actually, something he never knew he needed. Just for him. A little slice of cheese...er, heaven...just for him.

Especially when he formed meat to suit his desires as it shifted.

That feral grin stayed on his lips as he worked himself to completion, as he pumped mercilessly.

Secret, secret, I’ve got a secret.

And somewhere in all of the hubbub, Eddie came to the conclusion that although it wasn’t perfect, he could get used to it if he had to.

Because he had to.

He'd be stuck here forever, lost in Dennis DeYoung's vocal prison until the end of time.

Now everyone can see my true identity.

He thrust harder and faster, panting and kneading and clenching until all he knew was the meat and secret secrets and his own depravity as he spiraled downwards further into insanity.

I'm Kilroy.

He felt it coming.

Kilroy.

Cumming.

Kilroy.

It exploded out of him with those last few emphasized beats of the synthesizer. He felt the cling wrap bulge with his spend, felt the tingles along his spine and through his limbs as his orgasm shot through his body.

He leaned over, satiated, until his nose brushed the meat in sensuous exhaustion.

Kilroy.

He could hear his pulse in his ears, along with a buzzing din of tinnitus, and the ticking of a clock out in the dining room.

But where he expected the beginning of the next round of torture, Eddie only heard silence.

He breathed heavy, broken breaths. Gulps of air that felt like too much oxygen and not enough at the same time. He felt lightheaded.

It was over.

His punishment finally over.

He closed his eyes and thanked whatever God or Demon gifted him with this boon, and then his eyes shot open and he stood straight up as he stared at the mess he made.

"Fuck."

---

The Next Day, 5PM

Jeff felt like the cat that ate the cream when he drove to work the following day.

He felt a little bad about what he’d done to Eddie, and he had all the intention to make it back to Benny’s around 7 or 8, but Gareth had convinced him not to.

“Come on,” he’d told Jeff. “You know Eddie’s gonna get a good laugh out of it.”

“Yeah! Besides,” Dave interjected. “Shame on him for leaving you up shit’s creek so much. Hopefully this’ll teach him a lesson.”

And Jeff agreed with them.

He and Eddie were friends but that didn’t mean Eddie could walk all over him.

He was glad to see the van parked in Benny’s lot when he arrived for his shift, and as far as he could tell, everything was normal when he walked in.

Ben was at the grill and Eddie at the counter.

Actually, everything looked better than normal. Everything in the diner looked squeaky clean and under the smells of cooked food, there was a tinge of the disinfectant they used to deep clean.

“You must’ve had the slowest night ever if you did a deep clean of the place,” Jeff clapped a hand on Eddie’s back and noticed that Eddie stiffened under his touch. “What time did all those quarters run out?”

Eddie laughed nervously and scratched the back of his neck.

“Little after midnight,” he chuckled. “And it was fine. But, uh, now I know better than to fuck with you again.”

“Yeah you’re on time today, you beat me here!”

Eddie grabbed his arm as he passed and then leaned in close, voice pleading and desperate.

“I’ll never be late again, won’t be a no show, but please…don’t ever subject me to that hell again. Please.”

"Scout's honor," Jeff cackled.

Upon Eddie’s look of relief, Jeff headed back to get himself settled.

He chatted with Benny for a second before the older man left for the night. But as he went to the walk-in to get more onions to chop, he noticed something.

“Hey Ed!” He called out through the pass and Eddie turned. “Thanks for tossing that ground chuck! Or…Domo arigato I guess heh.”

He turned back to the task at hand, so he didn’t notice all the color drain from Eddie’s face.

[6-1-2-3]

Poudlard Is Gay is the best fanfiction that I have ever read

[microwaving-tesilid-argente]

wonder what will happen first. me finishing the (first) teshes fic and publishing it, or tapas reaching That Chapter.

[yeyinde]

dangle on the leash | Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

The flimsy sarcophagus housing all his wants, his desires, cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant. Ghost cocks his head in consideration. Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger. But he's a rabid dog burning with the urge to bite. No one should really be surprised when he finally decides to sink his teeth into you. Unfortunately, that hail mary Price sent into the aether never reached you.

(your bird is too big for a cage— —but maybe a collar would do.)

this is a babytrapping fic lmao but please read the tags carefully. a companion piece to this (Price + babytrapping).

DEAD DOVE. SMUT. 18+

HARD WARNINGS—coercion. dependency. intentional alienation. unsafe, unprotected sex. this very much toes the line of noncon (that is still very dubcon even when consent is given) in many ways, notably: somnophilia, and condom/contraceptive tampering. intrusive, violent thoughts. mentions of violence. manipulation; slight gaslighting. implied kidnapping. references to past abuse (Ghost), brief mention of drugging/threats of drugging (ambiguous as to if it was ever followed through on or not, mostly just Ghost's internal monologue unfiltered). ADDITIONAL TAGS—smut. rough sex. unsafe sex. dom!Ghost. mean, obsessive, unhinged!Ghost. spit kink. dacryphilia.

he's feral, but he's yours. too bad for you, no one is really sure if that's a good thing or not.

One of the things Price often tells new recruits is to shove their old life into a box. 

“There's home,” he huffs, fingers twitching as if he's subconsciously flexing around the hilt of a lit cigar. “And then there's work. Whatever box you decide to put this, or your family, your personal life, into is your choice. But for fuck’s sake. Keep them separate.” 

Most of the new recruits are fresh off selection, shaded sickly chartreuse, and take his words as a literal gospel. Work, this; home, them. They don't start to unravel the second part of his gruff speech until much later. Until they can't wash the blood from their hands, and the scent of their mum’s eucalyptus hand soap is nauseating. Unfamiliar. When being in civvies feels like wearing skin that doesn't fit, and everyone around you is alien, foreign. They don't know. They'll never know. 

It's only when they find themselves gazing at the clock on the wall of their family home, counting down the minutes until their mandatory leave is over do they realise that home is the barracks. 

That's something Ghost has always understood. Maybe it was because his home life was already in ruins, tatters. Beer soaking into the knock-off Persian rug a cousin nicked from a flea market when he was nine. No fine china in the cupboards because it'll end up in shards on the floor. Plastic plates and forks and cups. Always. Howling in his head. Screaming from down the hall in his mum's room. His bedroom door creaking open at night. The anger, the curdling fear (shameful—be a man; punch him back, hit him before he hits you, you useless prick—), of not knowing whether or not it was his dad, high as hell and itching for a fight after busting their mum’s lip wide open, or Tommy sneaking into his bed at night because his is soaked in piss and he can’t sleep when they scream at each other like this.  

(Funny that, he always found; neither of them could ever sleep when it was silent, either.)

Blood on the linoleum. Trying to eat burnt toast and overcooked beans with a busted lip and a twinge in his jaw—

(Fractured, they'll say later, years later, during his mandatory medical checkup when he's first recruited. Healed all wrong. Son, didn't anyone take you to hospital?) 

He understands the separation between home and work—even if the former lost all relevancy nearly a decade ago. Back when he buried them all. Was buried himself—

What Ghost never really understood was the box. 

Shove it into a box. 

When he asks over cheap whisky somewhere in Siberia, Price tightens his fingers around his glass before bringing it up to his head. His index finger juts out. He knocks the tip of that bruised, scabbed knuckle against his temple. Once, thrice. Levels Simon with a pointed look he both can’t understand and somehow knows all too well. 

“Up here."

“Paid nearly fifty quid for that,” he grouses, shaking his head. “Think I've been ripped-off, Price.” 

Price scoffs, places the glass down with a hollow thud. “Don't be a fuckin’ muppet, Simon—” his real name makes his shoulders tense. Around the barracks, they know him only as the Ghost. “You put it away somewhere. Hide it. I don't fuckin’ know. But if it keeps you goin’, keeps you sane, and doesn't become a mess I gotta clean up, well—”

The implication is stark. Heavy. 

Price was always good at chiselling through layers of accumulated indifference to get to the madness within, but considering Ghost’s past and his mile-long rap sheet, the warning digging into his words like a dull blade isn't unwarranted. 

Old dogs, he'd called the pair of them when they first met. There was a sharp keenness in his eye when he lifted his hand, waved his cigar toward the tangled mess of scar tissue crisscrossing his face (made with a dull, rusted knife, one that gouged out deep pocks of skin, ugly fuck, looks like the badlands, don't he? like a postcard from the Grand Canyon, sweetheart. not so cute anymore, are ya, pretty boy—), and said, “well, you're fuckin’ rabid, ain't you? Better put a muzzle on that before it becomes a problem, mm.”

His problem, specifically. 

And Ghost gets it. Thinks Price might understand that particular brand of madness—despite growing up on literal opposite sides of the track, his Manchester to the others Liverpool; poverty and prestige—if only just. Because Price seems to be able to curb those baser impulses in a way Ghost hadn't yet mastered (and won't for quite some time yet). He's put together. Sort of. Respected. Normal.

The men in the barracks don't look at him and flinch. 

But he sees the way the man's eyes linger in the crowd, shrewd and careless, before falling on the pretty bartender in the back. The one with roses in her eyes and a smile full of dandelions. Soft, like butterscotch. It's here when they darken. When he reaches, almost angrily, for his whisky. Pats his chest with a heavy fist searching for his cigar. 

She's a sweet thing, he reckons. All pretty and trusting. Birds like her make his head itch—

“Don't even think about it, Simon,” Price grumbles, and it feels like territorial posturing, a challenge he almost raises to meet with his chin, if only to make Price fluster, but it's hollow. Empty. He denies himself, too. The prick. 

“How'd you do it?” He asks, and doesn't specify. Doesn't think he needs to. 

When Price swallows, it looks like a grimace. “Years of practice.” 

He considers the weight of it, his eyes straying back to the woman behind the bar. She's tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, wrist delicate like bone china, the kind they could never afford, and for a moment, the intrusive thoughts, the ones he gets sometimes about wanting to tear things to bloody pieces, rears—

It's stamped down in a swig of flat lager You stupid fuckin’ mutt, Price would say tomorrow morning, shaking his head. You always think with your prick? 

Simon cranks his head sharply to the side instead. The resounding crack seems to echo through the empty pub. 

Price just shakes his head. “Christ. No one ever house break you, yet?” 

“Yeah, they did,” he rasps, staring at the bartender who gazes back at him now. Skittish, unsure. Not so sweet after all. She looks away, cowed. Her hands tremble. He leans back, and hums. “And now I piss outside, like a good ‘ol boy.” “Ain't nothin’ good about you, Simon. Fuckin' Christ—”

And he's not wrong. 

The Ghost has a reputation of being a cold-hearted bastard. A Frankensteinian beast cobbled together with spare parts robbed from a jailhouse graveyard. Worst of the worst. An arm from a mass murder. The leg from a spree killer. Heart a patchwork mess of ichor and sulphur. Sutured together with barbed wire. 

It's all sort of macabre. Rather trite, too. 

The rumour mill in the barracks is insatiable.

But sometimes, he wakes up and he's still buried. Still dead. Dirt in his throat, lodged in his nose. He breathes in and feels pebbles scraping his lungs. Feels worms in his ears. Maggots in his head. 

They crawl through his grey matter. Leeches burrowing into his thoughts, sucking the good in him dry. 

Or, whatever's left of it, anyway. 

He thinks with his teeth because it's easier that way. Cold, calculative instinct. Just barely boxed into a neat package slapped on the desk of Price's higher-ups. 

A good man, they say, and turn him loose on the streets. One of the best we have, as he breaks jaws, and tears through jugulars. A force to be reckoned with. 

They hand him a gun, a rifle, when the bloodied footprints leading back to camp become too much of a hassle to clean. Shoot from a distance. He takes to it like the bulk of metal was made for his scarred hands. Scythe to a Reaper. 

It feels like bloodletting. Draining him of his anger, his fury, until a cold, gnarled indifference curls in the basin left behind. Icy, frigid. Down to the bone. 

Sometimes, he doesn't remember what it felt like to be warm, even buried under a thick balaclava and layers of military fatigues. 

Frankenstein’s monster. Patched together from the rotten remains of horrible men. 

And as he stares in the mirror at the patchwork ruins of his face, his body, he wonders if there's some truth to it, after all. He's pretty sure if someone cracked his skull open—again—they’d find rot. Tumulus. Infested with maggots and worms. Cobwebs behind his eyes. In his nose. His brain perfectly preserved: a zombified tombstone. And oh, how it hungers. 

Wants. 

But in a box it goes. One shaped like a coffin. Placed pretty in the back of his broken head. 

He stares in the mirror and thinks he sees something moving under his eye. Wriggling around. The temptation to claw it out rears, but the shredded tissue on his thighs reminds him of what happens when he listens to that insidious hiss in the back of his head (some amalgamation of his old man, and that bastard—) and goes searching for gold in bone marrow. 

He huffs. Fingers curling around the porcelain. His head is rotten. Putrefied. He can feel the decomposing sludge press against his temples. It grows teeth sharp like a razor blade and hacks away at jaundiced bone. Ghost lifts his hand, digs his fingers into his temple. Down boy—

(Simon doesn't even want to consider what his heart must look like, then.)

Cold-hearted, sure—

But he likes sweet things. 

The kind that will undoubtedly give him cavities. A spillover, perhaps, when candy bars were too expensive, and the only dessert he was given was a toffee by the neighbour when she wasn't moaning to his old man about all the shit he and Tommy got up to. 

(Bruises came afterwards, the colour of liquorice. Sour cherries.)

Unfortunately for him, sweet things don't like him much—a shame, really. Simon has always had a sweet tooth. 

His rough edges are too sharp for their liking, and Simon's—

Intense. Like a dog with a bone, he doesn't know when to let go. When to unhinge his jaw from the morsel between his teeth. He bites hard. Shakes his head. Tears into the things he wants until it's bloodied meat pinched in his incisors. 

And so, they keep their distance. Like they can smell the rot on him. The funeral dirt. The stench of an unearthed sarcophagi. 

Sometimes, though, the wiley ones will inch closer, looking to get messed up badly by a bad man, and it makes something inside his head howl when he turns them down. Following Price’s creed. Can't give in to the pretty ones, he'd said. Nothin’ but trouble. 

Trouble, like a pair of shackles. A noose. Trouble, like gentle, clean hands and fragile bones. Fine china. Fine powder. The marshmallow soft kind of trouble that will melt in the acid that leaks from his pores. Aqua regia. Attacking anything that gets close. 

(Breakable, is what Price means. Pretty chew toys that are beyond repair once he's finished with them.

He must think Ghost is some sort of psychopath—)

But still. He stays away. It's easier on base, in safe houses, too far out from the general public to have to worry about doe eyes and soft touches. He doesn't need it, anyway—

Then comes you. 

And the forfeiture of his self-control. 

You're trouble of a different kind. 

Trouble, like the end of a sledgehammer. Trouble, like the grill of a car. The barrel of a gun. 

In the shape of a battering ram, one strong enough to dislodge the madness in the back of his head. Where the corrosive acid should ruin you, eat you alive, it doesn't. Not with your tantalum skin. 

But oh, do you pack a punch—

At first, you think he's homeless. 

Some scruffed-up man sleeping on a park bench outside of your apartment. 

In another life, he might have been. He isn't a stranger to bad habits, and had the military not been his only choice in life for some semblance of good (laughable, considering what he does for a living), he could see the threads of his life leading him here. Drugs. Manchester is good for it, this he knows all too well. Especially the shithole neighbourhood he's from. 

He doesn't clue into this, though, until you glance at him, warily, and then shuffle into the cafè he’s holed outside of, the place where his current target gorges himself on steeped tea and crumpets. 

(Price's dry text sits, open, on his burner phone: and don't fuck this up—)

It feels a bit like an omen. Made worse when you meet his gaze through the glass, and—

Well. Shit. 

The impact is a collision. Hitting a pole at top speed. Metal bent around concrete. 

His teeth ache (so, so bad—).

You emerge from the small building a few minutes later—the faded eggshell with chocolate trim is nauseatingly sweet against your pastel yellow raincoat—holding a takeaway bag, and balancing a tray of coffees in your hand. 

He tenses. It's instinctual. There's nothing about you that's an immediate threat to his person—unless you plan on adding to his scars with the tip of your umbrella, the scalding coffee in your hand—but it's odd, isn’t it? No one approaches him. Not unless they have a reason to. 

And no one, in his experience, ever has a good one. 

“Hi,” you chirp, disarmingly sweet, as you come to stand in front of him. His jaw aches. Even sprawled across a bench, you're barely looking down at him. Sticky, cold fingers tap a strange rhythm down his spine. “I, um, hope this isn't weird, but I saw you sitting here, and—well. I got this—”

You wiggle the bag. He smells something greasy. A breakfast sandwich, he's sure.

It's an unusual assassination attempt. Price will be livid. 

“What for?” He rumbles, sitting up in the seat. The shift of his bulk seems to make you nervous. You take a step back, and he fights the urge to follow. To back you into a corner. No escape. 

You regain your footing, even if the smile on your face wobbles. Weakens under his flat stare. Some people can smell the rot on him. 

He wonders if you can, too. 

(Pity that. You're a pretty bird, ain't you?)

And the way you take him in lacks a distinct thrum of hesitation, fear that’s normally there. It occurs to him, then, that you see him as just another man. Just another person. 

(“deader than a doorknob, this one. such a goddamn waste, boss. he was a fun one, wasn’t he? should we burn ‘em?” 

nah. bury him out back—)

It's laughable, really. A joke. He has the urge to crack one—sick and awful enough to make that little smile on your face wilt. Wither away. Almost does, too, but it get tangled in his throat when he feels the weight of your stare on him. 

The easy sweep of your eyes is barely discrete, but it's clinical. Pitying. But the softened edges of that empathy dissolve as your pretty head adds up all the numbers on him, coming to a standstill. Your eyes linger on his wrist. The gold of his wristwatch peeks out beneath the black sleeve of his hoodie. An intricate web of complex timekeeping that only he's privy to. A little luxury he picked up in Italy when the cash he'd been given was getting too tiresome to carry around. 

Dead men, after all, don't need bank accounts. 

And then—

You fluster. “Sorry, I just thought—”

It clicks, then. The pity. The soft words. The goddamn coffee— 

His gums itch. He has the sudden urge to be mean about it. Pick you apart in this street until nothing but embarrassment and humiliation remains. 

“That I was homeless? ‘nd you brought me, what? A coffee? ‘ow sweet of you. Some breakfast, too. Well, aren't you a lovely girl?” 

You are embarrassed. It blisters across your expression. Has your hands trembling around the cardboard tray, spilling droplets of coffee down the side. Your head is bowed, cowed in shame. It reminds him of that bartender some years prior. Pulling away when the bad dog growls—

But there's a thin sheen of intrigue in your eyes, burrowing holes into the shoes in front of you; a tangled knot of want coiling in the heat of your embarrassment over this blunder. Over offending him. 

Well—

That's new. 

Some get off on it. On humiliation. Specifically, of the public variety. He didn't take you as the type. The way you twist, squirming in place, is odd, though. It doesn't fit as well as he originally thought. No. It's not the public shame, but—

Him. 

Ah. 

Sweet, sweet girl. 

(So naïve.)

He reckons he could get you to do just about anything to make it up to him. You would, too. You're soft enough to be submissive, to bow your head in contrition, but there's a flicker of defiance in the jut of your chin when you lift your head. 

This is a blunder and you're sweetly embarrassed, sure, but it isn't enough to break you. 

And now Simon just wants to ruin you. Teach you a lesson about bad, vile men—

(Something you'd welcome with open arms, wouldn't you?)

“Didn’t know Manchester was so charitable,” he rasps. His throat is dry. Parched. He reaches for the coffee—black, with extra creamer and sugar on the side, tucked neatly in a little bag; fuckin’ hell. Ain't you just adorable—and places it on the spot beside him. “I’ll be takin’ this. Will need it for later.” 

You look like you want to protest. Fight back. His hackles rise, ready for it—eager. Something anticipatory, dark, bleeds through the moulted mess of his head. Sickly. Terrible. He thinks about what you'd look like sprawled under him, shaking and begging for more, for him to stop—

Fuck. Birds usually make his head itch, but you make his fucking skin crawl. 

In the end, you just huff. Roll your eyes. He wants to chew them out of your head. Pop them between his teeth. He bet you'd taste divine. 

You walk away from him before he can. You don't look back once. 

Pity, he thinks. Someone's gonna snatch you clean off the streets like that—

Hours later, he sends Price a text message with the coordinates for where to pick up the package Ghost left. 

He considers it a blessing when the man sends him back, good job, now get a pint from me as a little reward. Can't say I don't treat my team well. 

A reward, huh? 

Well. With your stature in comparison to his own, Ghost easily can see you being considered a pint. 

So, he follows you home, and tallies this one as being on Price. 

It's easy. Too easy. He slips deftly behind you, tucked away from view, and masks his footsteps under the echo of yours until he's standing in the shadows outside of your house. This, too, feels like a blessing. It's a duplex. He waits for one of the lights to flicker on, and—

The window brightens. Room number two. 

He hums, and palms his pockets for the pack of smokes he nicked off the man. Needing something to take the edge off. To quell the urge to bite. 

It's even easier to engineer meetings. Random run-ins. All blamed on happenstance, chance. Of course. This towering mountain of a man with his thick manc twang—the sort of gallows humour that can only be found in the blue-collar streets of Salford from the nasty old men squatting on the corners—must have better things to do than stalk you. Surely. You're not special enough to be hunted, right? 

Still. You're a touch wary of him. Distrustful. You keep your distance—six inches for Jesus Christ, aren’t you a peach?—and try to skirt the line between neutrally polite to the strange man loitering outside of the shops you frequent (your schedule burned to his memory, naturally) and that fascinating skittish intrigue from before. All simmering heat. Blunt want. The kind wrapped up in silk threads. 

It's interesting to watch it play out when he steps closer and all those long-forgotten instincts in the back of your head flare up. The shaky step you take back. The inward frown of confusion when you're not sure why your body craves space, acting almost on its own. And then the sweet defiance that breaks over you. The intentional step closer. The feigned warmth in your tone as you talk to him.

It's easy to pocket the uglier aspects of his personality. The coldness. The indifference. The flat, droll insincerity that leaks into his tone. All of it shelved, locked away, and he's not sure if Price would be happy that he listened to what he said, followed his example, or furious that he's bastardising it to lure this pretty fish in.

)The latter, undoubtedly. But Simon gets a sick kick from it all.)

Especially when it brings you closer to him. Thaws you as you rationalise his reaction during the first meeting, gears spinning. Kicking up excuses. 

Anyone would be angry, offended. It's natural. He's alright now—

It makes you look at him differently as you forcefully fight the urge to flee. 

Silly bird. 

Wary eyes rake over his massive bulk. Brows furrow at the series of black medical masks he wears in public. Always. That, in addition to the heavy black of his wardrobe—black jacket, black hoodie, black leather gloves—sometimes makes you glance at him with a touch of worry. Fear. Probably wondering if you brought home a delinquent. 

But it changes when he rolls up his sleeves one day after you've been moaning about your broken beach cruiser (the, I don't know, chain—or something—keeps catching—), and crouches down to fix it. 

There's a hitch in your breath. A distinct swallow. A guilty tinge of something shy, deliciously so, shading your eyes ruby-red when you look down at him. 

And ah—

Sweet little treat snagged on the line. Ain't he a lucky lad? 

It's all the better when you do the work for him. Reeling yourself in, practically throwing yourself in his cooler when you ask about his tattoos, carefully—considerately—nudging the topic away from his ugly scars. 

He guts you clean as he tells you he's in the military. Top secret, pet. Don't ask because I'd hate to ‘ave to hurt a pretty face like yours—

You preen under it. Pet. Pretty. You don't even notice when he slides his knife over your scales, dices you up on his chopping board. 

You're the picture of sweetness when he unkinks the chain in your bike, and sets it straight. All happiness. Smiles. Appreciative glances. You flutter your pretty eyes at him as you say—

“Thank you—”

You're waiting for a name. His belly rumbles. He could eat, he thinks, and licks his teeth. 

“Simon. Simon Riley.” 

The risk-reward ratio is balanced when you breathe it out between plump lips, chasing the end of it with your tongue. He wants to eat it out of your mouth. Swallow it down. 

You touch his arm, hand warm, soft. “If there's anything I can do to pay you back—”

He takes you out for a kebab later on. Nudges you out of the way when you open your wallet to pay. Draft girl. Naïve, too, because he can feel the heat in your cheeks from where he stands, reaching over to snatch the bag from the man with a grunt. 

You must think him quite the gentleman. So trusting. 

Doesn't matter. He lets it take root. Especially when you shyly invite him back to yours to eat. 

He makes a feast of it, and fucks you on your mint green chaisse after he's finished. 

(Not on birth control, you say, and hand him a box of condoms, suddenly shy. It's unopened. He hums, and burns that to memory.) 

He keeps his distance—an easy feat when he's halfway around the world, and you're stuck in the gloom of Manchester. 

It's purposeful, of course. He made a promise to Price not to give him a reason to worry, but fuck—

You're proving hard to quit. He's never had anyone cuff him upside the head on his bullshit. Not anymore, anyway. Not as the Ghost. He likes the thrill of it, of this chase. 

You don't let him steamroll you when he's in a mood to fight. You punch back, hitting him right in the mess of his guts, and fuck. Fuck. He's a little bit obsessed with it. With you. This wily little fish that acts so shy when he's got three fingers buried in your cunt, but rides him after like you're starving for it. Clawing at his chest. Scratching his arms. It's raw. Primal. He wants to break you—this fiery little kitten that bites his fingers until they bleed, and then purrs in his lap as he drives a pickaxe through your head, shredding logic into pieces. Rummaging around until he nicks the optic nerve that lets you see red. 

You’re everywhere. In everything. In the back of his head, under the howling that hadn't stopped since you trailed your finger down the jagged topography of his bare chest, digging your nail into the crude x across his heart, and whispered, soft and sweet: you're all kinds of fucked up, aren't you? 

A bludgeon to his self-control—

He resists. Has to. Is mean about it, too. Doesn't tell you where he's going (it's need to know), or what he's doing (would ‘ave to bash your pretty ‘ead in if I told you), but keeps you strung on the line (keep thinkin’ about that pretty cunt of yours; can't wait to come ‘ome and ‘ave you sit on my ugly mug—). 

It's dangerous, this game of his. Thrilling for all the wrong reasons. 

But he’s a good mutt. Good—

Until the text. 

The one you send to him when you're out with friends. A picture. You're in a pub somewhere in Moss Side, a drink in hand. A gaggle of nobodies crowded around you. It makes sense, he supposes. There's that old idiom—you’ll trap more flies with honey—and he doesn't know anyone nearly as sweet as you. 

His sweet girl.

(you fuckin’ mutt—)

Ghost stares at you for a moment, teeth aching. The little ensemble—a crop top and jeans—is a vision, he reckons. But it's spoiled when he catches more eyes on you than pointed at the camera. Practically spilling out of your top, aren't you? 

He breathes heavily through his nose. Tastes guncotton in his throat. 

Ghost commits every face to memory, and then calls you. 

You're drunk. Too drunk to remember it tomorrow. Stuck in a pub on what's supposedly a bad part of town. Chatting away about going to your friend’s house. He gets the address, and something sour twits in his stomach. Shit council houses. 

“That safe?” He asks, leaning back in his chair. He's already chubbed up in his slacks at the slur in your voice. “And dressed like that? Didn't take you for a slag—”

It makes you sputter on the line. “I'm—I’m not—”

You're so quick to placate him. So hasty to make him happy. Please don't be angry with me, Simon. I'm just having some fun—

The claws and fangs are tucked away when you're drunk. He shoves the information in the cache, eyes burning. Head aching. He's feverish. Hot under the collar.

Odd considering he's dead—

“Sounds like you will be.”

“It's not like that—”

“‘ow would you know? Might meet a nice fellow. Might take him home.”

“I don’t—I wouldn't—”

The sniffle makes him throb. Fuck. “Yeah? Well, ain't none of my business, I reckon—”

“It is.”

“Oh? How's tha’?”

“I—I like you, Simon—” he can taste your embarrassment through the phone. He didn't even need to bring you flowers and you're already boxing him into monogamy, confessing to him. So sweet. So tender. If he were a better man, he might have told you to sober up. To talk about this tomorrow. 

Too bad for you, he isn't. And what’s worse is that he’s a loyal bastard, too. 

But that's later, and right now—

He's halfway across the world, and you're vulnerable. In the den of hungry mutts. 

It’s charr in his throat. Anger in his veins. “You like me? An’ you go out dressed like that?”

“There's nothing wrong with how I'm dressed—”

He sucks his teeth. “Dunno ‘bout tha’, pet. You look like you're achin’ to get fucked.”

You take a shuddering breath. “I just want you—”

“Yeah?” It's a growl. His cock spits prespend in his trousers. “Then be my good girl. Go home and wait for me.”

It's quiet on the line. He catches the hitch in your throat, the sharp exhale, like you can't really be sure if he's serious or not. He says nothing. Waits. 

Where there would have been a fight—fists and teeth and snarling words—you quieten in the silence. Docile. Submissive. It's in you, he knows. He saw the glimpses back when you first met, when he'd bent down and fixed the bike he broke. All it needs is a little—

“Jus’ worried about my sweet girl, is all.” 

And you relent. 

Corrosive oil spills out of the necrosed holes in his head. It curls over his thoughts, liquid sin. He takes himself in his hand, blood pulsing in his veins, white-hot, damning, and bares his teeth at the urge to come to you, to push you down on the floor, and mount you like a snarling beast—

“Good girl,” he growls when you tell him you'll call a taxi, that you'll go home and have some wine with your friend instead.

Friend. Friends. 

He'll have to do something about that. 

(The thing about deprivation is that it bleeds into a vicious sense of possession when it's finally obtained. Greed. His wants have wants, have wants—

A perfect ouroboros. One you feed into almost destructively.)

Because the thing is—

Simon wants to tie you to his bed. Keep you locked up in the safe house he has in Manchester. Chained, shackled. A prisoner with him as your iron guard. 

It isn't just fantasy, either. 

The flies that congregate around you are an annoying, incessant buzzing in his ears. Remora clinging to the biggest fish. 

But they're easy to scatter when he waves his hand. 

(Waves off. Threatens with bodily harm, with physical aggression—

Same thing.)

The sting in his knuckles and the blood on his shoes are worth it in the end when your tantalum skin cracks. An aggregate of beautiful lines, pretty in their fragility, their brokenness. He wedges his fingers between the splints, widening the chasm to pet at the sticky-soft centre hiding beneath all that rough rock. Sweet girl. Hard candy enclosing taffy-softness. 

His coos melt you to the consistency of mercury. Liquid silver pebbles along your lash line, spilling over in a dizzying display of raw vulnerability. 

It makes every predatory instinct inside of him bristle. Locking onto the sweet lines of crystalline sadness that run down your cheeks. It has his heart racing. Eager, anticipatory. The thrill of the chase, of running you down into the ground until you're fine powder under him. 

And it’s there, it's in his arms—the maw of a beast—where you seek comfort, lamenting the loss of your friends, your coworkers. No one wants to hang out with you anymore. They don't return your calls or answer your texts. 

What did I do? You sniffle, throat bared. Belly turned up. 

Flooded with tears. The lachrymal face that peers up at him makes his teeth ache. He rolls his head back, feels himself thicken in his pants. 

Simon loves it when you cry.

“Fuck ‘em,” he rasps, words sticking to his dry throat. “If they can't see what a catch you are, then they don't even deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

It makes you cry harder, makes you mumble into his chest about how lucky you are to have someone like him. Someone who cares. 

His breath hitches. Warm floods his veins, fever-hot. 

“Thank you, Simon—”

And then you, smooth silver and wickedly sweet, cradle him in your palms as if you could hold all the broken pieces of him together. 

He thinks it's cute. 

Doesn't really have the heart to tell you it's a lost cause.

“Anytime, pet.”

And you're perfect, too.

You take this mangy mutt into your house, and let it eat your food, sleep in your bed. You let him fuck you stupid, and listen so prettily when he convinces you to let him spoil you. Let him pay your rent, your bills. Let Simon dote on you the only way he knows how—mercilessly possessive, and a touch cruel, mean—but you roll over, showing your belly. Submissive and sweet. 

It's even better when you try to lash out at him with a collar in the shape of his teeth branding your neck, spitting and hissing like a feral cat who doesn't know yet that's claws have been clipped. Only to then curl up in his lap, purring as he strokes your fur, and carves out a place for himself in your life. 

He wants to sink his teeth into you, and you think he's a big dog. Undomesticated. One who comes and goes as he pleases. A stray. A mutt. 

It's said fondly. Full of love—

His mouth is full of cavities. His teeth ache. His gums bleed. 

(do you know he's rabid? that the faded name on his dog tags once read cujo—)

Everything about you makes that sludge flood behind his eyes, pounding rotten fists against his temple. take, take, take; mine, mine—

The howling doesn't stop. It tells him to press you into the mattress and fuck you stupid. Tie you to the bedposts and never let you go—

He throws fists in the dark, trying to hit the madness in his head. Ends up with bloody knuckles and laughter in his ears. 

(a voice of reason says, your bird is too big for a cage—)

He clings to it. 

You're warm beside him. Burning hot. He syphons it from your veins when you're asleep, pulling you close just to feel something on his skin other than dirt. Other than blood. 

It's easy to pretend he's fine with these little nips. Leaving teeth marks in your neck. Bloody rings snaking up your thighs. 

He wraps one hand around both of your wrists, holds them high above your head, and tells himself it's enough. Shackled by him, under him, as he takes you apart, pulling at your sense of independence like the gnarled fingers of winter bringing defoliation to summer's bloom, but even with this, all of it, he still aches. Still wants. Needs—

Stupid fuckin’ mutt. 

Then you bring his hands up to your throat, letting him wrap his bearish paws around your delicate neck, and he knows these little bites will never satiate the hunger in his guts. 

He wakes up the next morning feeling warm. Full. Edges softened, if only just, by the sticky sweetness of your breath ghosting over his chest. 

Simon curls his arm around you, holding tight.  He won't let go. Won't—

Hide it. Put it away. 

Ghost does neither of those things. He buries it, instead.  

But in doing so, you find cracks in the foundation. Ones that are just big enough for your willfulness to slip through. To hand him back the cash he gave with a scoff, and a, i work, too, you know? i don't need your money, Simon. that's not why i’m with you—

(All he hears is, I don't need you.)

And then you send him a text. I'm going out with friends from work tonight. We're going drinking. I'll talk to you tomorrow! 

In the zombified remains of his head, a new howling starts. The hisses tell him you're pulling away, running from him—

It's a big world out there. It'll eat you whole—

Like Tommy.

The thing about want is that sometimes it grows teeth, hands. Claws. Without a body of its own, it tends to mould itself after its maker because that's all it knows how to do: devour, consume. Yearn. 

He shouldn't be too surprised to find that this need of his has dug itself out of the grave he buried it in. 

(he did, too—)

The flimsy sarcophagus cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant.

The howling in the back of his head stops abruptly. The pulsing ache in his temple abates. It's heavy, this weight. This absolute, utter emptiness—

No. It's not hollow. The chasm isn't drained, it's—

(In the silence, something growls. Feral. Possessed.)

—full. Perfect equilibrium. All of the patchwork parts of himself, the ones that don't quite fit, suddenly find synergy. 

Communion. 

Ghost cocks his head in consideration.

(your bird is too big for a cage—

—but maybe a collar would do.)

—after all, could you ever leave him with his name etched into your womb—

In leaving the key under the mat for him to come and go as he pleases, you've left yourself vulnerable. But—

Not anymore. 

He has a safehouse he'll take you to. You'll let him, too, because it'll be the best choice for you. The three of you.

He's never entertained any ideas of family, not when the closest approximation he has is drenched in gun oil and smells of smoke from artillery fire, but the howling in his head quietens at the idea of it. He can't shackle you to the bed—stupid fucking mutt—but he can tie you down all the same. Make you his. Wholly. Always. 

And the thing is—despite a pickaxe making figure-eights out of his grey matter; lead poisoning and rust giving him these sour, awful thoughts about locking you up in his house, leaving you a needy mess, dependent only on him—Simon supposes he knows right from wrong. 

Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger. 

But in carving himself a place in your life, he failed to realise that the walls behind him closed in. No way out. And so, his only option is to go forward. To keep moving.

He'll be crucified for this, but that's fine. 

He doesn't intend for you to find out, anyway. It'll be an accident. He came home early, and found you drunk. Drank with you. Your drunken idiocy merged, creating a terrible, noxious cocktail of awful, bad choices. Permanent ones. Irreversible. 

(You're so sweet, so docile when you're drunk—)

It'll be easy to convince you. To play the part of a stoic man suddenly in turmoil. You'll offer to get rid of it, a suggestion that he'll flinch at—a cornered dog, a hand raising in the air. You'll whimper. Shake in his arms as you tentatively smooth over the wrinkles in his brow, murmuring out your options in a stilted breath.

You'll be a Riley before the end of your term. It's only proper, he'll mutter, stiff and uncomfortable, and you'll melt. Liquid tantalum in his palm. The fruits of his labour laid bare, seeping from the corners of his mouth. Tucked tight between his teeth. Mercury he can swallow down, keep in the bracket of his rotten ribs. Safekeeping from this world that just takes. Devours. 

But not if he eats you first. 

The mere notion alone serves as an anchor, locking him to the seafloor. The tumult in his head calmed at the promise of owning. Biting to claim. To have. Greedy for it. For you, and the strange sense of quiet your proximity brings him. The warmth, too. 

He's a rabid dog. This he knows—has known—for quite some time. Indisputable. It pools in his mouth. Liquid sin. Makes him ache for just a sip. Unquenchable, though, because he's wary of water. Hydrophobia, but only for how it washes his efforts away. Cleanses. 

The urge inside of him to bite, to infect, quietens when he gets closer to you. 

(a rabid mutt licking at the window you're on the opposite side of, dreaming of just a taste—)

A byproduct of that maddening virus in his veins, the one he must have picked up six feet in the ground. Bite, bitebite—

—and give you a collar in the shape of his teeth.

He finds you in bed. A bottle of wine on the end table beside you, courtesy of your friend. The one lingering remora he couldn't snap at—one who sends you messages about how you are being manipulated. Taken advantage of. Fuck that loser, the latest one says when he picks up your phone, scrolling through the dwindling conversations housed within. Just him now, and them. 

It preaches about empowerment. About how you shouldn't let a man pay your bills (textbook manipulation. he's putting you in a position of dependency. making you feel obligated to stay. it's all on Google, babes. like, fucking get a clue!!!!), or how it's moving so quickly (maybe you should come stay with me in Durham for a bit, hun. get away for a weekend. i worry about ya, is all). He hums, thumbing through the old chats. 

You told her to fuck off about the manipulation, but it came after a lot of, oh, yeah. well, he's just. you know. he's different, and you haven't declined the invitation. i’ll think about it, is what you write. 

It simmers under his skin. That independence he plans on stomping out under his heel. With his kin. 

(sick, sick sick, wrong—)

It's desperation, this. Clawing at the walls—the dirt—until his nails are torn off his fingers. Until his skin splits, peels. Broken under rock and rubble. That animalistic need for air. To breathe. Basic training tells him not to save the person drowning unless he's sure they won't kill him in their struggle to live. But what's he supposed to do when that person is his rotting body, sinking down to unfathomable depths? When all he has is you to cling to—

Damnation built by his own hands. 

You'll die together, he reckons, and tosses your phone on the hamper in the corner of the room. 

Ghost can't remember the last time someone made him feel anything at all other than impartiality. Indifference. Casual apathy. 

Price is the exception to this on the grounds of being consanguineous to him.

And you—

An outlier. 

One he intends on sinking as deep as he can with. Anchored, maybe, by this little plan that beats and pulses in the back of his head. That clogs his throat with a want so thick, he can already taste the brine from the ocean. Water in his nose. Down his esophagus—

Better than dirt, he supposes. And it spurns him forward.

You're malleable like this. Tensile. He bends you easily with just a touch until you're flat on your back, a pillow shoved beneath your tailbone, and stripped. The loose shirt you wear to sleep is hiked up under your neck. Panties are pulled off until your sweet, bare cunt is revealed to him. All pretty and soft, and his. Untouched, he notes, and gives an appreciative stroke over your clit with his thumb. 

It was something you were whining about the other day, panting in his ear as if he wasn't a continent away. Pleading with him on the phone to please, please let you come. 

Simon likes the way you cling to him when it's been a while since something has wrecked you as thoroughly as his cock. When your spoiled pussy was neglected for a few days, weeks, and starved for attention. You were so sweet to him then, cooing in his ear how good you've been, how much you want him and only him, need him. Begging so prettily for it. 

He's almost sad to spoil himself in your cunt when you can't weep for it. Can't bully him closer. Try to claw his eyes out. That delicious push-pull where you hiss at him for pulling away, but whine when he gets too close. 

Sad, but—

Not enough to stop himself. 

You're not wet enough for him to slide inside unprepared—his cock too big, something that makes his bones tremble—and he rectifies it by leaning down, letting saliva pool between his teeth and lips. He holds it there for a moment as he spreads your folds apart with his thumb and forefinger. 

And then he spits on your bare cunt. 

It hits your clit, the thick glob siding down your slit. He reaches between your thighs, pawing at you. Slides his fingers through the slick mess he made, teases around your tight rim. 

Simon usually likes to take his time with you. Lapping at your pussy for hours until you're a weeping, snot-nosed mess whining in the sheets. Spoiled rotten. Begging him to fuck you already, Simon, you can't take it anymore—

He's mean. Cruel. Edges you for hours until your legs shake, trembling around his ears. He never lets you reach that peak—doesn’t let you come until he's buried inside of you. 

Coming on his tongue, his fingers, is rarely a privilege you ever earn. Too much of a spitfire, a spiteful little kitten, to give in and do what he demands. So he keeps you on the precipice until he's ready to fuck you, ignoring your bribes, your bargains. Simon doesn't give in even when you beg, when you relent and tell him you'll finally be good. 

You never are. 

Spoiled, he always huffs. Down to the fuckin’ bone. 

Like now. Pulling away from him. Him, the only person in your life who stuck around. A little bullying (bones breaking, splintering under his fists; the wet, hot smear of blood on his hands, skulls smacking against the pavement—an’ if you tell anyone, he cracks his battered fists and it sounds like a snarl, a gunshot, your parents will be cryin’ over an empty grave—) shooed the gnats away. He took a more clandestine approach to others. Birds that kept circling you tight. Protective, shrill. They made his head ache, but—

(don't want to start nothin’, but i don't want to be alone wit’ ‘er. tried to kiss me, is all. ain't like that, pet—)

It was a test. And they all failed. All but him. 

Yet—

come to Durham. 

i’ll think about it. 

Ungrateful. It's his fault, though. Simon doted on you too much, cosseted by his affection, when he should have clipped your wings from the beginning. 

Ah, well—

Lesson learned. 

You're wet enough now. He pushes in two fingers, scissoring them apart. You'd be yowling at him, kicking up a fuss if you'd been awake. But you're not. It thrums through him. Thick, heady. He likes you like this—probably more than he should. The heat simmering in his veins bubbles. Pops. Sap on charring wood. It clogs his throat with his smoke until it burns, a dry forest fire. 

He needs you. Needs to be in you. He's tired of waiting. Impatience burrows into him like a maelstrom. 

Simon adjusts his hold on your leg, fingers curling behind your kneecap. Steadying himself. His fingers slip out of your cunt with a sloppy squelch that ghosts across his spine. Anticipatory. A touch anxious. He wants you. Wants you bad—

He takes himself in his hand, and slides the weeping tip over your slit. Taps it once, thrice on your clit. And then guides it to your centre. Your warmth bleeds into him. Eager, he shuffles forward. Feeds you his cock. Eyes drilling into the place where his head slips in, swallowed by your sloppy, wet hole. The glands make you stretch around him. Rim pulled taut. 

The sight alone must have been crafted by some Luciferian dream, dangled before him in the shade of nirvana. 

take a bite, it urges. and then take more—

Like this, passed out with your legs hitched over his shoulders, drooling into the pillow unawares, you're just a doll. 

Made for him, and—

“Fuckin’ hell—” He presses into you—cock splitting tight, warm heat—and tries not to lose himself to the sensation of being bare, raw, inside of you. 

—“A perfect fit.”

It's always been condoms. You're not on birth control. Ink blots in his eyes. He goes a little feral with it. Instincts unleashed. Unfettered. 

Simon bullies his fat cock into you until his hips tap the back of your thighs, buried as deep as he can go. It's molten heat cocooning him—a warm embrace. For the first time, ever, he thinks he understands the meaning of home. Sliding home, in particular. 

(Welcome home. Home. Home. He'll make a house out of your body. Sleep inside the brackets of your thighs, head pillowed on your chest—)

As good as you feel around him—slick, wet, and tight—and as much as he wants to saviour the sight of you, passed out on the pillow, cunt split by his cock, he has a goal, a mission, to see through. 

His hand falls, slick and tacky, to your lower belly. Palm pressing against the subtle bulge in your abdomen, the outline of his cock. You always whine and hiss that he's too big for you. That you can't take him to the root. 

Hurts, you complain, hand against your naval. Fingers knotting over the place that aches. 

He presses his fingers there instead, feeling himself under your skin. Changing your anatomy to make room for him to fit—

It lights him in fire. Spurns him on. He bucks into you, pace sloppy, clumsy. Selfish. He's unrelenting as he splits you apart, drilling the full length of himself into your supine body, supple flesh relaxed under him, practically melting into the sheets. 

The thread keeping his resolve, his self-control, sprung up tight begins to quiver. Each piston into you has delicate fingers drumming across the strings of a harpsichord. It reverberates through him, echoing in the stifling, suffocating, silence of the bedroom, overtaking it. Clouding it with the musk of his desire, his devotion to you, to this dream blooming in the prison of his mind. 

Everything narrows into a needlepoint. 

There's just your burning flesh beneath him, softer than it's ever been; pillowy. Welcoming. And the sounds of him fucking into you—lewd squelches, slick and wet; the sound of his cock finding home in the basin of your spread thighs; his heavy breaths, his groans and growls that seem to rattle the bed. The noise breaks, an incomplete requiem of sin in his head, and he loses himself in the lulling notes, dragged under in the bestial beat of taking what his—

A sudden noise shatters through the room. Beneath him, you stir, gasping wetly. The sound mangled in your throat. 

There's confusion in your sleepy, hazy gaze when you peer up at him, lashes clumping together. You moan, whimpering, as you struggle to latch on to the threads of cognisance that he's content to fuck out of you. Your hand lifts, falls to his wrist still pressed against your lower belly. The grip is lax, loose. You’re not pushing him away, but clinging to him. Centring yourself. 

It makes his blood thicken. Has him burning red-hot. 

“Wha’s a’matter, pet?” He taunts, grinding his cock into you hard enough to make your dazed eyes water. Your hand tightens around him, holding steady. “Don't like it? Not fuckin’ you hard enough?”

“Simon—”

His name tapers off into a keen when he angles hips, and starts pistoning into you with a mean, merciless fury. The desperate noises that spill, unhindered, from your slack mouth is the perfect accompaniment to the lewd sound of him fucking your sopping cunt; the piece he was missing when this started. His requiem, complete. 

It's a serrated blade to his self-control, already frayed and threadbare as it is. The pressure makes it snap.

“C'mon, sweet thing. Thought you wanted this?” 

There's a place in hell just for him. It's sealed when you blink your tired, sleepy eyes up at him, mind a slurry of lingering somnolence and the heady alcohol on your breath, and offer a shuddering whimper. Always so soft for him, so agreeable when you’re drunk. 

“So’ry, Simon—”

You can barely string words together. Poor, pitiful you—vulnerable under him. Breakable. Malleable. Anyone else could have tricked you into this same position when he was away. Got you beneath them like this, compliant and unawares, and took what belongs to him. 

(The only thing in this destitute existence he claims for himself—)

Not anymore. Not ever again. 

It's almost callous when he grinds into you. Hateful. Brutish. Furious. And dazed as you are, you barely even flinch at the snarls that spill, unfettered, from the back of his throat. The low groans of him making promises with devils unknown; constructing shackles from brass, iron. 

Entrenching his future in motion, cupped protectively between the parentheses your thighs make around his hips. It's almost a vicious sort of poetry, one laid bare in the odious ruins of that broken thing he calls a heart. Etched into his rotten pericardium. Necrosed devotion. He'll see it through—however noxious, and putrid, you might find the miasmal stench of it spun tight in his web. 

It's for your own good.

And as if you agree, you answer him in perfect euphony, moaning sweetly as you tilt your hips up for more. 

Ghost groans low in his throat, bestial and spinning rapidly out of his control. He feels everything spinning, slipping; the trudge to the finish line narrows into a pinprink. He needs something to cling to, to hold on to with broken hands—

The only purchase he finds is in your demise. 

His hand lifts, shaking yours loose. He reaches up, fingers dig into your chin, forcing your pouty mouth open. You blink at him, sluggish, but he catches the thin gossamer of awareness spooling thin cobwebs over darkened crevasses, covering the canyons in your eyes with cognisance. It makes him leer. 

“Stick your tongue out, pretty girl,” he rasps, words sticking together, muffled under the mask. Crushed aggregate stone under the weight of his own desire. “Tha’s it. Open up nice and wide—”

He lets spit gather again, pooling on his tongue. It's degrading, you always say. Gross. But you swallow it down like a good girl, anyway. Always. You come at him with fangs and claws, but somehow, you always merge in a perfectly dizzying polyphony. 

Ghost spits on your tongue. Lets it land right in the middle of fleshy pink. A sick, twisted pleasure thrums in his veins at the sight. 

There's checking the boxes of an established kink, and this. Horrifically proprietary. Ownership that ignites a fire in his marrow, setting him alight from the inside out. Turns bone into blackened char, cinder. He can almost taste it on his tongue. 

It's made worse, turned frenzied, when you—sweet, perfect, you—bracket it protectively in the curve of your tongue. Completely dazed, head filled with a heady slurry of somnolence and alcohol, but still aware enough to know, even if only through muscle memory, what you're meant to do when he spits in your mouth. 

If anything, you're more obedient like this. Little doll. Coddling it lovingly, this little piece of him that he gives you. 

And it might be the madness speaking—these fraying thoughts take on a vitriolic edge, corrosive aqua regia pooling in his throat—but Christ. He's been stabbed in the guts, repeatedly, and it somehow packed less of a punch than this. 

He wants, wants—

Family never crossed his mind, was never even on the table or something to be considered, but with you it brims. Blooms in rot. Roots in tenebrous. 

He has this insatiable urge to devour you whole so you'll always be with him. The waves of his desire are monstrous. The waters below are rapacious. A gaping maw eager to eat you up—

Pity it’s not an option. 

But he’ll make do. Buy a ring tomorrow. Something pretty that matches your eyes. The curve of your smile. Sanctioned ownership. A collar in gemstones and gold, glimmering and shining bright enough that should any light fade from your gaze, it’ll illuminate in the gloom; twilight made in sorrow. The prettiest blues—

Said eyes water. Ghost’s hold on your face relaxes when you give a muffled keen, cheeks bubbling up against the pressure. Tongue still stuck out even as he takes his pleasure from your supine flesh. Suspended in motion, stasis. Such a good girl for him—

He swallows. Tastes poison, rot, on his tongue. “Swallow.” 

You're a little sluggish, a little slow, but you follow his command all the same. He knows, then, that it could only ever be you. 

No one gets under his skin like this. No one makes him itch, want, crave, as much as you do—

You make a face, twisted up in some amalgamation of pleasure and confusion. It nudges the ruins of his chest and feels almost like a heartbeat when it pulses in his flesh. 

“Simon, Simon—”

His name is all you can say, and he's not sure if you're begging for mercy, or muttering it out into the scant air between your heaving breaths like an obsecration, an orison, but he eats it all the same. Bites down on your pleas, your cries, your prayers, and chews them up between fangled teeth. Takes them down into the swirling pits of his belly where they're eaten alive by what grows in the decay.

(belly full of dirt:

he heaves, and heaves, but nothing comes out even though he can taste humus in his throat, feel worms using his organs like a playground—)

“Somethin’ you want, pet?” He taunts, and shifts his hips back just enough to drag a few inches of his cock out of your drenched cunt. A tease—cruel and mean. He’d get lobbed upside the head for this had you been in your right mind. A tap to his temple, shaking the cobwebs loose. He would have bent down, and sunk broken teeth into your jugular. Merging violence with love until bloody knuckles feel like a kiss. “All you ‘ave to do is ask. Use your words, pretty thing—”

You whine, low and drawn out. A lazy whimper in the back of your throat. “Pl’se—”

You can barely speak. Tongue too thick. Sleep too heavy in your veins. Alcohol, too. A lesson, perhaps, for his willful little pet come the morning when you struggle to measure just how deep into his gullet you’ve let yourself fall. 

He can’t help rubbing salt into the shallow cuts, if only because he likes the way you pout. 

“C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better’n that.”

And damn him—damn you—you do. Your hand curls over his wrist, pulling it close to your mouth where you place a kiss against his palm. Tender. Chaste. Midnight blooms in your eyes, casts shadows under pale moonlight. His breath stutters in his chest when you lean your head back, letting his hand fall to your bared neck. 

Your heavy, lidded eyes gaze back at him, cutting through the shade of night that sews the air like satin. Etched in the file silk is threads of trust in stark white. The kind that bleeds for him; hungers. One that aches, always tender like a bruise. The throb of it echoes between mouldering ribs. Booms between his ears. 

Ghost doesn’t fall into pieces. Doesn’t shatter. No. Something in the splintered remains shifts. Settles. He wraps his fingers around the thick of your throat, thumb notched tight against your pulse, and he feels complete. Whole. Remade from the ruins. 

Your breath hitches. The sound is a gunshot in his ears. He squeezes down, a gentle press. Just enough to make the air spill out of your lungs, to let your eyes water. Lachrymose, eager. It does something to him when you cry. He feels tipped upside down, torn inside out. Left all askew, asunder. He wants to drown in the pebbling river growing against your lashline. Wants to drink it down until it quenches his neverending thirst. Wants, wants—

He feels his name spill from your lips. Brassy and broken, trembling against his palm. A plea—

More.

And he gives it to you. 

Simon hitches your ankle on his shoulder. Adjusts the grip he has on your throat. He settles over your body, blanketing you under his bulk. Stygian beast devouring the maiden whole. The thought amuses him even as it knocks the air from his lungs. 

He anchors himself into the mattress with his knees, steadying himself, curls his other hand around the iron ring of the headboard. All the while, you look up at him—glossy eyes burning coals in the dark, in the gloom. Wanting, hungry. Mouth held open as if you’re waiting for his scraps—

And then he bucks into you, the leverage giving his thrust a savage edge. 

The whines are snuffed out under his palm. Your eyes widen, tears now spilling down your temple, soaking the pillow below your head. 

He groans, head rolling back. “Fuckin’ hell—ain’t you a pretty sight?”

Tucked under him, throat swallowed by his palm. Split on his cock, slick and wet. The tears streaming down your face makes him feel wicked, foul; but the spit running down your slackened jaw quells any doubt. The hand on his wrist holds him tight, tighter still, to your flesh. 

You want this. His spoiled rotten bird.

So, he gives it to you.

Simon’s almost ruthless when he snaps his hips into yours, cooing viciously into your ear about how you feel, how you look, how you sound—so pretty wrapped around him, under him; his little doll—

“S’where you belong, pet—” guttural words spill, flintlike and savage, from his mangled throat. Reinforced with the hateful way he blugeons his cock into you. Times it perfectly with the firm squeezes against your jugular, never letting you catch your breath. Your eyes roll back, legs trembling. Shaking. But you don’t move, don’t struggle. The hand on his wrist is a shackle, and it makes him smirk, scars pulling up in a gnarled mess of mirth; ugly and mean. “Right where you belong. Ain’t tha’ right?”

He leans down, babbles nonsense into your temple. Promises you the heads of gods, the ichor they bleed. Swears he’ll build a shrine for you in Durham.

But for as mocking as these words he murmurs into your ear are, they’re tremulous. Raw. A current roars beneath; a steady stream, a plea, all full of need: stay, stay staystay—

(please)

He buries his nose into your hairline to stem the ravening ache in his guts, breathes in the heady scent of you—of sex, and wine, and sweat. Drags it into his lungs in harsh, angry gasps to stain his skin with the smell of you. Of him. 

It goes right to his head in a heavy rush until he’s dizzy, almost sick, with the swell of it flooding in. An animal, he thinks, drunk on merging pheromones that make him mindless. Unfettered. 

It’s as if he’s driven on instinct alone; his frenzied pace ebbs, grows sloppy. The air around him feels thick. Syrupy. Stifling. The balmy breath in his chest is nearly as unbearable as it is addicting. Sickeningly sweet. Still—

His chest expands, taking as much of the potent miasma into his lungs as he can, filling them up, up, until he feels the edges threaten to brust. It’s only then, when ink moults across his vision, that he lifts his head just enough to shove his mouth against yours, a broken snarl ripping free from his throat as he forces the infectious air into your mouth, down to your lungs. Polluting you with the same sickness. The same rot. 

Little hiccups tumble past your lips as you swallow it down, taking everything he gives you, and he catches them on his tongue. Plays with them between his teeth, basking in the salty tang of you—brine, loam; peatsalt. Ashes, guncotton. Molasses. He’s not sure if he wants to drown you in him, or crawl into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth that pulses around his tongue like a heartbeat. 

Both, maybe. Everything. All of it. 

Always—

But he’s chasing pleasure on fumes. Trying to run with broken legs. There’s nothing refined about this. About the way he cudgels the head of his cock into the places that make your mouth twist away from his greedy lips in a silent scream. His weight is crushing you, he’s sure, but you cling to him harder, holding him tighter. Almost afraid to let go. And fuck—the notion alone is a kick to the chest, harsh and heavy. He nearly gags on the litany of broken moans spiling out of his mouth, landing on your tongue. 

Driven mad, maybe (or pussy-drunk, and high off of his own poison); but in that madness, he discovers this:

Nirvana exists between your thighs. 

Home, too. 

(well—

not yet.)

Pleasure fissions down his spine. The paroxysm taking him deeper into the battle-worn depths of his demise until the walls narrow, closing in. Crushing. No escape. But—

He won’t climb out of his hole he dug. Not until he makes a bed from your flesh; shelter out of your bones. He wants to ingrain himself as deep within you as he can, arsenic subsumed down to your marrow. Poisoned with the fill of him, too sick to let go. 

(Bone nausea. 

A death sentence.)

It metastasises inside of him, filling the barren spaces up until it leaks from his pores. 

He wants it: this dream so tantalisingly close. 

Simon lifts his hand from your throat, and reaches out, grasps at it with a shaking paw—

All it takes is a few crass, careless swipes of his calloused thumb across your clit, cock angled toward that spot that makes you rake your broken nails down his back, yowling in his ear for more, there, please, Simon, please—

You clench like a vice around him. A pretty bow tied up at the base of his cock. He bows over you, grunts spilling from his chest as he sinks his teeth into your nape, splitting skin btween his teeth. The warm, ozonous tang of your blood flooding his tongue is euphoric, eclipsing his mind in a haze of pleasure that crackles and burns at the base of his spine, spitting smoke up his body and into his skull. 

The harsh whine you let out—all prey, all animal; wounded, stuck under his muzzle—has some part of him, basal and inborn, rearing up. Roaring in his ears, ripping talons across the jagged remains of his head. 

(mine, mine, mine—)

He answers your scream with a growl, one caught in the smoke clogging his throat. It sounds inhuman when its wrenched out of his mouth—more animal than man: the devastating howl of a forest on fire—but the feel of it vibrating between his teeth is connatural. Innate. It belongs between his incisors; fits like a puzzle piece in his broken muzzle. Unleashed now. Finally free from this ill-fitting cage he housed it, this goddamn box—

Cobbled together from palm ash and brimstone, ichor and salt. Sewed up with copper sutures in the shape of a man for a perfect fit. 

Every cell in his body screams that he was made for this. To be over you, in you. Maw filled with your blood. Pussy stuffed full of his cock. 

He might not have clawed out of the dirt for you, but this mossy, gnarled lump in his chest beats now only for you. Apodictic. Ironclad. His teeth in your jugular, your life pulsing wetly on his tongue. 

It’s his apotheosis. His end. 

His hips stutter. White noise in his head. It drowns out the shrill screams, the hisses. Everything is just—static. Pleasure of a silent kind, humming, buzzing, and molten. Ghost buries himself inside of you as deep as he can, until his cock is fit snug against the plug of your womb, and lays his claim by branding it with the potency of his name. 

Tidally locked, you’re dragged down the summit with him, tumbling to your demise. Too dazed, too wound tight in his arms, his embrace, to see the jagged rock at the bottom of the hungry chasm thirsting for your blood, you just cling to him. Refusing to let go. 

(silly girl—

His pretty little perigee.)

His body aches in ways that cruelly remind him of his age. Joints stiff, stomach quivering. His knuckles sting when he unfurls it from the headboard, skin pink and raw from the tight hold he had around the metal. 

It’s made worse when he heaves a harsh breath, and pulls away from you with a long, drawn out groan. He settles back on his haunches, eyes searing into the space between your thighs. Messy with his spend. It dribbles down your slit, your ass, pools on the sheets below. 

Your chest shudders, legs splayed out how he left you. He thinks, viciously, of gazelles, and wonders if the blood he feels drying on his mouth looks anything like the muddied mane of a lion after eating its fill. 

“Fuckin’ hell—”

He should clean you up, hide his crime, but he burns the image of you into his head (another tattoo over scar tissue), and drops to a heap beside you. The moment his back hits the mattress and all thoughts of moving are erased in silk, in smoke and clover. 

Chest heaving, slick with sweat, he feels the thrum of his victory in his veins. The high of the chase abates, and he nearly purrs with contentment. Hangs his pride on a pedestal, and doesn’t think about the absence of any guilt. Doesn’t even entertain the thought, not when victory dries between your thighs. When you roll over with a huff, reaching out for him. 

It's as if you're trying to bury yourself inside of him, crawl into the safety of his ribs. 

Ghost grunts, feels his sensitive, spent cock give a feeble twitch on his sticky thigh. The idea of you, blissfully unaware, seeking comfort from the man who writ your body with his virile spend, irrevocably changing your life and entwining it so deeply and so messily with his own that to severe either of you from each other is nearly impossible, floods him with satisfaction so deep, euphorically heady, that his chest seems to shudder. Resounding with some amalgamation of a purr, a grow, so utterly primal, that he sounds more beast than man. 

His roots run deep within you, now, and every misaligned piece of his patchwork body seems to sag and shiver in an almost perfect parallelism. Congruence ascertained with the cupping of you between its mismatched maw. Shackled in a baleen prison. Nestled, safe and sound, between white teeth. 

Ghost pulls you close, holding tight, and hums. As you drool on his shoulder, dripping with his spend, he knows he'll keep you there forever, until you're nothing but bones. 

There's a cloud of confusion hanging over you the next morning, a twinge of uncertainty gnarling across the gaps in your memory. The pieces of a puzzle that belong to a different set. He watches you scramble through them, filling in blanks. Oscillating so deliciously between wariness and discontent. 

“‘morning,” he greets, as if his spend hasn’t dried on your thigh last night. Tucked up nice and tight against your fertile, unprotected womb. As if he couldn't taste brimstone in the back of his throat when you wince as you walk, achy and battle-worn from the weight of his desire crushing you all night. 

“Morning,” it's a sticky rasp in your throat. He wonders if you taste him on your tongue. “When did you get in?”

“Las’ night.”

You nod, but it's absent. Flickering through the timeline of events that aren’t drenched in black, shaded over like a heavy bruise. Your expression is fractured. Raw. Pensive. Something untouchable, unchartable, and yet he reads you as plainly as the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup. 

You don’t remember. Don’t know what to make of this chasm, this fissure, that looms, icy and deep, before you. There’s no anger, though. You don’t demand recompense for what he stole, what he took. The lashings he deserves are tucked quietly between your teeth. Hidden under layers of normalcy to prevent yourself from seeing him as is: a beast. 

“Well, um. Some homecoming, huh?” You joke, but it's hollow. Flat. Fragile like fine glass. You're digging for more. Rooting around to connect these vague, absent dots that linger, lost in the vacancy of your memory. 

He almost purrs. 

He wants to chew you up. Spit you in the palm of his hand. Maybe tuck you in his breast pocket, nestled against the lump in his chest—the one those silly enough to dream might call a heart. Keep you there forever. Hidden in the barrel of his loaded gun. 

“Bit rowdy.” 

It’s horrifically vague, but you cling to the prevacation he proffers to you; a lifeline in the turbulent sea, letting it overwrite the absence, the itching in your skull that must be clanging on the walls, begging for you to run. 

“Sorry,” it's sheepish. He knows the ferality in which you sometimes come at him when he's buried deep inside you is something that makes you twinge with embarrassment. Little kitten clawing at the old dog trying to get it to play. Rolling over immediately when it growls. Docile, sickeningly sweet.

But even naive kittens know to watch out for the frothing, foaming maw. 

“Did you use a—?”

He dips his chin. “I might ‘ave.”

And you take it as gospel. As truth. Why would Simon have any reason to lie to you about this? 

Relief shudders over your shoulders. You relax, inching toward the seat across from him. Gazelle making a home for itself in the lion’s den. 

The spell of unease is broken, now, and you quickly fill the chasm with chatter about your day. Your plans. Asking him how he’s been. 

You shove at the warning signs until they’re hidden away, and ignore the bones of your brethren scattered around you. All because you trust him. 

He aches with the urge to crush it between his teeth. 

And he will one day soon, he’s sure, because it’s just as easy to enact his plan as it was to get you to open the door. 

It starts with him convincing you to drink with him after dinner. Jus’ a glass. Got this fancy bottle. Reckon we should ‘ave some. 

But—

Can’t drink forever—no matter what his dogshit dad thought. 

So, he pokes holes in the condoms you hide in the bedside table, a little wary now. A touch fretful about your contraceptives in a way that makes him preen. You have good instincts, but rarely do you listen to them. Your head must be filled with sirens, but it's futile, he supposes. He's already stuffed cotton into your ears. 

It only feeds into that gaping chasm that bellows up from the depths that this world is not good for you. That it will tear you into pieces, into shreds. You need him. Need the Ghost to protect you. 

Case in point:

You’re needy beneath him, panting and mewling into the sheets as he teases your clit with his thumb. So wet, it almost feels like hot oil on his skin. Syrupy thick. 

In your desperation, you cling to him, throat bared. Fragile fine china. Belly up. Vulnerable. 

You barely notice when he pulls off the condom, crumpling it up into a ball and shoving it in the pocket of his slacks.. Don’t even react when he shoves his bare, raw cock into you. 

You don't even notice. 

(or when he slurs in your ear about how badly he wants to knock you up—breed his pretty girl until she’s stuffed full of him, making life with what he offers. salvation in the form of creation. ain’ tha’ a thought? he huffs into your ear, humid mirth curling over your skin. a stain. and the way it unfetters you—tightening around him, gushing slick—he finds his answer, one reinforced in the rolling of your eyes as your common sense, independence, trickle out of your ears and down your slackened jaw—)

And when that fails, he just slips you a sleeping pill. There's always an easier way to the finish line, he finds. 

(stupid fuckin’ mutt—)

Nothing bleeds from the cracks he wrought, or slinks from the shadows cast by his machinations until weeks later. 

Life just goes back to what it once was—Simon coming and going, letting himself into your home with the door you leave unlocked. You go to work, and chatter aimlessly about this vision you have about a home in the countryside, near the ocean. Saving up—uselessly—for sheep and goats, and the sought-after Highland cows. Chickens and ducks first, you say, and barely notice when his gaze drops, drilling holes into your stomach. Watchful. Leering. 

He can almost scent the change on you. Nose pressed to your skin; bloodhound sniffing the ground. 

Ghost keeps time in the slow, susurrus drawl of your voice sifting through the cotton in his ears, waiting for those precious decibels to catch on, to tilt up at the end as your eyes skim the calendar he keeps scratching x’s across in red, almost delicate, innocent even though it's from his sanguinary hand. A countdown to something you haven’t yet caught on to. 

And it’s all so sweet. 

—the waiting game, the subtle changes, the desperate way you cling to normalcy—

Sweet, like the way you carve this life out for yourself, filled with stuffed animals full of idealism. So much so, that it's almost bitter. Acrid. He watches the light glow in your eyes as your plans take shape, moulding putty between your hands, and like a pit viper, he coils in on himself. Frenzied. Fearful—

But only just. 

The excitation has run its course. He’s drifting, languid, into his scheme. Content. The notion of you slipping from his fingers is a thought that rarely crosses his mind these days, especially when that house on the prairie grows from an occupant of one to two—

“And, you know… when you're not out saving the world—” your eye roll and air quotes make his lips twitch, tugging at the scar tissue, the acid burns, splashed across his mouth. An ugly fucking Pollock. “—maybe you can come visit.”

“Never fancied myself a rancher,” he drawls, just to watch you squirm. Brow furrowing into a deep ravine as you struggle to make your intentions known without actually giving them sound. Skirting around the issue of wanting him there, of planning a home with him. 

(Too much, maybe? Or too soon—? 

if only you knew—)

He finds it charming, really. 

Still—

“It's just a thought,” you mutter, downcast. He wants to choke on your misery. Your sadness. Drown himself in your anger. Float in your happiness. 

Fuckin' Christ—

All this playing daddy in his head has thrown him off his rocker. Made him soft. Sentimental. It's probably why he yields to you. Offers a lazy shrug and another smarmy twitch of his lips. 

“Sounds like a plan,” and the way you brighten is a dagger to his chest. 

And the thing is. It does. It sounds like a dream, a perfect vision. Just—

Maybe not in the way you'd want. 

He's been looking into places unmarred by human hands. Ghost towns, uncharted territories. His home here isn't perfect for it, not like the vast geography of Mexico. The uninhabited wilderness of Canada, places so remote that it's almost untethered to modern civilisation. Islands of forest, mountains, all on their own. 

Vast corners and crevasses where someone can disappear and never be found. 

But those won't work in tandem with his flighty lifestyle. While he plans on keeping you barefoot and pregnant (common sense in the back of his head screams that he's foul, vile, monstrous—), he will continue to work. Has to, really, to avoid suspicion. 

So—

Home it is. 

But he gets inspiration from the Highland cows you coo on about and purchases a plot of land in the Western Isles. Gives this whim of his—yours, really—a concrete foundation made of the abstract. The filament provided by his newly christened Sergeant—an overeager mutt that bleeds warning signs from his pores. 

(don’t get close, reactive dog. will bite—

the little mutt is a great pyrenees, ain’t he?)

But bless Johnny’s bleedin’ heart, he thought as the man prattled on about this cabin he owns. A place of solitude. Could fire a gun and no one would even peek out the curtains. Beautiful, the way all of Scotland is. The highlands, he breathes in that shade of catholic madness only the dutiful soldiers of god's right-handed wrath can be, is where he keeps his home. A place chiselled from stone, surrounded by wilderness that eats tourists alive. 

(he didn’t ask at the time why Johnny was so keen on finding these places scattered around Scotland, ones with little traffic and a nearly negligible amount of souls within the vicinity, but he finds its best not to get too close to mutts crossbred with wolves.)

But Simon is nothing if not devoted, and so. 

You’ll get your fantasy ranch in the middle of nowhere. Your highland cows, your billy goats, your chicken, sheep, and ducks. A baby in your arms, too. One that shows its hand the next morning, dashing all your carefully laid plans. These paths of independence of yours run parallel to his whims but never converge. There’s the potential in this for these fraying threads to split, and diverge. Separate. 

(But it’s all put to rest at the sound of you heaving in the adjoining washroom. His path eats yours until it’s overtaken. Consumed. 

The evasive, unfettered little bird trammelled, caught. Wing-clipped, and all his.) 

Any misgivings the part of his gyri not buried under the frothing mess of his polluted grey matter might have is vitiated by the unwavering certitude that, despite his own gains in this, it really is in your best interest. 

And maybe it's something that should have come earlier in your relationship—however threadbare that word is in conjunction with the unhinged desire blooming in the pit of his chest; madness masquerading as love or some obsessive, desperate facsimile of it. Maybe a proper man, a better one, might have dug down and fully laid out the reality of intertwining your life with the living dead. That the idea of danger, death, and revenge are all everpresent threats scratching at the walls of this sickeningly sweet fantasy you wrap around yourself. 

He’s a dangerous man. A creature of devastation—manmade, bent into, or congenital is yet to be unearthed—which, in itself, brings about a certain lifestyle. One with fewer people around, and always shrouded in secrecy. Friends, family—none of that matters when death curdles gnarled fingers around his jugular. 

You’ll get used to it. Eventually. The only other choice is to let you, his now flightless bird, go. Released back into the wild vulnerable and reeking of his stench. 

You’ll be devoured before daylight, ripped into pieces—only if they’re feeling generous, that is. 

Simon has his own twisted remora. Ones with claws and fangs and a hunger that runs deep. Insatiable. Any scraps that fall from his mouth are devoured before they can touch the sea floor. They’ll crush you in their maw and dangle your mangled body from the gaps between their teeth. 

You’re not made for the wild. Not anymore. You’re meant to be protected. You—this fragile, delicate thing. He’ll hold you close, keep you secure and safe in a mausoleum of your own making. 

This little glass jar domicile. 

A billet in the mountains. 

He’ll fill it with the finest things—silk linens, fine china; mahogany and teak, pink ivory; a bed of soft, downy feathers, sherpa, Egyptian cotton; (sticks and stones and grass and moss). Buy you whatever you need. Chickens and ducks. Sheep and goats. 

They’ll keep you company when he’s away. 

(and if that fails, he can always plan playdates for you with whatever dirty secret Johnny’s been keeping tucked away in the woods.)

He draws an x in the empty, white box of the calendar, the tip of his red marker gliding silkily across the glossy surface. Something unfurls in his guts. Blossoms in his bones. There’s an almost indescribable sense of satisfaction—primal and animalistic—that grows from the upturned dirt in his head. Life composted from rot. 

Ghost hums to himself when he turns, the sound nearly a purr—bestial as it is, suffocated under sulphur. It reverberates through his chest, trembling across the brackets of his ribs that expand with his deep, heavy inhale—breathing in the sight that greets him like a lover’s kiss

The kebab he ordered lays untouched on the table across from the television—some trashy reality show playing in the background while you tried to eat; a dating show, you’d said when he merely shrugged, having other things on his mind over what to watch while you ate. It all seems to be preserved in time. Frozen in on the exact moment when you’d sniffed the döner kebab he got for you—the same thing you order each time—and then promptly wrenched yourself back, gagging. The sandwich was flung back in the takeaway box before you slapped your hand over your mouth, rushing into the washroom. 

If his phone wasn’t in the other room, he might have taken a picture. A little memento to remember this moment. Framed it in iron and perched it on the desk they gave him back in Hereford, the one just down the hall from Price. 

(ah, speaking of—he’ll have to send that caustic bastard a fruit basket, or something, won’t he? maybe some pretty flowers for his lady.)

His reverie is shaken when the door to the washroom creaks open slowly, and you emerge through the gap with sweat on your brow, knots across your forehead, and a shaking hand resting over your churning stomach. 

Shame, he thinks. He really should have brought his phone—

You lean against the wall, taking in deep, shuddering breaths to steady yourself, confusion and worry knitting over you like a thundercloud. It tastes of ozone when he inhales. An approaching storm. In the blue gloom of the living room, illuminated only by the light flooding out from the washroom behind you and the static glow of the television, you look etiolated. A wilting flower. 

His budding rose. 

He coos. “You alright?”

You glance sideways at the kebab on the table, mouth pinching into a grimace as if to stem the nausea still rippling through you. You stare at it for a long moment, seemingly trying to make sense of the reality sitting in front of you on scratched, old pine; confusion runs laps over the dawn cresting in your eyes. This puzzle is too unfathomable for you to piece together; the keys and slots all askew. 

The air around him grows still. Silent. Anticipatory. A tiger crouched low in the tussock. A little fawn roaming too close. 

There’s a heaviness in your eyes when they flicker back to the wall where he stands, drilling holes into the x. Something implacable frissons over your threadbare expression, fracturing across sallow cheeks. 

The air is electric. It pulses across his bare flesh, irritating scar tissue, acid burns, and scorch marks. His skin prickles at its whisper. 

“Feelin’ sick, pet?” He ponders, playing pretend. He’s viciously, deeply amused at the desperate denial splashing across your cheeks. The thin shade of askance that unfurls like the leaves of a flytrap when you look at him. “Mus’t’a been the kebab. Bad meat, I reckon?”

You offer a weak nod in response, pinching your lips tight together. The matter seemingly concluded, brushed aside. Pocketed for later. 

And you say nothing else for the rest of the night—gaze unseeing, turned inward; pensive—but he purrs in contentment as if everything was alright, sprawled across the couch with his head pillowed against your churning stomach as if he could hear the whisper of another heartbeat from within. 

In the saturated blue light, he catches your eyes listing toward the calendar every so often. Wary. Nervous. He thinks you might say something, might ask, but you don’t. It’s caught on a stilted breath. A harsh swallow. 

All you do is bring your hand to his shorn head, and raze the stumps of your clipped claws against his scalp. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soothe the madness from within. Scratching that itch deep inside until it goes away. Gentle hands play pretend and dress up as a panacea. Affection to scrape the illness away. 

He thinks you should know better than that, even as he leans into it with a soft exhale, more relaxed than he'd ever been his entire life. Content. Unassailable in his conquest. 

Simon has always been more scar tissue than man, and no place is damaged more than the upturned tumulus inside his head. 

But oh. How you try—

His sweet, sweet girl. 

The look you give him the next evening is, in parts, brumous. 

A polynya of dread, worry, guilt, fear that frissons across the deep valleys in your eyes, shaded in plumes of darkness, filled in deliciously with the weight of your beleaguered uncertainty. It yawns out before him, this heavy gloom. 

So close he catch the embers in his hand. 

“Simon… We should—talk. I, uh—”

You hold up a little rectangle, dismay, misery, etched in the blue tinge spreading across your face. It seems to steal the words from your throat, turn them into ash. What else are you meant to say, he supposes, when you look out at the world now from the gape in his maw? 

But there’s a veil of wonderment that hides below the tidal wave; this precious, deadly, undercurrent that rents the air, splits his chest in two.

The happiness, however meagre, thin, it is right now (just a sunken boat on the seafloor), is there. Ripe for salvage, and he sees that it’s handled with care. Cupped between his palms, nurtured by his own conviction to do what’s right, an’—fuck, pet—know this ain’t what we planned, but—

but:

The howling quiets, turns to a low growl, and then a susurrus hum, when you shakily utter the words he was waiting for. 

“Yes, Simon—”

You shudder when his fist closes over your wrist, pulling you into his purring chest. Shaking like a prey animal in the jowls of a beast, bested and ensnared. It has a profound, almost predatory, sense of satisfaction curling over his bones. He knows this was the right choice, and is sure, in time, you'll come to realise that, too. You’re in the early stages, he knows. Prodromal. You need to be handled with care to curb the lacrimation, the hyperesthesia. 

And there’s no one better than him to guide you through the throes of it. To lead you to the unequivocal end. 

He leans down, and whispers in your crown—

“Good girl—”

—and the sound of his voice is gravel encased in sticky, sweet honey. Dark, smokey molasses. The very same cadence as a key sliding inside of a lock; metal grazing metal. Turning—

“If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Tommy.”

Click. 

(he gives you that ring he promised when he takes you to the mountains. you smile wide, and tell him it fits like a gyve.)

Simon stops shovelling his want under the cold dirt and starts burying it inside you instead. Makes a domicile from your flesh; a place where he can rest his aching head every night until the howling scraping down fractured bone stops— (paralytic)

[itshype]

How I Met Your Brother (DC x DP)

Dan joins the Justice League - not as part of his rehabilitation, but as a reward for doing so well.

Tucker makes the grave mistake of mentioning Dan in front of Jazz. And as an eldest sister myself I would not be happy about an alternate version of my sibling being left completely alone in the world, no support, no family to then be turned into a psychopath. And I would be furious for them to then be imprisoned - not for life but for all time?

However, unlike me, Jazz is the world's foremost authority on ghost psychology. She has Dan out of his Thermos and in a larger enclosure within the week.

Now, a lot of fics have Jazz as a magical therapist who can say a few sentences and make any bad guy cry. Sorry, not today though.

First, they resocialise Dan like a feral cat (solitary confinement does make people get loopy), sitting outside his enclosure and hanging out, doing homework etc. This sort of gets him to figure out emotionally that he's no longer in the timeline where everyone he ever cared about died.

Danny discusses with him how many nightmares he's had over just the idea of losing his entire support network the way Dan did and he can't imagine what he's been through. But no emotions are not, in fact superior to having negative emotions.

After a few months, he decides that he does in fact want to actively try and get better. He goes to a therapist (because family members can't do therapy!!!) who's just unhinged enough to get a kick out of counselling a ghost from an alternate timeline.

There's only one relapse. Clockwork fixed it and they don't talk about it.

A month or so later they let him out of the enclosure for good. They offer to symbolically destroy it but Dan thinks they should keep it just in case.

While Dan's humanity has returned, his actual human half is gone forever. But he's interested in doing something with himself. He can't get a GED, or a degree, or be an astronaut. Maybe something in entertainment?

Tucker makes the grave mistake of mentioning that the Justice League headquarters are in space. Dan isn't as powerful anymore now he's no longer a halfa, but he knows he's handy in a fight. He loves space and due to having them repeatedly and ineffectively implemented against himself - a deep knowledge of international war tactics.

NGL, this isn't where I thought this story was going. But Dan is now an international politics, war policy and foreign affairs expert, I guess.

He helps a fair bit on the team, but his key contributions are his encyclopaedic predictions of how different international communities will react to events. If an out of control meta in Paris takes down the Eiffel Tower, he predicts which countries will immediately 'crack down' on their superpowered citizens - that sort of thing. It's invaluable for their PR team and young meta safety.

He's a friendly guy, doesn't judge anyone for losing control of their powers or going 'too far' on a villain who hurt their friends and family. And he never shuts up about his kid brother who is apparently also his best friend. He briefly mentions a baby sister he's never met and that makes everyone pretty sad.

He doesn't consider this Jazz his sister. He's already had a sister named Jazz and isn't looking for a 1:1 replacement. This Jazz is more like a mum-friend. However, he never had a Danny or an Ellie in his last life.

"My little brother told me about the trick to this level in Doomed 17, want me to explain what you're missing?"

"Sorry, I really can't possess you, even for 'anti mind-control' training. That isn't how overshadowing works, you can't become immune without exposure to ectoplasm in dangerous doses. No, I can't get you some pure ecto, my baby brother would kick my ass to hell."

"Yeah, my baby bro and I both wanted to be astronauts, I died so it's not in the cards for me anymore, but he has a real shot still, we're all rooting for him!"

Most Justice League members think he's a dead eldest brother with living siblings he's still in close contact with.

It's all fun and games until he tries to take a bullet for Batman during an ambush and it's actually an amnesia ray designed to make Batman forget about a specific case until the bad guy can complete his plan.

"I killed you all before, and I will do it again."

[kazumiwrites-fanfiction]

You Can't Swim??

SUMMARY: The Octotrio don't know that you have never learned to swim. And you went to a beach. What could go wrong? WORD COUNT: 1.9k (I need to sleep)

WARNINGS: Floyd almost let you drown, reader kind of gets panic attacks? Idk (I'm the writer I should know, someone hit me), reader thinks about whacking Floyd, Azul is genuinely in love, Azul is also very traumatized I think, Azul overthinks A/N: Gotta love how I have no warnings about Jade I- Gotta love getting a fic idea about me being unable to swim- And I've had this thought swimming (lol) in my thoughts for a couple of days?? Idk if reader is the significant other of these guys or just besties. I think it leans toward s/o though This reads like a crack fic to me but honestly make sure you know how to swim so you don't die (i don't but that's not the point here) Maybe OOC Jade because he hides himself too well for me to get an accurate read on personality lmfao When Jade is genuinely sweet but the others are unhinged so naturally the unhinged ones are longer- I'm sorry I get no decent ideas for Jade </3 Another late late night post (it's 1:50 AM)

© kazumiwrites - All rights reserved; please do not steal, edit, copy, repost (etc) my work without my express permission.

You had never learned to swim. It wasn't that you were afraid, really. It was just that you had passed the age where people normally learned, and now you were too lazy to and/or didn't have enough time. Whatever excuse to stop a nagging person.

Now, this wouldn't have been a problem if you never went anywhere near bodies of water. Which you mostly didn't. However, knowing merfolk was not the best idea if you didn't know how to swim.

Now you have gone to the beach with him, and that probably wasn't the best idea for either of you.

Floyd Leech

You had been sitting on the beach near the water, absently looking over some shells as Floyd splashed around deeper in the ocean. The shells really were interesting - nothing like the ones where you had come from (although they had some similarities) and were colorful. So many shapes and varieties, although most were not intact.

You had been so engrossed in this, in fact, that you hadn't realized Floyd had been sneaking up on you. Before you could say another word, he playfully dragged you into the water. While you were fully clothed.

You weren't expecting to go into the water, but you should've known better with Floyd. He was playful and loved to do stuff like this. Usually if Azul was around, he'd have done something… But he wasn't here.

Before you knew it, you were deeper in the ocean than you ever had been before, courtesy to the teal-haired boy swimming and dragging you along. You flailed around a bit, eyes wide in panic. You were, quite honestly, terrified. And it obviously didn't help when Floyd just immediately let you go.

Was he an idiot or was he an idiot?

"Floyd-" You got out before coughing as water shot up your nose, still flailing miserably. It didn't work. You didn't know what to do. Surely, Floyd would help… If he realized what was going on. No matter what you thought, he was bright, wasn't he?

Not bright enough, it seemed, as he was still laughing and not realizing how actually panicked you were.

"Koebi-chan, you look so ridiculous like that," he laughed, almost in hysterics, and you would've smacked him if you weren't so close to actually dying.

And then you sunk.

Your desperate attempts to go to the surface were pointless as you didn't even know how to float or move around in the water.

After a few seconds, Floyd finally noticed you were gone and quickly dove under the surface. Maybe you were trying to get him back?

But his gaze immediately widened as he saw you literally sinking to the ocean floor. His eel tail moved quickly, almost without thinking as he shot to grab you and take you up, up, up so you could actually breathe.

When you came to, you were on the sandy beach again, Floyd leaning over you. His eyes, normally filled with a joking light, were unusually subdued.

"Koebi-chan, why didn't you tell me you couldn't swim?" A pout grew on Floyd's face. "If I knew, I wouldn't have-"

"Yes you would have. We would still be here, just having a different conversation."

"But-"

"No buts."

"I would've made it more fun-"

"Drowning in the ocean is the opposite of fun, Floyd-"

~Bonus because I don't know how to fit one into the story~ "I can teach you how to swim. You just go whoo and let your body move. Y'know. Like dancing." "No, I don't know, Floyd, and this is not going to help me with anything-"

Jade Leech

Jade had been spending his time on the beach with you, but you were almost certain that he wanted to be swimming in the ocean. It was his natural element, after all.

"Jade, you sure you don't want to go in the water?"

"I'm fine staying here with you, [Y/N]." He gave you a soft smile.

You shook your head. "We've come all the way here, you might as well go swim." You gave him a gentle nudge.

"Well, I'd like you to come with me, if that is possible?" He watched you quietly. "You never go swimming with me."

You paused. Although it was sweet that he wanted you to go with him… "No, I don't think so…" You trailed off. You never liked telling people that you couldn't swim. At this point, it was embarrassing.

The pair of heterochromia eyes staring at you only left you feeling more jittery. "…I, er… I can't swim. So going into the ocean with you sounds kind of like… A bad idea." You froze. "Did you use your Signature Spell on me?"

"Of course not, [Y/N]." Jade stared at you with eyes of hurt, one that looked almost identical to that of his twin's. Only, it was almost obvious that Jade didn't mean the hurt in his eyes. "You just trust me enough to say things to me."

You couldn't deny the truth there. You trusted Jade. "And you wouldn't use your Signature Spell on something so trivial, would you?"

"No, I would not." He shrugged. "On a different note, I can help you learn how to swim."

"I really don't need it-"

"What if someone tries to hurt you one day and they know your weakness?"

"Why would-"

"It's an example, [Y/N]. But if that person decides to do that, you wouldn't be able to do anything. So I should help you in case that scenario occurs."

You sighed softly. "Fine, I guess I can take lessons from you… If it's not too much of a hassle."

"Of course it would not be a hassle or anything of the sort." Jade inclined his head. "All to help you stay safe."

The day went on with Jade helping you learn the basics of swimming - he was a good teacher, which you were happy about. He was patient, and always was there if you ever started to panic.

"We wouldn't want you getting scared of the ocean now, would we?"

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul had gotten used to you after a couple months. Sure, he hadn't opened up to many people in a while (only Floyd and Jade, but they also teased him constantly about everything, so), but you were soothing and nice. Sure, you teased him sometimes, but it was different. It didn't feel mean, you stopped as soon as you noticed him looking a little uncomfortable, and… He honestly felt like he could open up about anything.

So when it was decided that you two were going to the beach - together - alone? It kind of made him very messed up.

Would you like being at the beach with him? He wasn't completely against showing his octopus form… Would you want him to swim with you? Was he even ready for that?

Those thoughts led him down a spiral, and the day you two were to go, he had bags under his eyes and looked like he was half-dead.

You gently nudged him, murmuring how he should've tried to get more sleep for this day supposedly filled with fun, but he just shrugged.

Soon, you were at the beach, and as Azul saw your smiling face, his gaze softened a little. He loved seeing your happy face.

"C'mon!" You grabbed Azul's hand as you started to run to the water, ignoring his surprised stumbling as he was dragged along. He had a light flush on his cheeks that he was glad you couldn't see.

Soon, you had reached the edge of the water, splashing around in your sandals. It was really fun, even though you knew that you were going to be getting sand in your toes later on.

Azul just kind of watched on, a relaxed expression on his face. This really was soothing… Although he was still thinking about if the Mostro Lounge would be okay with him gone. Surely Jade would do something if Floyd got into trouble… Hopefully. And hopefully, no more dishes would break.

"What are you looking so glum for?" Your voice brought him back to his senses.

"Nothing, just hoping that Jade and Floyd can take care of things at the Mostro Lounge." He sighed softly.

"Oh, I'm sure they'll be fine. Jade's there, right?"

"He can cause as much trouble as Floyd, you know. Although he won't be outright about it." Azul shook his head, a small frown on his face.

"C'mon, turn that frown upside down." You moved closer to him, gently squishing his cheeks. "Today is for having fun, Azul."

"Yes, yes, I know." Azul couldn't help himself; he let out a soft laugh. A genuine one.

You smiled brightly. "You aren't charging me for hearing your little cute laugh?"

"I will charge you if you call it cute."

"Of course you will." You rolled your eyes before abruptly changing the subject. "So are you not going to swim?"

Azul paused. Did you want him to swim? To see his true form? There was an even chance. What should his answer be? "Er… I don't know?"

"Of course you don't have to, Azul, I just thought… I mean, there's no one around." You shrugged a little.

And now more pressure on Azul. Great. He was used to dealing with pressure, yes. Just not this kind from you. "Er… Would you come swim with me?" If you were with him, then maybe…

"No." Your lips parted, maybe to offer an explanation, but it was too late.

Azul was in a downward spiral. Why had you said no? Perhaps octopi merfolk were really too much. Perhaps you would rather be with someone with a pretty tailfin than tentacles. Or maybe a human, one of your own kind. Who said that you even liked him at all? Perhaps you were only with him out of pity, because he was that useless, chubby, good-for-nothing-

"Azul? Azul, are you listening to me?"

He snapped back to attention.

"Seriously, are you okay? Did you seriously get enough sleep last night?" You sighed.

"That's none of your-"

"It is if you're literally zoning out every five seconds." You rolled your eyes. "And anyway, I was just saying that I kind of can't go deeper into the ocean where you probably feel comfortable swimming. Because I can't swim." You shrugged nonchalantly.

But for Azul, it felt like a figurative bomb had been dropped.

You? Couldn't swim? Now that he thought about it, it did make sense… How you always looked so awkward and uncomfortable with water, especially when you came to the Octavinelle dorm. But seriously? How could you not know how to swim?

"Is not knowing how to swim… Normal?"

"Definitely not." You rolled your eyes. "But I'm just too lazy to learn now. And I have no time."

"You do if you have time to scroll on Magicam." Finally, Azul felt a bit better. At least you didn't hate him.

"And this time, I'll teach you how to swim. I'll even do it free of charge." Azul shook his head. "Seeing as I'm so generous."

"You sound like headmage Crowley."

"Do be quiet."

Azul was a pretty good teacher. He ended up not turning into his octopus form until nearly the end of the day, you were practicing your swimming and then just playing around on the sand, building sand castles, anything that you might do at a normal beach outing.

His octopus form was beautiful (as expected), and although you couldn't go to deeper waters, you enjoyed seeing him swim around, always eventually coming back to you.

"Today was truly relaxing, [Y/N]. We should do this again another time."

As always, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ♡ Send your thoughts grr

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[hwaightme]

GUY.exe

(masterlist) (perma-taglist)

✏️ pairing: yunho x gn!reader ✏️ genre: fluff, crack, friends? to lovers, drawing? to lover ✏️ summary: you never expected for the character you designed for the newest dating simulator to be quite as realistic as this ✏️ wordcount: 5.0k ✏️ warnings/tags: questionable editing, unhinged crack galore, fever dream, digital artist / designer reader, shy boy best friend yunho, lowkey referencing the song the fic is named after (GUY.exe by SUP3RFRUIT) ✏️ taglist: at the bottom of the fic~ ✏️ a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY LOVE MY NADIA @justhere4kpop !!! you are the kindest, funniest, sweetest person ever, i love you so so much and i am so grateful for every day because it means i can spend it with you <3 wishing you the best day, all the most amazing things, experiences, achievements and more!!

Another hour more, and you were going to scream. Hunched over your drawing tablet with bloodshot eyes and a cramping hand, you had been drawing and redrawing what seemed to be the same thing over and over again. But nothing gave you that magical feeling of completion and rightness when the abstract lines and shapes and shadows and doodles all came together on a page to form one whole. What you were experiencing was, in fact, very much the opposite. All because of these damn dumb brown doe eyes that you had decided to give to the character. Of course. What other eyes could the golden retriever type have, right? What other kinds of eyes would your boss approve of for the established archetype, the persona that you had ideated, storyboarded and proposed not only in front of your immediate team but also to senior management? That was right. None. No other. Only these doe eyes that you had been staring at and cursing profusely for the last four hours after having promised yourself that you would try to get to bed at ten in the evening instead of the less-than encouraging past midnight madness. But who were you kidding? 

Setting down the pen, you leaned back to stretch, hearing random joints crack and echo around your body, making you wonder if you have even been moving at all for the past few weeks. Having the opportunity to work from home during fast-paced sprints was, of course, a big benefit, but all too often for you, it also meant only ever walking from your home office to your kitchen and back, with the occasional bathroom break and a flop onto the armchair you had dragged into your office for designated social media scrolling time. Gone from the world, with your friends having nicknamed you an e-hermit in not one, but two separate chats. Zoned out and barely hanging onto the words spewed by your superiors, much like the rest of your fellow designers working on this same project, be it other characters, setting, clothing customisation options, accessories, or special items… as the main project lead, boss of the bosses had said: ‘whatever the user wishes for, should be there’. Who knew that a dating simulator could be that intense and demanding? 

Your drawing tablet was glaring at you, and so were the eyes on its screen, doubled onto your monitor watching your every movement like a painting at a museum would. They were meant to be kind and loving, crafted to complete the sunshine that this character was supposed to be, but the slightest misses in the lines were throwing the image off-kilter, and you could not pinpoint what was wrong. Reaching out for the now lukewarm cup of coffee off to the side of your desk, narrowly avoiding the clutter of sketches and notes you had made, you heaved a sigh, pondering if it would be the wisest to simply resign yourself to abandoning the task for today, and pick it up at work tomorrow. It was not like you would be punished for having the eyes be slightly off during an update meeting, after all, this was an ongoing process. But the perfectionist part of you was not letting go. You had managed to ideally depict everything else - the toned, tall physique with the stunning waist, torso and broad shoulders, the cheeks that made you feel a strong cute aggression, the tousled locks that could then be customised by a player’s colour preference, every other feature of the face that screamed ‘handsome’ and ‘appealing’... you did it all, and you would not be yourself if you could not overcome this little blip.

“One more try…” you whispered to yourself and searched for the file on your computer that contained a user story and profile of the character you had been agonising over. 

One click, another, and the document was up on the screen, revealing an initial concept sketch that you had made when you first proposed the man as a possible love interest for the main character in the simulator, as well as any facts about him, now being even further developed by the story-writers. Page after page, update after update the character in some ways felt more real than you, especially in your current deflated state. A gentleman, a sentimental soul, with what your colleague had called ‘four-dimensional’ traits and overall a funny, adorable sweetheart who at the click of a finger can turn into the sexiest man alive. There was nothing you did not like - aside from some details here and there that you were not sure who added but they had been approved so you had to deal with it, and that was problematic for your work since it meant that you were in the permanent state of wanting to do the character justice. You scrolled back up, starting at the brief, staring at the name as if it wasn’t already imprinted in your mind. Jeong Yunho. 

The dance instructor and choreographer. The talented and hardworking man who the main character would meet third, on her eighth day in Seoul. Born on the twenty-third of March nineteen ninety-nine in the city of Gwangju, moving to Seoul to chase his dreams and fight for them. Special talents… skills… favourite phrases… preferences… key memories… you read on, re-absorbing the details and rearranging them on imaginary shelves, trying to make sense of the information in the context of character design. How were you going to depict all of this in a pair of eyes? A part of you was confident that you were overthinking - actually, you definitely were. Not a single other designer was on Yunho's creation, and developers were going to look at him not as a persona, as a representation of a being that had become real in your mind, but as a task to execute, lines of code to make him move in predetermined ways, make him talks in predetermined ways, smile… yes, you were excited to see him be just that bit more alive, but at the same time, you were afraid of that moment - it would be right then that the world you had subconsciously built for you and him alone would be shattered, and your daydreams dispelled, maybe even crushed. So, getting the eyes perfect right now was the least you could do. At least your Yunho would be perfect.

Swearing under your breath, you picked up the pen once more and twirled it once around your fingers. His personality was fresh on your mind, heart racing, you could almost imagine him in front of you. With a final nod of encouragement, you dived back in, with more vigour and motivation than before, determined to get Yunho right, and to depict him how he truly was, how you knew he should be. The time ticked past, and so did the layers of doubt. Erasing themselves along with strokes of the digital brushes that dissatisfied you, you were unveiling the true character, and with a light heart, a smile on your face and a saved file, leaned onto your desk and rested your head on your crossed arms, just for a quick break to relish in the fact that you finally achieved the look that you had been searching for…

“Hey, good morning you worker bee, what did I tell you about sleeping at your desk?”

You never thought you could yell, right after waking up, as loud as you did at that moment. Jolting up from your seat, forgetting all the papers, equipment and stationery that was strewn about on the table on which you had been dozing, you bolted away from the source of the voice. It had resounded far too close to you for comfort, belonged to no one whom you knew, and was dangerously sweet and slightly lower-set. Pleasant. But who the hell was in your apartment and how did they break in when you almost always double-locked your door? After building up a bit of distance, you finally looked up and rubbed the last bits of sleep from your eyes. The figure was lean, toned, considerably tall, perhaps even very tall, definitely a man, with dark hair and a face that was a bit too similar to-

Jeong Yunho. Jaw-dropping, you darted back to your tablet and computer, practically shaking the mouse, forcing the entire digital system to begrudgingly awaken at your command. You searched everywhere. The open file, others, older versions… nothing. No luck in finding what you had been working on. It was as if the Yunho you had been spending weeks developing had never existed, and all that you were left with and were staring at was a blank page, and the character, no, a whole man, right in front of you, supposedly living, breathing and in your room. You stood up straight, giving the not-quite-a-stranger but still a stranger a once over, while he, confused, had an eyebrow raised and a sheepish smile on his face. He looked adorable that way. Abashed to the point of cuteness - you recalled a game developer on your team describing the planned emotional response functionality in that way; it had been a hit, and now you were seeing, in person, why. 

“Y-Yunho?” you whispered in disbelief, a hand hovering over your mouth while you were wondering whether you should officially report yourself to your boss for having succumbed to the delusions. Relief flashed over the beautiful man’s features when you mentioned his name, timidly, yes, but still, it was his name that you uttered.

“Yes, Y/N, that’s me, hey, don’t worry.”

“Y/N?” He knew your name. This was too real - a shriek erupted from what felt like the depths of your soul, and you shut your eyes, only to open them again and to see the same picture, but a little more zoomed in. He was approaching you. Code red, alert, alert, hot man of your dreams who you had been drawing all the time and were effectively being paid to thirst over was approaching you.

“Do you not remember me or something, are you okay? See I keep telling you to not sleep so late, it’s bad for you-”

“Look who’s talking, mister ‘time to text at two in the morning’,” It was a shot in the dark, a random recollection of facts that had been noted about Yunho, but that was true, since he stopped immediately, a dazzling smile on his face.

“Alright, alright, you got me. But hey, you answer me so we are in this together, right?” he countered, and winked. 

“Yeah… and I should stop drinking coffee that late, it gives me some cursed… abilities…” you concluded cryptically, though Yunho did not seem to care much about the wording, taking it as your account of how easily you had been spooked by him.

After the initial wave of ‘stranger danger’ had subsided, instead being replaced by the odd conviction that the man before you truly was just the representation of the character for the simulator, you crossed your arms and regarded him more slowly, calmly while he approached the book cabinet that was filled to the brim with manga, manhwa, figurines, dolls, action figures… effectively the best representation of what had inspired you and continued to drive you to do what you were doing in your life now. He was dressed casually, in a zip-up grey hoodie and dark grey jeans. He had taken off his shoes and was in black socks that he stuffed into a pair of slippers - so in this reality, Yunho clearly was a regular guest. Scratching the back of your head, you wondered if this was a storyline that had been updated and you were unknowingly hallucinating.

“Well, uh, if you… if you want me to come by another time I don’t mind. Whatever works best for you…”

Oh. It finally clicked in your head, and your heart fluttered. The moment was stark and aching in your mind, and you were barely able to contain yourself, the subconscious fangirl in you fully awakening. The light flush of pink on his cheeks, those damn doe eyes that were so perfect, and were now looking right at you as if you were Yunho’s entire world, it was all a telltale sign for what was to happen later, and the past disappointment at having been woken up and having no more documents to present evaporated. This was another life, it had to be. One where you did not have to worry about the endless story points, bi-weekly sprints and one deliverable after another. Only a very precious Yunho who, while toying with the sleeve of his hoodie was pondering if he was even welcome.

“Hey! No, we were planning to hang out and we are going to. Sorry, you know how work is and it got to me this time. What shall we do then? Go out, stay in?” you amplified your sociability, putting the fantastical aspect of the circumstances on the back burner for future pondering.

Laying down the pen that you had absent-mindedly grabbed for self-defence, you stepped around the desk and towards Yunho, never once breaking the visual exchange, except when his gaze darted to the floor under your intensity. You had the advantage after all, of knowledge. You could sense, and could confirm by your universe, what exactly was going to happen. He was pretending to not be affected by your closeness, looking at the cabinet again, though the tone in which he spoke was vulnerable, every bit the dream guy you were imagining all this time. You could barely resist the urge to pinch his cheek - in fact, you made a mental note to yourself to check if that was a playable option in the game or not.

“Can we… stay in?”

“Take out?” if there was something you would not quite let him do, it would be to give him full power over the kitchen. Perhaps another time, but not when the dream was so magnificent.

“You bet! I’m buying this time-”

“Yun, c’mon.”

“Technically I am still the guest.”

“You are much more than a guest-” a pause, a blur within which Yunho was attempting to pick out the meaning behind the words which you had purposefully left to be ambiguous, just to mess with him a little bit. It was too sweet, “I mean, you practically live here at this point,” he groaned and playfully rolled his eyes while continuing to tap in the order to what was for sure meant to be your favourite restaurant in the neighbourhood.

You followed him into your living room. Everything was just as you had left it. Even Yunho’s presence was beginning to feel natural, probably because it had already been pretty much just as constant as him now physically falling onto the couch and leaning back to stretch an arm out over the back of it. Hell, you had even spent some evenings sketching him in this same room. As you settled beside him, while still keeping a little bit of distance - just as friends who were feeling not quite platonic would do, you realised that indeed, you were that close. You did know him ‘since forever’, and whatever this fever dream was, you had every right to enjoy it. So upon pulling your legs onto the couch and under you, you settled in and with a soft sigh began to set up the movie you were going to watch. Just like you and Yunho would do had he been an actual interest of yours.

As the food arrived and was promptly devoured, and you were midway through the film, you found Yunho slowly but surely gravitating towards you. First, it was with an outstretched hand when he was trying to imitate a character on the screen, then with him sitting ever so slightly closer when there was supposedly a ‘spooky moment’ even though you knew full well that out of the two of you, you were the one who would not dare enter a haunted house again, and finally, under the pretence of ‘wanting to show you a funny meme on his phone’ he sat right next to you, thighs flush against each other, arm resting on the sofa right behind your head. You could not help but lean into the warmth, attracted to it, comforted. You knew Yunho inside and out, and if there was anyone who you would trust like this, it would be him. He had seen you at your worst - crying in the office bathrooms when during your early days at the company you had been humiliated by your old boss (who, thankfully, had been promptly fired), and had seen you at your best - your award-winning presentation and proof of concept for an innovative life simulation game, selected as a showpiece for the company at a major global conference. He was always there. Be it on your phone, in a sketchbook, or on your laptop - he was always there, cheering you on. There was no difference between then and now, except that now you could allow your head to rest against his broad chest, hearing the soothing beating of his heart behind the cotton fabrics, feeling how his hand dropped to trace random, intricate shapes on your shoulder while his eyes stayed glued to the television screen. 

You could sense that he was afraid to look at you, or at least of what he would think or do if he were to do so. He was warm. Very warm. Maybe too warm. You looked up, noting the adorable redness of his ears that appeared only in particular instances: either he just woke up from deep sleep which was not the case, or he had violently shaken his head and rubbed his ears - another no, or he was embarrassed and shy. Bingo. There it was. You nuzzled against him and swore you could feel his entire body stiffen. Just like when a cat makes a person ‘ the chosen one’ by lying on their lap and said person almost forgets to breathe, you nearly knocked consciousness out of Yunho, it seemed.

“What’s up?” you mumbled, noting that Yunho straightened his back, sitting in an unnatural position.

“I, uh, nothing, it’s nothing,” he responded, clearing his throat, still not daring to look to the side to face you. 

A pause. That was his character - you nodded to yourself. He had always been like this. Sympathy through the roof but when it came to his openness - he far from often strayed into that field. It would take quite a bit of coaxing, or, somehow easier, waiting for the right moment. So wait you did, comfortably resting against Yunho, insistent that he return to his previously unwinded state. Before you could snake your hand around him to pull his hood up, your friend suddenly shot up, mumbling something about it being too stuffy, or too hot, and tugged the article of clothing off.

All would be fine and dandy if he was not built how he was - and you knew it better than anyone, however strange it was to admit. After all, you had been the one to pick and sketch out his physique, knowing every muscle, curve and edge. As he fumbled with the sleeves, you took in his form, mouth agape as you saw what you had only perceived two-dimensionally, now in live action, and somehow being the one case of where the transition was impeccable if not better. If he were to turn at any moment, he would bear witness to your disturbingly dedicated scrutiny. But at the same time, what could a digital artist and designer do when a handsome man was right before them? Exactly. It was practically a duty to perceive; if not for personal interests (which you would be a liar if you were to say you did not have them), then at least for science. He looked too good in the dark grey graphic t-shirt, which, despite it being slightly oversize, did its beautiful work by revealing his perfectly toned arms. When you noticed him being in the process of turning back, you peeled your gaze away and back to the movie, not sure where in the storyline you even were, nor what the actors were saying. Patting the space next to you, you beckoned Yunho back. This time, he was calmer in his demeanour, falling back and letting you fall into him, with him, for him - and he was right there to catch you. 

Action scene after action scene turned into a blur, dialogue was static that you were not bothered to discern while you focused on Yunho’s breathing. Shallower than before, but still comforting. Who would have thought that you would be cuddling with your dream man when a mere few hours ago you were holed up behind your desk, with a cramped and stiff neck, an exhausted hand and equally tired eyes? Eyelids grew heavier, and you wondered if it would be long before you would fall asleep again, and wake up alone, as usual; a bitter smile settled on your lips when the realisation hit you, earning you a perplexed glance from Yunho and a poke in your side.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Definitely something, he turned to you, studying your every movement. The action led him to detangle himself from you, leading you to shiver a little from the lack of his body heat, “ah wait are you cold now? I- wait, here, hoodie?”

“Thanks.”

Him. In every thread. The scent of clean laundry, cotton, and fabric softener. There was something so magical in it, soothing. You wanted to float in the aroma and this moment forever. Pulling the hoodie tighter around you, you pretended to not notice the adoration that was blatantly obvious in Yunho’s expression. He watched as you pushed up the sleeves a little bit, crossed your legs and looked back at him.  Your friend, your muse and subject was nervous, and it did not need a trained professional to figure it out. The tale was climbing to a peak, and the main characters had to face it together. You waited for him, mellowness across your features as you played with one of the hoodie’s drawstrings.

Yunho looked at you, and something about the purity, and hopefulness within him made you think of the very first drawings you had made on post-its in the middle of a conference. Bored out of your mind, your mind wandered back to pondering the new project you had been assigned - the dating simulator. Idea after idea had been proposed for the characters, but not a single one stuck. Everyone was at a standstill until he came along. A breathtaking blessing, just like he was now. Silence settled like snow, only to be broken by a short hum, and Yunho taking the risk you had been wishing for.

“I… I know it has only been a few months but… I really don’t think I can be friends with you anymore, Y/N,” you tilted your head as he put his hands on his lap, fingers repeatedly messing with the material of his sweatpants - his attempt to soothe himself. You, on the other hand, were oddly calm. Simply waiting for the events to unfold and for you to embrace them with the fullest heart. While he was searching for the right words to say, you placed a hand over his, waking him from rumination. A weak smile was replaced by determination, truth spilling from his soul.

“I like you too much. Really. I would not be able to keep my distance even if I tried.”

“Well I think you are a bit too far away right now, Yun,” with a wave of boldness having washed over you, you acted on instinct, leaning towards the beautiful, infinitely precious man until he could not look away, captivated by your proximity, your glimmering eyes, your acceptance.

“Huh?” the sound was barely audible, an echo lost to the tension. You ran a finger over his jawline, instantly seeing his expression darken with another reverberating, deep sensation.

“We should seal the deal, shouldn’t we?” remaining cryptic, you inched closer and closer until you could pick apart the flicks of lighter mahogany in those stunning irises - you wanted to shake your hand for having persevered to finish them in the drawing. Truly, one of a kind.

“What-”

“Oh just kiss me already-”

That phrase you did not need to tell Yunho twice. Finally catching on, he was the first to destroy the distance between you, capturing your lips with his and letting his hand find purchase in your hair, digits running through it, caressing you, guiding you into a shared rhythm. He was as sweet as vanilla with a hint of cinnamon. An intoxicating, ecstatically overwhelming daze that consumed you whole. You saw the sketches flash before you, burning one by one to fuel the desire building for Yunho, for you, for the two of you together. It felt right, it felt real. Arms over his shoulders, you allowed him to pull you into his lap, embrace you and pepper the softest kisses on your cheeks, and your neck, finding the path back to your lips. You felt more alive than ever with the electricity coursing through your newfound intimacy. Nothing existed. This universe was Yunho, and you could not be happier. Better than in any story that you or your co-workers could develop, better than in any fairytale, the oddity transformed into eternity. This was a dream you wanted to remain in for as long as you-

Saying it was hard to wake up was an understatement. Your entire body had been aching from having fallen asleep in an awkward position over your drawing tablet, you had slept past your alarms and as such had only fifteen minutes to cram getting ready and leaving for the office, and upon checking your schedule you had the ‘pleasure’ of having three more meetings being crammed into it, reducing your lunch break to what was a near null. With a sigh, you moved away from your space, dragging your tired body to your first official interaction of the day after having sat at your desk for a couple of hours, already dreading it. The new CEO - whoever they were, was the ‘I want to know all the details and be one with the teams’ type, how joyful, you wondered how long that would last. 

It was hard to find the motivation, especially after a dream such as yours. It kept on revolving in your head, pressing down on you, making you reminisce the gentle caresses, the sweet words and actions, the delightful kiss that you had managed to just have the time to experience with Yunho. You were seeing your character in an entirely new light, already having reworked some ideas for the possible special event outfits and spammed your close colleagues who were working on the storyline with some ideas about how Yunho could have even better depth and as such, engagement from prospective users. Perhaps for this meeting with authority you just needed to tap into your delusions and it would be good enough - at least they were productive for once. 

While you were setting up the presentation, the rest of your immediate team began to file in, giving you excited waves that you returned with an unprecedented warmth. Pleasant chatter, discussion of possibility, mention of just how special it was that this dating simulator game project was the one the CEO had chosen to see today… you were feeling confident. Whoever this person was going to be, you were going to give your best and-

The door opened. Heads turned. Greetings, bows - all forms of politeness that could be expressed being delivered. People standing up, while you stood up taller by the board, the title slide behind you. You raised your head, only for time to slow down and freeze entirely. Your hold on the clicker tightened, and the only person aside from you who existed at that moment was the newcomer. The CEO. Greeting others with a smile and with equally as elegant bows. Every bit the gentleman in his tailored suit, hair swept back and impeccably styled. Jeong Yunho.

This had to be some kind of joke, right? Was this a dream? The stinging remaining after you pinched your arm slapped you back into reality. No. This Yunho was definitely real. But who was the one you-... the one you started dating? The one who you were way more than colleagues or friends with? Before your mind could accelerate into panicked rumination, his gaze stopped at you, and you could sense everyone else’s attention drift to you too. You were under his spotlight. Melting under what was nothing but kindness in his eyes.

“L/N Y/N, right? I heard a lot about you,” his grin was making you dizzy, memories of his taste resurfacing and sending heat to your cheeks, giving them a light dusting of pink.

“Good things, I hope?” you managed, he chuckled, and sent you a wink before sitting down on his chair.

“The best. I am really looking forward to this,” a playful tease.

“Glad to know this.”

“I heard you made quite a few new developments, how did that happen?” you knew what he was getting at, and that made you feel secure. So it was the same Yunho. That precious Yunho who had confessed to you, the one who had come to life and was now part of yours, by some odd twist of fate had appeared in your company, and was now right in front of you, eager and in love. You smirked while twisting to check the slide one last time, well aware that his only focus ever would be you.

“Came to me in a dream.”

✏️ perma-taglist: @acciocriativity @/justhere4kpop @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @hongthoven @cqndiedcherries @uwuheeseungie @cheollipop @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @ssaboala @jaehunnyy @kitten4sannie @maddkitt @cromerteez @lightinyreads @ren-junwrld @burnmepls @pyeonghongrie-main @archivesummer @little-angel-k @marsstarxhwa

thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, please leave a kind reblog, much love!

[amethystfairy1]

Amethyst I love you and I hate you SOOOOOO MUCH RIGHT NOW

because in one hand OMG THEY ACTUALLY DID IT THEY SAID I LOVE YOU AND HAD SEX NO WAY

but on the other hand GOOD LORD THEIR RELATIONSHIP IS GOING IN CONCERNING DIRECTIONS

Because even in this chapter the fact that Tango was already just so upset at the thought of Zed leaving despite the fact they’ve only been together for like a week and I know it’s normal and even healthy in some ways to be possessive (trust me I’m kinda like that with my own friends) but there is just this certain irk I get every time I read some of the lines in this fic

“I don’t ever wanna let you go!” Zed declared with all the oblivious brashness he always managed. Tango felt his cheeks warming even hotter, and while he hadn’t grown anywhere close to hot enough to burn, his flares were crackling even brighter, snapping and sparking from his true feelings on the scenario.

Which were utter contentment, of course.

this was what he’d been burning for all his life

But I couldn’t care less. Because he’s touching me.

Zed was rapidly coming to the conclusion that as long as Tango was looking at him like this, he’d be whatever he liked.

Zed just wanted Tango to be happy. He was already so happy just feeling this sense of fulfillment again after so long shredded apart. So it was fine. He'd be fine.

Tango wasn’t nearly as obsessive with knowledge as his boyfriend, but if that knowledge was about his boyfriend, all of a sudden, he felt insatiable.

It was fine.

Taken.

Tiny little piece. Just a sliver, just a fraction, just something enough for Tango to cling to during his every sleepless night and know that he might finally be getting something right

he mentally beat himself up over that, he let go of Zed’s hand and spun.

How could he possibly be mad?

Some lightly scalded fingertips, after all, had landed him in this situation.

He let Tango do as he pleased.

He’d be happy with anything if Tango just kept touching him.

He chased that contact like he was starving for it because, really?

He was. 

even if that was all just novelty. And if was novelty? Then Zed would take that. He’d take anything so long as he had Tango.

wherever they ended up, heaven or hell, it didn’t matter.

I know like at least half of these weren’t written as foreshadowing and were just supposed to be cute romantic lines but fuck it when you put codependency in the tags I’m gonna overanalyse lines like these. Honestly I had a sneaking suspicion that their relationship might be a bit more obsessive than normal since Sightline Sunrise when we first had Zed describing how Tango was sealing the cracks and I was like “Hey maybe this is a bit much” but I just ignored it because I thought I was just looking too deep into things BUT NOW!!!

I can’t just ignore the constant dread I feel as I reread some of these lines but you do SUCH a good job and sneaking them into the fic that I feel like I’m stretching them most of the time and I just like “I’m reading too into this? Am I? I might be going crazy.” But you added the codependency tag????? But like no-one else is actively questioning it?????? I feel like fucking Iskall screaming into a void of nothingness with an unhinged conspiracy theory that no-one believes? I think I’m going crazy.

Screw you Amethyst and introducing me to my first ever Zedango fic and making do insane over them SCREW YOU!!!!!

Ahhhh…

Only cute lines?

You underestimate me my friend 🙃

I never promised that all these relationships would only be healthy happy fun time, I mean, you’re spot on with all of those lines you pulled. Iskall would be proud! 😆 I don’t wanna say too much and spoil where we’re headed with this, so let me just say that your concerns are…well-placed. But through it all at the heart of their big tangle of issues these two idiots DO love and care about each other first and foremost. They’ve just got…a tiny little extra sprinkle of obsessiveness in there that’s on brand for them, and that toooooooootally won’t come back to bite them in the ass later 😉

I’m so glad you’re insane about my Zedango! Thank you for this lovely ramble I can’t tell you how much I love it when people analyze my stories for stuff like this! 💖💖💖

[evilminji]

OKAY. *slams open door in manic about to have opinions*

MAYBE i am binging so, SO much unhinged bnha fics? Have already sent this to all my mutual and is not ENOUGH? But everyone is focused on these BABIES and not the MOST unhinged of them all? You COWARDS!!!

That's RIGHT! Ya girl has been hitting the "yandere/obsessive/possessive" behavior tag on Ao3 and is REFUSING TO BE NORMAL ABOUT IT! I have THOUGHTS DAMN IT! AaaaaaaaaaAAAAAA-!!! *Flips table*

Why the FUCK everyone focusing on BABIES?

I get it, don't yuck someone else's yum. To each their own. I respect that. But ALSO? What lvl of unhinged could they POSSIBLY HAVE? They are FIVE. SMOOTH FACED TODDLER BABY BOYS! A CHILD!

Like? Listen...

You know how Quirks are basicly evolutionary advantages? Random protections that are hit or miss? I have touched on this before in my naruto WIP (that i never posted but shush), but there must exsist a theoretical opposite of killing intent.

A sort of loving/peaceful intent if you will. A SAFETY intent. Or, for the purposes of THIS scenario and slightly to the left of that, a "love me" field. Which? Unlike what the perverse might believe or suggest? Just makes the target... love you.

Not sexually desire.

Love. Care about. Emotional connection.

And, yeah, maybe i've just been reading too many fics where shigiraki do what shigiraki does, and he is his unhinged obsessed lil self. Too many unhinged yandere fics where i darkly mutter "you are forgetting their Core Character Motivatioooooons! Just write an OC!"

Because you can twist a characters personality WITHOUT forgetting who they ARE. Thats what makes it INTERESTING, after all. Seeing how it could go so very, very wrong. How a good emotion, taken too extreme, can corrupt! N it's not just "oh that means violence n cursing right? Immediately jumping to cruelty?"

Its the obsession. The need to consume. The manipulation and care in which they try and maintain the illusion. It isn't one crack and "whelp, fuck it I guess!". Every character is different! Breaks under the strain of 1000% loving someone, DIFFERENT. And it brings up FASCINATING dynamics n potential quirk reactions?

Cause a emotional quirk WILL work. Even on people who supposed "dont have any" emotions? Because thats not how the human body FUNCTIONS. They HAVE all the necessary components. They just have a disorder. The Quirk would be forcing their body to MIMIC "feel-Y.exe" and their body would go with that. How THEY would process that data? What would it FEEL like to THEM? Whole different story.

But they WOULD feel "love" in what ever capacity THEY understand it.

You don't want to hurt your BEST FRIEND do you? You love them. Your BELOVED SISTER? This CUTE CHILD? She seems so NICE. Or maybe it's a precious and to be protected PET? She doesn't know what she'll get, "love" is nebulous and multifaceted. Could be platonic, familial, romantic. The love of a comrade. But it's never failed BEFORE. (Not, that I imagine, she being a well adjusted young lady, would feel morally comfortable USING said quirk in such times of peace. On anybody.)

We're all friend here, right? No need to be aggressive! Hurt anybody! Let's all put our weapons down, yeah?

But! This runs into a PROBLEM. The fuckin Yandere. Your bog standard sociopath. Those to whom this love field/targeting/ray/what-have-you is either so completely foreign too or NOTICEABLE as to be ineffective. Or to whom "love" is AGGRESSIVE.

Who's concept of "love" would actually make the problem WORSE.

I bring this up? Because I am FACINATED by the concept of AfO falling in love.

He... he would be COMPLETELY unhinged about it. The very act would unlock LAYERS to his deeply fucked up, highly obsessive, mind games and bank vaults, squirrel brain.

But I don't think he'd ever WILLINGLY fall in love. Or even be capable. Might be a brain chemistry thing, honesty. But the very reason his CLINGS to his his brothers quirk? Is because his brother was HIS. They were connected. It was... the closest thing he understood to love. And he is unhinged even to this day about it.

EIGHT GENERATIONS OF USERS LATER.

So like? If he spooked some poor soul? With a "love me" quirk? And she, in terror, tried to blast this Scary Supervillian into Not Hurting Her? She would have NO WAY of knowing that she just made a HUGE fucking mistake. Like... conceivably, the WORST mistake.

Because all it would take? Is her NOT instantly dying. No reflexive "how dare you use your Quirk on me". And? The altered brain chemistry starts to kick in. He's suddenly getting?? All these NICE happy brain chemicals that his body has been fuckin STARVED off? Fascinating new sensations? Elevated mood?

It's fake. He KNOWS it's fake. :) But that doesn't mean he won't murder her if she STOPS :)

Looooove yoooou~♡

Does it shift in to real, deeply deranged, love? Impossible to tell. Someone for the LOVE OF GOD call All Might. But?? He's just such an unhinged MESS it's fascinating to explore how emotional quirks would even react to him? Fascinating to think about how he would REACT if he had a SECOND "little brother" scenario. A person he CARED about. But this time... WORSE because it was in a way he could somewhat comprehend AND he had FAR more power then before.

Would it derail everything? Would he be able to focus on his Machiavellian plans while being able to fold them into them? Would he fuckin CONSUME THEM like he did Tomura? Ultimate form of love, after all, to become HIM.

How long could she, the hypothetical Quirk holder, keep that Quirk ACTIVE? Fear is a powerful motivator.

Just?? Why are there not more fics about the Ultimate Creep, BEING CREEPY AND UNHINGED??? He's VERY GOOD AT IT. Has had a LOT OF PRACTICE. LET AfO be deeply insane, 2XXX!

[fandomnsfw]

Falling Into Place. - Draco Malfoy x Slytherin!Reader

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader

Prompt: My love for fancast and Draco 😜

Warnings: Smut, asphyxiation kink, slight bdsm and praise kink. Abuse, cheating etc but not much just at start. Slight AU

Thanks to my Beta @lets-imagine-fanfics as always for seeing this through.

All characters are of age that is how it was written. I don’t mention age because I figured that went unspoken. However it has come to my attention that people are thinking I’m a 26 year old pervert that sexualising teenagers. Most of the actors/actresses from these fandoms are older than me.

If you think anything is inappropriate message me and tell me that’s fine but be specific tell me what fic and wha you thought was offensive or wrong. Don’t be hateful honestly tumblr used to be a nice and fun place. I never had a hateful word in the 9 years I’ve been on here until now.

*******************

You let out a rather sinister laugh as tears streamed down your face causing him to roll his eyes. You ran your hands through your hair as you tried to calm yourself down but honestly you think you may be losing it. You weren’t sure whether to scream, cry or smash something as he stood there like he hadn’t lied to you AGAIN.  

“Is this what we’ve become now?” You screamed as you ripped off your Slytherin robe the anger coursing through your body causing you to overheat. 

“You’re just gonna keep dragging me down with you?” You snapped as he said nothing.  

“I’ve lied for you! I’ve defended you!” You growled as you picked up a glass and threw it into the fireplace.  

“It only happened once!” He screamed as he stormed across the room until you were both chest to chest.  You let out another unhinged laugh as you wiped your tears away angrily.  

“LIAR!” You screamed in his face, your jaw clenched.  

“I’m done with you!” You snarled viciously; however he didn’t seem to appreciate your words, his hand coming up to slap you straight across your face.  

You froze with your head turned to the side as your mind processed the fact that this mother fucker had the audacity to lay his hands on you. Your head spun back around with a sickeningly sweet smile on your face. You pulled back your fist and slammed it straight into his face, hearing a crack as his nose began pouring with blood.  

“You fucking bitch!” He screamed before he strides towards you causing you to back away into the wall. Shit! Why did you leave your fucking wand in your room! You didn’t want to do this because there's nothing worse than being the damsel but... 

You suddenly let out the loudest high-pitched scream you had ever let out making Adrian cover his ears before turning back to you with a glare on his face, but he didn’t have chance to lay another hand on you because his bedroom door bust open and there stood your three best friends with panicked faces until they took one look at your bright red cheek and Adrians bloody nose before their eyes narrowed into a glares.  

“Did you...” Mattheo started as he walked over to you touching your cheek.  

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Mattheo snarled as he launched at Adrian his fist instantly knocking him on his ass.  

“Theo, take her upstairs.” Draco muttered in an eerily calm tone as he looked down at Adrian.  

“Don’t get yourselves expelled.” Was all you said before you allowed Theo to guide you upstairs.  

You and Theo walked upstairs to the common room in silence until he sat you down and passed you a cup of what looked like fire whiskey. He pressed a cold cloth to your cheek as he glared at the slowly bruising flesh. Your eyes were locked on the fire as you tried to ignore the screams coming from downstairs.  

“What the hell happened?” Theo asked softly.  

“He was cheating...again. I warned him last time I would only forgive this shit once. I just kinda lost it a threw a glass into the fireplace then I ended it with him. Clearly that wasn’t acceptable cos he slapped me, so I punched him and broke his nose. When he started coming at me again, I panicked and figured I’d have to let someone know I was about to likely get beaten. I-I knew you guys would come running. Sorry.” You sighed as you buried your head in your hands. 

“You haven’t got anything to be sorry for Y/N. You did good.” He chuckled as he pulled you into a hug.  

Just then Draco came upstairs clenching and unclenching his bloodied hands making you frown as you ran up to him and grabbed his hand gently. You saw his knuckles were split and bleeding making you sigh softly. You lead him towards the couch before you started wiping the blood off with the cloth that was on your cheek.  

As you cleaned his knuckles, his other hand came up to pressed against your cheek softly making your eyes fluttered closed. He didn’t say anything and neither did Mattheo as he came up a few minutes later. He stood behind the couch as he watched you clean Draco up. He silently nodded to Theo as they both left the room leaving you to tend to the blonde boy. You slid off all his rings and began cleaning them before wiping off the rest of the blood from his hands.  

Once he was cleaned completely you passed him his rings with a soft gaze as he began sliding the clean rings back on. You looked up at him noticing a splash of blood on his cheek that you instantly knew wasn’t his, but the thought didn’t bother you as much as you thought it would. You reached up and swiped it off his cheek with you thumb before wiping it onto the damp cloth.  

“You didn’t have to go that far, Dray...” You whispered softly as you stared into his icy grey eyes.  

“He hit you. He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.” He hissed making you smile softly.  

“Why did it escalate like that, darling?” He asked softly as he cupped your cheek.  

“He slept with some skank from Ravenclaw...again.” You muttered, the shame that you’d forgiven him the first time was eating away at you.  

“Maybe somethings wrong with me? Adrian repeatedly cheated, Jimmy cheated and ignored me in front of his house and Michael just broke up with me with no reason! Maybe there's something wron-” 

“There is nothing wrong with you. You’re strong, independent, stunningly gorgeous and so fucking smart. They’re the ones that have something wrong with them.” He interrupted before you could put yourself down anymore.  

“Yeah, don’t forget my downsides. I have a temper and according to Cormac ‘one of those crazy bitches who will key your car and set fire to your shit.’” You scoffed bitterly making Draco frown.  

“There not downsides. Yeah, you are crazy...but I wouldn’t have you any other way. Plus, its kinda hot when you get vengeful and violent.” Draco teased you making you roll your eyes playfully.  

“If you say so.” You giggled as you lay your head on his shoulder and allow yourself to process everything. 

**************************** 

When the morning came you felt a lot better and quickly hopped in the shower before using magic to dry your body and your hair. You stared into your wardrobe with a pout as you tilted your head scanning through all your black and green clothes. You pulled out your evergreen plaid high waisted flares, off the shoulder black cropped jumper and black platform docs.  

You quickly slid on the clothes before deciding to tie a messy half bun in your hair and leave the rest in messy curls before moving onto your makeup. You used wordless magic to give yourself a smoky black wing and a green matte lip before staring down at your black stiletto nails that had snakes on the ring fingers, deeming them still pristine. You added a bulky white gold chain that clipped together at the front with a snake head eating the tail. 

You made your way to the boy's dorm, barging into the room Draco, Mattheo and Theo shared making them jump a little as they sat up in their beds. All three of them shirtless and still half asleep as they all had different reactions to your presence. Mattheo flopped back laying back down, Theo got out of bed and walked past you, ruffling your hair before walking into the bathroom. Draco however just rubbed his eyes yawning. 

“Come on, I need coffee and food!” You shouted as you began routing through Mattheo’s wardrobe first. Throwing a random black v neck in his direction along with a pair of blue jeans. Which he instantly threw back at you. 

“I’m having a lay in, drag the other two with you!” Mattheo shouted grumpily making you pout.  

“Rude.” You huffed before walking over to Draco’s wardrobe and looking through the new clothes you'd never seen him wear.  

“Ooo new clothes!” You giggled as you took out a black turtle neck, a pair of black ripped skinny jeans and a short sleeved collared shirt that was half green and half black. The green side had a black sleeve and pocket whereas the black side was pure black.  You grabbed a pair of docs that were like yours but not platform.  

Draco stood up out his bed clearly not caring he was only in boxers as he approached you, his bare chest slightly brushing against your back as he looked down at the clothes you'd picked with a raised brow. You gave him a pleading grin making him roll his eyes as he took the clothes out your hands just as Theo walked out the bathroom only wearing a towel. 

“Are we trying to look like a couple?” Draco snorted as he took the clothes and walked into the bathroom.  

You sat on his bed as you waited for him, absently fiddling with the snake head clasp of your necklace, as you thought about how people would likely know about what happened yesterday despite it not being public. Gossip spread fast in this school and you just knew they’d likely blame you for whatever it was, knowing what people thought about you.  

“You coming to breakfast?” You asked Theo as you looked away from him so he could quickly dress himself. This was relatively normal for you guys, and you didn’t overly care, but honestly the last thing you needed was to see Theo’s dick. He’s like your brother. Ew. 

“Can’t, got Quidditch practice.” He chuckled as he walked out the room to which you nodded in response. 

Just then Draco walked out dressed in the clothes you picked as well as adding a few chains around his neck. The half and half shirt were left unbuttoned whilst his turtle neck underneath it, was tucked into his jeans, his docs already on his feet.  

“Damn, Dray.” You purred playfully making him roll his eyes before exiting his room not waiting for you to follow.  

“Remind me why we never dated?” You pouted playfully as you jogged to catch up to him.  

“If I remember rightly, you told all three of us: you’d never date one of us, cos it would ruin the dynamic.” He snorted as he looked down at you with a smirk.  

“Have you change your mind, princess?” Draco teased as he slung his arm around your shoulder ignoring the stares of students.  

“I’m contemplating it after seeing your ass in those jeans.” You giggled blowing a playful kiss at him before running ahead of him facing him as you walked backwards fluttering your lashes at him. 

“Is that so?” Draco chuckled as he ran at you before throwing you over his shoulder making you let out a squeal before laughing.  

“Put me down you, fucking caveman.” You shouted through your laughter.  

He lowered you down with his own laugh, his hands now resting dangerously low on your back making you flush a little as you stare up at him, instantly getting lost in his eyes. You’re not blind you were well aware how attractive your three best friends are but you’d never felt like that about any of them. However, the way your heart was pounding as Draco looked down at you had you rethinking that fact. 

Click. 

You spun around and saw Daphne holding her muggle phone that she’d bought on the sly despite the fact her parents said no to one. You narrowed your eyes and grabbed the phone out of her hands before looking at the picture. Your heart stopped for a second as you stared at the picture, you looked like a couple...a loved up one at that. 

“I need a muggle phone.” You pouted at Draco who laughed as he pulled something out his pocket making your eyes widen.  

“Traitor! When did you buy this?” You gasped as you stared down at the black phone in his hand.  

“Last month. Theo and Matt got one too.” He snorted making you narrow your eyes.  

“You guys left me out!?” You huffed as he rolled his eyes.  

“I’ll get you one if you want one?” Draco chuckled as he unlocked his phone and sent the picture off Daphnes to his own phone before passing her the phone back as she shot you a wink.  

You grabbed Draco's phone and instantly opened the gallery only knowing how to do it because Daphne had showed you. Draco looked rather alarmed and tried to grab his phone back but you stepped away from him with a raised brow. What was he hiding on here? You thought with a smirk on your face as you began scrolling. 

A lot of the pictures were just drunken nights out, blurry pics there was a few topless pics of himself which had you raising a brow but moving on until you saw a few pictures and videos of you. One was of you sleeping on with your head Draco’s lap as he chatted to someone, his hand seemed to be absently stroking your hair, the angle meant someone else must’ve taken it. One was a video of you dancing at a Slytherin party seeming lost in the music and the last one was a selfie of you and Daphne which you’d remembered taking with her a week ago however Daphne had been cropped out. 

You stopped walking away from his grasp as he took the phone back. Draco's cheeks had flushed a little as he seemed to avoid looking at you, stuffing his phone back in his pocket. He walked towards the great hall as you followed him silently, unsure of what to say. Did he like you as more than a friend? For how long? You wondered as you both sat down at your houses table and ate breakfast. 

********** 

It had been awkward between you and Draco for the rest of the morning, but that afternoon when he dropped a black phone, a lot like his own, on the couch next to you with a soft smile before plopping onto the couch next to you. You picked up the phone with a squeal as you opened the phone to see he’d already set up all the boys' numbers and Daphnes as well as downloaded the apps you’d want to use.  

“Thank you, Draco!” You giggled as you dived onto his lap hugging him tightly not caring that you were straddling him.  

You pulled up the camera app and point the front camera toward you and Draco taking a picture before setting it as your lock screen ignoring his curious gaze. You made no move to get off his lap as you began making yourself a snapchat and a few other things as Draco rest both his arms across the back of the couch watching you with a smirk on his face. 

You giggled excitedly when Daphne sent you a snap the second you added her. You opened it seeing a picture of her sticking her tongue out which said: ‘where you at bitch?’. You clicked reply and sent her a picture of Draco who rolled his eyes and stuck up his middle finger at the camera with the words: ‘Sat on this comfy but very rude chair’.  

Suddenly Daphne came speeding into the common room with wide eyes as she dived onto the couch next to you and Draco whose hands flew to your hip so you wouldn’t fall off his lap. The feeling of his hands on your hips had you freezing as Daphne looked down at the position you were in.  

“You two look mighty comfy.” Daphne smirked as she wiggled her brows at you both.  

“Shut up, bitch.” You laughed as you climbed off Draco’s lap.  

“Me and Pansy are going to Hogsmeade for a dress for the party tonight. You coming?” She asked excitedly making you roll your eyes.  

“Yes, count me in. I’m going shopping, text me if you need anything.” You chuckled at Draco as you slid your phone into your back pocket.  

Before you could leave, Draco grabbed you and dragged you onto his lap looking into your eyes with a small smirk before passing you his wallet that you knew he’d put an extendable charm on. Your eyes widened as you tilted your head in confusion. He raised a brow at you cockily not saying anything as you glanced at Daphne whose jaw was on the floor.  

“See you later, princess.” Draco chuckled as he lifted you off his lap and wandered down towards the boys dorms.  

“Did Draco Malfoy just hand me his wallet?” You asked in confusion.  

“The real question is, did Draco Malfoy just become your Sugar Daddy?” Daphne snorted making you throw a pillow at her. 

“Shut up, asshole. Let’s go.”  

****************** 

You stared in the mirror with a smirk as you observed your new dark green, skin tight mini dress with the tiniest slit up the side, a new pair of chunky black heels and some green black smoky eyes makeup and nude lips. You had also used magic to straighten your hair so it looked soft and sleek. You felt good. You looked at Pansy and Daphne who were sat on your bed already dressed and ready. 

“Let's go, bitches.” You exclaimed as you grabbed your muggle speaker and started downstairs carrying it with a little difficulty in the heels you had on, but you managed handing it to Theo who rolled his eyes before setting it up on the round table.  

You connected your phone and blast out muggle music before making your way over to Draco who had been watching you from the second you entered the room. You admired his white shirt tucked into his black slacks, the shirt was open by at least 3 buttons. You waved his wallet at him with a smirk on your face as Mattheo raised a brow at you both.  

“Thanks for the new dress and shoes, Dray.” You whispered teasingly in his ear before pressing a kiss to his cheek as you slid his wallet into his pocket a little too slowly to be an accident.  

“You look gorgeous.” He whispered back making you flush a little.  

“Dance with me.” You giggled as you grabbed his hand and started dragging him towards the mess of teenaged limbs in the centre of the room. 

Just as a song called ‘Should’ve Said It’ by some muggle singer called Camila came on, you pulled Draco’s chest against your back as you began dancing against him. His hands instantly griping your hips as he began moving with you, your hand came up to tangle in his hair as you got lost in the music. 

You weren’t sure how many songs you two danced to it but by the end of it another Camila song came on called ‘My Oh My’ as you spun around with a smirk throwing your arms around his neck as his leg slot between your thighs. He dipped you down making you laugh breathlessly before he brought you back up, your noses brushing against each other's as your Y/E/C eyes stare into his icy grey ones.  

“Come on, let's get you a drink, darling.” Draco whispered his lips almost brushing across yours as his eyes flickered to them for a second before he wrapped his arms round your waist as you both went searching for drinks.  

“Is that Adrian?” Draco snarled as he saw the other boy across the room glaring at you and Draco.  

“Ignore him, Dray.” You whispered in his ear pressing a kiss on the patch of skin below his ear making his eyes flutter shut before opening and flickering over to you.  

“I’m not imagining this am I?” He whispered against your temple pressing a kiss there.  

“No.” You replied knowing exactly what he meant.  

You downed your fire whiskey as you saw Pansy, Theo, Daphne, Mattheo and few others sitting around the couches playing a game of truth or dare. You grabbed Draco pulling him towards your friends, letting him sit down before you happily sat on his knee. Pansy smirked at the two of you before passing you the bottle of alcohol.  

“Truth or dare, Draco.” Pansy chuckled drunkenly.  

“Truth.” Draco answered instantly making everyone roll their eyes, except you.  

“How long have you fancied, Y/N?” She smirked making you choke on the drink.  

“Since 2nd year.” He answered before taking the bottle and drinking to avoid your wide-eyed gaze.  

“Y/N, Truth or Dare?” Theo asked trying to break the tension.  

“Dare.” You answered softly barely even registering what you’d said as your mind was swimming with the new information that Draco had liked you for so long.  

“I dare you to kiss, Pansy.” He muttered with a grin on his face.  

“Why are boys so predictable?” You snorted as you went to stand up however Draco pulled you right back down.  

“Not happening.” Draco growled into your neck making you shiver as your eyes fluttered shut as you tried not to let yourself get too turned on.  

“You’re so boring, dude.” Mattheo huffed making everyone laugh.  

“I’ll do a truth.” You chuckled as your eyes opened.  

“Fine, what's your top three kinks?” Daphne asked knowing full well what they were but she wanted to expose you in front of Draco. 

You glared at her as Draco sat forward clearly intrigued to see where this was going, you could feel your cheeks flushing a little but thanks to the dimmed light you're sure no one could see. You rolled your eyes before taking a big drink from the bottle Draco was holding.  

“BDSM, Praise and Asphyxiation.” You answered as calmly as you could thankfully the alcohol was helping you with that.  

You felt Draco grip your hips as he leaned in to rest his head against your back as he seemed to be taking deep breaths for some reason. You looked over your shoulder at him with a frown until he looked up into your eyes and his pupils had swallowed his icy blue irises. 

“What’s Ass-phyxee-ation?” Pansy said curiously making everyone roll their eyes at her question. 

“Asphyxiation, dumb ass. It’s basically choking. Right Draco?” Mattheo snorts with a mischievous glint in his eyes. You look at Draco as he glares straight at Mattheo as if saying ‘shut up’.  

“I’m going for a smoke.” Draco grumbled as he carefully lifted you off his lap placing you on the couch before rushing out the common room.  

You stood up an instantly followed him, your strides weren’t as big considering he was not only taller than you but you also had heels on. You finally reached the small courtyard closest to Slytherin dorms before finally managing to grab his hand turning him around as he ran his other hand through his hair in mild frustration though you were unsure of why he was suddenly losing it.  

“Dray, what’s wrong?” You asked softly as you cupped his cheek forcing him to look at you.  

“Mattheo trying to wind me up.” Draco huffed as he lit a cigarette and took a long drag.  

You stared at him as he visibly calmed down, you brought your second hand up stroking up and down his back as your other hand laced with his. He squeezed your hand softly before passing you the cigarette. You took the cigarette and took a slow drag before inhaling it looking at Draco who was watching you closely. You exhaled and passed it back to him before wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your breast against his firm chest making your cleavage more prominent.  

“I’m sorry, we should’ve just kept dancing.” You whispered softly.  

“It’s not your fault, it’s our friends thinking it's funny to out our kinks.” He snorted making your eyes widen a little he said ‘our’. 

“Is that what Mattheo was hinting at? That you like erotic asphyxiation as well?” You chuckled softly making him nod softly as he threw away the last bit of cigarette.  

“Daphne only asked because she thought it would be embarrassing for me if she exposed me to you.” You chuckled making his brow to furrow a little. 

“Nothing about what you said is embarrassing.” He stated as he cupped the back of your head his thumbs resting under your ear as they lightly stroked your jaw.  

“So since 2nd year?” You giggle making him roll his eyes.  

“You made that stupid rule about no dating any of us so I never bothered trying.” He huffed with an eye roll. 

“I’m here-by eliminating that rule.” You state with a smirk on your face.  

That was all it took for Draco’s lips to smash into yours with so much desperation you shivered. He’d kissed you for less than 4 seconds but it was the most wanted you’d ever felt. His hands tangled into your silky-smooth hair gripping at it tightly as he tilted your head to gain more access as his tongue met yours in a battle you gave up the second it started, bending to his every twist and turn.  

After a few minutes of making out he pulled away panting as he stared into your eyes, lust and something a little deeper shining in his eyes as you looked at him with a dazed expression. You didn’t know how to form words right now but you wanted to beg him to fuck you right here, even though you’d probably get caught. You wanted him so badly.  

“Your room.” Was all you could muster making his eyes widen at the desperation in your voice.  

“Ask properly, baby girl.” Draco instructed firmly causing your face flush and your knees to almost give out from under you.  

“Please take me to your room, Dray...N-Need you.” You stuttered breathlessly your hands clinging to his shirt tightly.  

“Good girl.” He whispered huskily into your ear before he began dragging you back to the dorm.  

You ignored the stares and cat calls from friends as Draco dragged you downstairs to his room. He instantly locked the door and cast a silencing spell without a single word before spinning around and lifting you up with ease, wrapping your legs around his waist. Your arms wrapped around his neck as you brought him in for another heated and passionate kiss as he lowered your intertwined bodies to the bed.  

“You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamt about having you in my bed.” Draco groaned as he began placing kisses down your neck, nipping every now and then.  

He began lifting his shirt off, throwing it off, before unbuckling his belt and throwing that away too. His hands slid up your thighs until they reached the hem of your short dress and he began peeling it up your torso as you sit up to let him unzip the top part of it before sliding the rest off and getting rid of the item completely. He shed his slacks, so you were both in your underwear, his eyes scanning your body so thoroughly you blushed.  

You could see the bulge in his boxers causing you to bite your lip in anticipation. You quickly shed your bra making him groan at the sight of your bare breasts. His hand drifted down your torso slowly, tracing all the way to the waistband of your panties. You gave him a nod as he slid them off and slid his own off as if trying to make you feel as comfortable as possible.  

You whimpered at the size of him, praying that he'd fit considering the rest of your partners have been barely average and his beautiful pale long and thick dick looked like something out of a porno.  

“Fuck.” You whispered more to yourself as you wrapped you hand around his rock-hard member.  

“Come here, baby, let me show you how a man should treat his woman.” Draco growled as he laid on his stomach and pressed a firm kiss to your wet folds before licking a stripe right down the slit.  

“O-Oh fuck.” You gasped as you spread your legs for him wider making him smirk.  

“Spreading your legs for me without me even asking, good girl.” He chuckled darkly before he spread your lips and began drawing slow random shapes with his tongue across the hood of your clit.  

You were so turned on it took everything in you not to just grab his hair and grind against his gorgeous face. You tried to keep your hips down, but when two of his long slender fingers pushed inside you as he began switching from hard to soft with his tongue, your hand gripped his pale blonde hair and you began thrusting against his fingers and tongue chasing the high you so desperately wanted.  

Draco backed away a little as he watched his fingers thrust in and out of you, like the sight of you was that mesmerising. You looked down at him as you let out a loud filthy moan as you felt his finger brush against the bundle of nerves inside your wet heat. Fuck did he mea-Ohh yeah, he meant to hit that, you thought blissfully. 

“D-Draco, keep going...right there.” You moaned as you felt your climax fast approaching.  

“That’s it, baby girl, cum for me.” Draco growled as he dipped back down and began sucking and licking your clit.  

“Oh f-fuck, D-Draco!” You moaned loudly. 

You let out a pornographic moan into the room as you finally came. Your head flung back as your eyes rolled back into your head, shaking from the intensity. Draco finally slowed to a stop before staring down at your pussy with a cocky smirk on his face that at any other point would make you want to slap him but right now you didn’t care. 

“You fucking squirted.” Draco whispers in amazement. 

“What?” You gasped as you sat up to look at how wet the bed was and the state of Draco’s he lifted the soaked hand to his mouth licking whatever he could which made you blush bright red.  

“God, you taste so good. Come here I’m gonna do that with my cock this time.” Draco chuckled darkly as he grips your throat.  

He lined himself up, squeezing your throat a little as he pushed the head of his dick inside your heat. You whimpered and moan as he, inch by inch, stretched you out making your eyes flutter shut as you try to take in the full feeling he was giving you. You gripped his arm forcing him to push a little harder on your neck making his eyes darken as he wrapped his hand more firmly round your throat making you let out a broken moan. 

You ran your sharp nails up his arms making him groan as he started thrusting inside you deep and slow. He moved to different angles until finally he hit that spot again making you cry out as you felt yourself clench around his member.  

“You like that, baby?” He teased, his tone husky.  

You nod your head as much as you could with him continuously squeezing and releasing your throat. His thrust started getting faster, fucking straight into your g-spot as he finally let go of your neck and brought his hand down your body to slowly circle your clit. Your eyes fluttered shut as you let out continuous moans and cries of pleasure. 

“Ah ah, open your eyes, baby. I wanna watch you cum for me.” Draco groan as he lightly slapped the inside of your thigh making you gasp as you opened your eyes. 

Your eyes flickered to meet his icy grey ones as his pace grew rather animalistic. He was gripping your hip with one hand as the other was still drawing circles on your clit building you up. You arched your back off of the bed as you felt your orgasm fast approaching. 

“Dray..I’m gonn-” You moaned out clutching at the bed as if to ground yourself. 

“Not yet, baby.” He growled as his dick started swelling a little more inside you. 

“That’s it, darling. You take my cock so well, don’t you? Hmm, my little slut.” He groaned darkly and if someone had said you’d enjoy being called ‘slut’ in the bedroom you’d have called them a liar but the second Draco called it you, you clenched around him, your edge right there but without permission you held it back. 

“F-Fuck.” Draco stuttered out as his thrusting became sloppier. 

“Cum for me, baby girl.” He growled as he snapped his hips up in a few for harsh thrusts causing you both to finally cum. 

“Ahh…D-Draco!” You cried out as you felt yourself clenched around him milking him of his own orgasm. 

“Shit…Y/N.” he groaned as he took his hand off your clit and turned you both to the side, so you were laid down facing one another, his slowly softening member still inside you. 

You both laid there catching your breaths as Draco began stroking you hair and placing soft kisses on your cheeks and head. 

“Good girl. You did so good, baby.” He whispered softly making you smile on a dazed sort of way. 

You snuggled into his naked chest, content and happy as if you were floating. You’d never felt like this after sex. None of your other boyfriends had even taken the time to even check on you after sex let alone aftercare. His long nimble fingers grazed across your cheek making your eyes flutter open. 

“Did so good didn’t you, princess?” Draco whispered sweetly against your lips making you heart flutter happily as you gave him a shy nod. 

“T-Thank you.” You stuttered a little shy for someone who was just a slutty mess on his cock a minute ago. 

“Don’t have to thank me, baby.” Draco chuckled as you pulled out of you finally.  

You felt a sinking feeling in your stomach but tried to ignore it as he stood up. Was that it now? Should you get dressed and leave? You knew he liked you but that didn’t mean he wanted something more than this. Oh god no don’t cry! You thought as your eyes began to water. You went to sit up causing Draco to frown. 

“Stay there, baby. Gonna get a wash cloth-hey! Hey what’s the matter?” He asked urgently as he rushed back to the bed with his boxers now on. 

You blinked furiously as you tried to wipe away the evidence but it was too late. 

“I-I’m sorry…I don’t know why I’m…I’m so stupid.” You sniffled sadly as you looked down at your hands. 

“Hey don’t do that. You’re not stupid, love. You’re dropping.” He sighed softly as he took you in his arms. Did he mean sub drop? You thought curiously. 

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?” He whispered against your hair. 

“Was t-this a one-time thing?” You cried your cheeks tinting red at the embarrassment you were feeling.  

“Is that what your heads telling you, baby?” He asked sweetly making you nod yes in response. 

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been dreaming of you finally looking my way love and I’m not about to let you go now. You’re stuck with me for however long you’ll have me.” Draco chuckled softly making you look into his eyes. 

“R-Really?” You whispered softly as you clutched his biceps tightly. 

“Really.” He confirmed as he kissed your lips gently. 

After a few minutes you started to feel more like yourself and finally released your grip on him causing him to pull back and look down at you with the softest gaze you’d ever seen on Draco's face. 

“I’m gonna get a cloth and do a spell so we don’t end up with any tiny Malfoy’s running around then we can get some sleep, okay?” He told you carefully hoping you were calm enough now. 

“Okay, thank you.” You muttered sheepishly. 

He stood up and wandered over to the bathroom before coming back to wipe you down much to your insistence that you could do it. Then cast a small spell before passing you your panties and one of his Slytherin t-shirts that buried you. He slid into bed next to you before flicking his wand to unlock the door and undo the silencing spell. 

“Let’s get some sleep.” He whispered in your ear as you snuggles into his chest. 

However, before you could close your eyes the door bust open and all four of your friends stumbled onto the bedroom floor in a rather unsophisticated manner causing you and Draco to sit up with furrowed brows. 

“What are you lunatics doing?” Draco sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Sorry dude! Congrats on getting the girl of your dreams man!” Theo cheered drunkenly making Draco roll his eyes. 

“Get to bed you fucking idiots.” Draco huffed as he pulled you down again to snuggle into his chest. 

You giggled into his bare chest before closing your eyes and listen to the other two boys get into there beds as the girls disappeared out the room. They might be idiots but they were your best friends and you couldn’t believe one of them was now more than a friend…it felt like everything was finally falling into place. 

[seiya-starsniper]

17 for the drunk confessions. I snorted out loud reading that one. 🤣🤣🤣

I can be mean and ask you to continue the SnowBaz + Dreamling fic. But I will once again leave it to you. Go wherever your brilliant mind tells you to go. 💜

17. "I’m not drunk. Can a drunk person do this?" "You’re not doing anything." "But… I sent you my love. Did you… did you not get it?"

This was SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE you have no idea ahahahahaha. I did modify the prompt just a smidge for maximum comedy. And of course, I set this in the SnowBaz Human AU 💖💖💖

[Part 1 Here!]

---------------------------------

Hob isn’t sure what deity he’s pissed off to end up in his current situation, but he’s fairly certain somehow it’s all Baz Pitch’s fault.

“You’re such a greeattttt friend,” Morpheus Endless slurs right before he stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk and falls forward. Had Hob not already had his arms around the other man's shoulders, he’s certain Morpheus would have face planted right into the concrete. 

“A better friend would’ve cut you off before you got this drunk,” Hob grunts as he hefts the raven-haired man back into a somewhat upright standing position. For someone so rake-thin, Morpheus was an absolute dead-weight while plastered. He’d also been very good at faking that he had a higher tolerance when they’d gone shot for shot at The New Inn to celebrate the end of their respective finals. 

“ ‘m not drunk,” Morpheus mutters, completely unconvincing. Hob snorts.

“Sure, sure, and I had the queen of England over at my place this summer,” he jokes, playfully jostling at the other man.

“I’m serious!” Morpheus insists, huffing and puffing out his cheeks out at Hob like a small child.  It’s absolutely adorable, if not absolutely terrible for Hob’s balance because it nearly causes him to stumble and drop both of them to the ground. What a pair they must look like out in the middle of a freezing December night.

“Sorry, don’t believe you, my friend,” Hob replies, laughing at the absolutely offended harumph! Morpheus lets out.

“Well—could a drunk person do this?” Morpheus asks pointedly, right before he slams his forehead right into Hob’s in quite possibly the world’s most painful headbutt.

“Ow!!! Fuck!!!!” Hob yells, letting go of Morpheus and clutching his forehead. There is a distinct thud as Morpheus practically crumples to the ground beside him, but Hob can’t be arsed to care right now. He’s seeing stars behind his eyelids and the brittle cold and alcohol coursing through his system is not helping.

“What the bloody hell, Morpheus?” Hob demands once the pain subsides. “What did you do that for?”

“...Did you get it?” Morpheus asks, and oh looking at him sitting so pathetically on the ground, his head right at crotch level, is a mistake. Morpheus’s bright blue eyes are brimming with hope as he looks up at Hob, as if he truly believed he’d passed on some important information via unhinged violence.

“Did I get what, a concussion?” Hob asks incredulously, holding his hand out for Morpheus to take to help him back up. 

“No I—” Morpheus bites his lip as he hauls himself up off the ground. He seems a bit more steady now, at least. “I sent you my love. Did you not receive it?”

Oh, this man was absolutely bad news for Hob’s poor heart. Not only is Morpheus staring at Hob like a kicked puppy, his cheeks and lips are both flushed cherry-red from the cold, the most color Hob’s ever seen on the other man since they met. It was a really good look on him. A very tempting look.

“I—I’m pretty sure your boyfriend wouldn’t appreciate you sending your love to other men,” Hob stutters breathlessly. He really needs to remember that no matter how cute and tempting Morpheus looked, Hob wasn’t a homewrecker. Even if Baz would have thanked him for it and written Hob a check for enough money to pay the rest of his rent and tuition.

Morpheus was drunk anyway. He probably had no idea what he was saying.

Morpheus furrows his brow at Hob’s words. “Boyfriend?” he asks in confusion. “What boyfriend?”

Christ.

“Don’t tell me you’re so sloshed you forgot about Simon already,” Hob jokes, desperately trying to keep his poor heart from leaping into his throat. He knows they haven’t broken up, Baz wouldn’t have shut up about it if they had. And even so, Morpheus was way outside of Hob's league anyways.

Morpheus’s head snaps so fast in alarm that Hob feels his own neck cramp just looking at him.

“Oh. YES! SIMON!” Morpheus practically shouts in his face. Hob winces, and Morpheus has at least enough sense left in him to look a little bit ashamed for his outburst.  

“You’re absolutely correct,” Morpheus continues, pushing past Hob  and suddenly in full control of his legs. He’s speed-walking now, seeming to have found new motivation to hurry to their final destination. “Simon Snow. My very real and not make-believe boyfriend, love of my life—yes that Simon Snow. His apartment is right over there.”

Hob stares at Morpheus’s rapidly retreating form in utter confusion for a few moments before his brain restarts and he rushes to catch up with the raven haired man.

Did Morpheus…think Simon was a made up person? Or…had the other man really forgotten they were dating? Usually people didn’t forget that sort of thing when they were drunk. 

Hob is still mulling over Morpheus’s confusing behavior when Morpheus stumbles again on a patch of ice and yelps. Hob silently thanks every single rugby practice he’s had over his entire life, because he’s quickly able to get to Morpheus and grab him before he runs headfirst into a tree. Watching over a drunk Morpheus was a full time job, that was for sure.

Somehow, Hob manages to haul both of them the rest of the way over to Simon’s apartment, which is thankfully on the first floor. Hob doesn’t even want to think about how obnoxious it would be to drag Morpheus up a flight of stairs in his state.

“Special delivery!” Hob declares, when Simon answers the door. Hob may have rang the doorbell more times than perhaps strictly necessary but he never said he wasn’t drunk too. 

“SIiiiimoonnnn darling!” Morpheus exclaims, disentangling himself from Hob and practically rushing into the red-haired man’s arms. Hob tries not to take it too personally. Simon is Morpheus’s freaking boyfriend after all. But still, there’s a massive cold spot now at Hob’s side where Morpheus’s body had been just seconds ago.

“Holy shit, Morph, your smell like a liquor store!” Simon laughs, wrapping his arms around Morpheus’s waist and pulling the raven haired man flush again him. “How much did you drink?”

“I’m not drunk!” Morpheus declares, and it’s not any less believable now than it was when they’d left the pub.

“Is that so?” Simon asks, a teasing note in his voice. “So I guess you don’t want any hot cocoa to chase away the booze then?” 

Morpheus instantly perks up. 

“I’m absolutely blackout drunk,” Morpheus replies, instantly changing his tune. “Are there marshmallows?”

“Of course,” Simon answers, before he turns back to face Hob. “Thanks for bringing him back, Hob. I’m sorry he’s such a mess when he’s drunk.”

“Not a problem at all,” Hob answers, smiling through his jealousy at their easy intimacy. Hob had had plenty of partners, both male and female, but he’s pretty sure he’s never been nearly as comfortable around them as Morpheus and Simon seem to be around each other. 

“Did you want to stay for a bit?” Simon offers. “I made plenty of hot cocoa.”

Hob shakes his head. “No, I’m dead tired,” he replies, faking a yawn to make himself more convincing. “Think it’s best I get myself to bed.”

Simon nods. “All right, get home safe,” he says.

“Tell Basil we say hello!” Morpheus adds, while Simon lets out a dramatic sigh.

“Good night, Hob,” Simon says with a finality, pulling at the door before Morpheus can say anything else.

“Night Simon. Morpheus,” Hob replies, waving as the door shuts closed. He stares at it for a few moments, then sighs as he turns to make the lonely walk home. 

He really was an absolute idiot. 

---------------------

Behind the closed door of Simon’s apartment, Morpheus is wailing his embarrassment into a mug of hot chocolate that is mostly marshmallow.

“I have made a fool of myself!” Morpheus cries dramatically into Simon’s sweater. “He probably thinks I am some cheap harlot who would throw himself at any man!”

“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think that,” Simon replies, patting Morpheus on the back. “Actually, I think he somehow fell even more in love with you. You sure you don’t want to just end the fake relationship now so you can have a real boyfriend for Christmas?”

Morpheus shakes his head.

“Not until Basil retracts his head from out of his ass and confesses his feelings to you,” he says, steadfast in his conviction.

Simon sighs. “Morph, he’s not going to, Baz obviously just hates—”

“Hush,” Morpheus interrupts him. “I will not have my fake boyfriend speaking badly of himself. Besides, he is enamored with you, even if he has an absolutely stupid way of showing it.”

“O–kay, if you’re sure then,” Simon replies. “Want another mug then?”

Morpheus nods eagerly, holding his mug out. “Please.”

[jesterwriting]

pairings: mad scientist!law x assistant!reader

word count: 2k words

contents: DARK CONTENT AHOY!!! animal death (cat), animal harm (cat), animal gore (cat), reanimator au, medical student law, medical student reader, unhinged!law, creepy!law, horror, manipulation,

note: this was originally supposed to be apart of an earlier request, but i split it up because i felt like this one had far more horror elements and animal harm that were a lot heavier and darker. you can read them together or separate or not at all! its up to you <33 im kind of obsessed with this au so i may do more with it if people are into it??

playlist: reanimator prologue & main title - richard brand

prequel to this fic

At first, you thought this was a dream come true. It wasn’t often that you got lucky enough to be paired with your crush for a project, but here you were, meeting him at your apartment for the sixth time in one month. It was more than you could ever dare to hope for. For the longest time, you had thought that you were condemned to a life of daydreams and fantasies.

Trafalgar Law was an odd man, one who was not particularly liked by his peers— aside from you, of course. He was cold, and the sort to stare if you managed to garner his, usually unwanted, attention. When he did speak, it was a snarky remark at the recipient's expense, both classmate and professor, Law had no patience for perceived stupidity you realized after weeks of study. His tattoos were off putting to most. What kind of medical student had ‘death’ written across his knuckles? You, on the other hand, found them fascinating. The story behind such morbid body art was sure to be captivating.

If only you could get him to share it.

You shouldn’t be surprised. Law was quiet, only ever speaking to prove someone wrong, or to insist that he was right. When he did talk to you, it was about the project and his own personal plans for it. You could hardly get a word in edgewise. Instead of fighting Law on it, you allowed him to do whatever he pleased with the project, following his orders dutifully, which seemed to earn you the smallest margin of his rarely given respect. Last meeting, he had even acknowledged your interjection with a nod, rather than a scoff, though he didn’t incorporate your idea at all. Progress was progress, you supposed.

Your keys jingled as you pulled them from your pocket. Before you could stick them in the knob, the door creaked open, revealing your empty living room. It was dark, no signs of life. Not even your cat came to greet you. You swallowed hard, anxiety making your saliva thicken until it was stuck in your throat as a hard glob.

You told Law where your spare key was hidden, had he forgotten to close the door after he arrived?

“Law?” There was no response. With your heart pounding, you pushed the door open further and stepped into your apartment. Floorboards creaked under your weight, making you wince. There was something that told you to be quiet, that there was someone waiting for you in the shadows, ready to strike. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

A dim light in the kitchen caught your attention, and you slowly tip-toed over to it, careful to keep your footsteps light. Carpet squelched under your shoes. Maybe Law spilled a glass of water and went looking for a rag. Surely, your organizational skills weren’t so bad he was still looking for one. You choked on an uncomfortable laugh.

Like your front door, your fridge was open. Not gaping, but a small crack to let the barest sliver of light out. A sense of dread settled on your shoulders, though you tried to remind yourself that Law was supposed to be here. Everything could be explained if he would come out. All he needed to do was make his presence known and you would know you were safe. You swallowed hard, staring at the refrigerator door. It was your only source of light in the apartment, if you closed it now, you’d be surrounded on all sides by darkness.

You blinked, cocking your head to the side to get a better view. There was something large and furry on the top shelf. Nausea roiled in your gut, threatening to spill your dinner onto the floor, as dim recognition flickered in your brain.

With your knuckle, you pushed the door open fully to get a better look. There, inside of your fridge, was your cat. He wasn’t breathing, eyes glassy and body stiff under the pale yellow light.

Your cat was dead and its corpse was in your fridge.

You couldn’t help it. You screamed.

“You’re home.”

Scrambling backwards until your lower back hit the counter, you could barely make out Law’s figure through your blurry vision. You choked on a sob and hastily wiped your eyes. He seemed bored as he leaned against the wall, almost unimpressed, though there was a glimpse of something softer in his gaze. Not concern, not yet, but close enough to it that you could pretend.

You pointed a shaky finger at the fridge. “M-My cat.”

“I know, I put it in there.” Law strode into the kitchen and closed the door with his foot. You felt better not having to look at the corpse anymore, even if tears continued to leak from your eyes. “I didn’t want it to decompose and start to stink before you were able to bury it. I know you were fond of it.”

“What happened? How did he die?”

Law shrugged, noncommittal. “I’m not sure. It was dead when I got here. I figured you would rather me not perform an autopsy in your living room considering I have no veterinary experience.”

“An-And you put it in my fridge? You couldn’t have left a note on the door or—“

Law scoffed, “And what would the note say? Cat dead, details later? Think for a second.”

The longer the conversation continued, the harder you sobbed. You loved that cat. He’d been with you for years now, through thick and thin. You’d never feel his warm body on your chest again as he slept, you’d never feel his purr rumble against your skin, you’d never be able to pet him under his chin the way he liked it ever again. It was too much to think about, grief rolling over you like a wave, threatening to drown you.

Law’s gaze softened, even if his sigh was exasperated. “We can postpone working on the project until you’re able to gather yourself.”

He turned to leave, but your hand shot out to grab his wrist. “Please don’t leave me here with him.”

The body. You couldn’t bury him. Not alone. Law thought for a moment, his golden eyes glazed over for a second before a smirk inched across his face. He only ever got that look when he thought of a plan, and this looked to be a good one. With a condescending pat on your head, Law wrenched himself from your grasp, grin still in place.

“That’s alright, Y/N-ya, I’m not going anywhere. I can sleep on your couch and help you with its body tomorrow.” His pupils shot over to the fridge. “It’s best if you leave it in there for the night, corpses are best kept cold.”

Sniffling, you gave a shaky nod. “I’ll set up the couch.”

—

It was three am when a knock at your door woke you.

The weight of mourning felt heavy in your chest and your bed felt too cold without the familiar warmth of your cat. Your heart ached at the reminder of his demise. All you wanted to do was curl up and go back to sleep. Forget about what waited for you in the fridge.

So tired, both emotionally and physically, you were ready to chalk the knock up to a dream. That was, until you heard it again, louder and more forceful this time.

An unwanted feeling of anxiety crawled up your spine. Something felt off, a sense of wrongness filled the air until it was so thick, you could hardly breathe. A horrible yowl resounded through your apartment, blood curdling and unnatural. There was a familiarity to the scream. You took no comfort in it. Your eyes shot open, and you leapt from your bed onto your feet, wired from the sudden surge of adrenaline. Hyperventilating breaths ripped from your chest.

The knock sounded again. “Y/N-ya, I have something to show you.”

Law’s deep voice sent goosebumps erupting down your arms. If you were being honest, it wasn’t the first time it had happened, but this time, there was something different about it. Dread curled in your gut, sleeping inside you like the cat in your fridge. With a cry, you covered your ears and curled in on yourself when whatever was in your living room screamed again.

“Law, do you hear that?”

You didn’t have to see him to know he rolled his eyes. “Come out, there’s something I need you to see.”

Your feet moved on their own accord, drawn by the sound of Law’s voice. Even as the thing in your living room wailed, your fingers found your knob and curled around it. The brass was cold against your palm. It grounded you. The first thing you noticed when you opened the door was that Law had blood smeared across the front of his shirt. It didn’t seem to be from any wounds, and you found yourself relieved, even if you couldn’t begin to explain where it came from.

Law was grinning, all teeth, a manic gash across his face. “I did it. A success, right here in your apartment. You must be my lucky charm.” He patted your head.

“Did what?” You peered around him.

“I’ll show you.” He paused before stepping to the side. “I did it for you, you know? I know how fond you were of it.”

There was something on your coffee table. It twitched and convulsed, mouth open in a soundless scream as its eyes bulged out of its sockets. Blood pooled around it, dripping onto the carpet. It took a second for you to recognize it through the pulsing viscera. He hadn’t been so cut up before. Instead, he had been so whole, you could have mistaken him for being asleep if it wasn’t for the glassiness in his eyes. Beside him was an empty syringe and a container of glowing green fluid.

“My cat,” You choked out. “What did you do to him?”

Law wrapped an arm around you and held you to his chest. “I brought it back for you.” He glanced at the bloody mass, a frown tugging at his lips. “There are still some kinks to work out, but this was a good test of my reagent.” Expectant, Law glanced at you. “But, I need more trials.”

“He was dead,” Your tone was flat, and your body was numb. When you looked away, Law grabbed your chin and forced you to look at the thing pulsating on your coffee table.

“Look at it. I defeated death tonight. I did what every doctor has dreamed of doing for millenia, and the first steps to realizing this were done in your apartment. You should be honored.”

“Why did you do this?”

“Because I wanted to share something extraordinary with you.” He must have seen you were unconvinced because he sighed, the motion rattling your body, still pressed against him. “I need an assistant, and you are my best option. You're respected and well-liked by your professors, they would let you get away with murder as long as you turned that sweet smile in their direction.” Law leaned down until his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. “You can get me into the morgue, Y/N-ya.”

This was wrong, you knew it deep down in your heart, but with Law so close to you, the smell of antiseptic and blood clogging your senses, you could hardly think. Once the project was over, Law would never give you the time of day again. He wasn’t the type of man who had friends. Colleagues, maybe, but not friends. If you agreed to be a part of his sick experiments, you wouldn’t have to leave him. Law would be stuck with you, bonded together by this secret. If you were his assistant, you could have him forever.

“Okay,” You said, still somewhat hollow. A tear slipped down your cheek when you pointed to your cat. “Just kill him. Put him out of his misery, I can’t stand to see him like this.”

“If that’s what you want.”

Without hesitation, Law stepped around you, scalpel in hand, and plunged it into your cat's skull. The twitching stopped. His body went slack, limp against the coffee table.

Law stood back and gave you a reassuring smile. “There. All better now.”

For a second, you let yourself believe him.

[ametrictonofaudacity]

Can you write a part 2 to your yandere joker fic?

Absolutely! Also I am so insanely flattered, I’ve never had someone ask for a part 2 before eeee

Yandere Platonic Joker x GN! reader!

Warnings: This is a yandere work, and as such contains themes of violence, abuse, manipulation and drugging. As this is the Joker, it will most likely be darker than my usual works!! Enjoy!!

You wake up with a leg that practically burns, and when you glance down, you see that your thigh had been wrapped in white gauze, which had been stained red by your own blood. It was weirdly well done for a madman. You wondered if Joker had made one of his henchmen do it.

Moving your leg makes it hurt, so much so that you gasp when the burning pain arches up your leg. You hadn’t been given any painkillers. Which wasn’t great when you had a stab wound, in an area with already existing nerve damage. You hope there isn’t any long term nerve damage, or damage to the muscles, or tendons.

“Okay. Okay just.. focus. You’ve been kidnapped by a madman who thinks you’re obsessed with him. Things could be worse.” Your voice cracks with hysteria, and you wince, shaking your head. You had to get your act together. You would prefer not to be another of the Joker’s long list of victims.

You glance around, and your stomach drops. The room is.. a room? It had clearly been outfitted from some sort of warehouse, with high ceilings and beams that crisscrossed, which made sense, you guess. Not a lot of people in Gotham would be willing to rent an apartment to the Joker.

The most damning thing, however, is the paintings, everywhere. Piled in the corner, leaned against the wall, some handing crookedly from nails. All with acidic green eyes or pale skin or a suit with the wrong colors. All yours.

You think you’re going to throw up. You don’t.

Your head snaps to the sound of a door handle, and you watch as it’s pushed open, heart racing. The old hinges shriek and groan.

“Hey! So.. what do ya think? Neat, right! Got all your paintings, right here, in a fun little gallery! Isn’t it great?!” Joker’s eyes never leave your face. You aren’t sure what it looks like, with how much pain you were in and your brain struggling to process much of anything but you feel your expression twist.

“Five out of five stars.” Your voice drips with sarcasm, and Joker laughs, a high pitched maniacal giggle that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. You two were playing a game now, you knew, and Joker knew all the rules and could change them as he pleased. “Where are we?”

“Ah, ah, ah! No trying to pry any information out of me, I learned aalll the tricks from Batsy.” He chides, practically skipping to your bedside. You want to jerk away, but moving your leg sends a rush of pain so harsh it makes your vision go white.

“I don’t think I know nearly as many tricks as Batman.” You deadpan.

“It’s okay! You’re interesting in a different way.” Joker snorts, glancing at your damaged leg to the paintings to your face. You aren’t sure what he sees. “Although I don’t know why you would be talking to Batsy.”

He sounds almost.. jealous? Giddy? You can’t place it, and you don’t want to, and you measure your words carefully before you speak. Joker was a time bomb, almost literally, and any little thing could set him off.

“I never actually talked to him. He and the baby bats just stalked me for a while when you broke out of Arkham.”

“Hmph. Wants to keep you all to himself, now that not fair.” He huffs, and he slings an arm around you, pulling you close. The sudden movement jolts your leg, and the ragged gasp it tears from you practically echoes in the air.

You try not to freeze when you see the unhinged light in his eyes. You don’t think you manage.

“Did you ever talk to Batsy?” The sudden change in topic is.. discomforting, and you shake your head. You can’t think of anything to say.

“He showed up in your sketchbook a lot. All heroic poses and big shadows, it was so boring, really. I’m a much better subject to draw, don’t you think?”

His hand lands on the white bandages, and then he presses down.

You howl in pain, going to twist away, but he is deceptively strong, and keeps you there, even as you kick at him and try to pry his hand off your wound.

“Yes! You’re better to draw!” You gasp out, and he stops, grinning. You’d think that the bandage would be redder, or damaged. It isn’t.

“Good! I don’t like sharing my besties.” He laughs, and hums, glancing at your face. You’re shaking, and pale, you know. “It does suck your hurt though. We can’t do anything fun until you’re healed.” He huffs, sprawling back and dragging you with him.

“APPARENTLY we’re going to have postpone the trip to Ace Chemicals.” He huffs. “I was so looking forward to it, too.”

Your heart drops into your stomach, leaden. Ace Chemicals. Birthplace of the Joker, of Harley Quinn. A toxic cesspit of chemical waste and madness.

“I’m sure we can find something to pass the time. Now! Why don’t we get to painting, yeah? You’ve got a whole studio!”

Joker hops up, and when you take the paint brush from him, it’s already dripping with a toxic green. You paint, numbly, not really paying attention.

You would have to escape before your leg healed. Or Joker won his game.

[magiccath]

Between A Goose And A Hard Place

Pairing: 11th Doctor x River Song

Summary: In which the Doctor is faced with the soulmate goose of enforcement

A/N: I know this isn't what I usually write, but I wanted to make a silly little gift for @1-genie-in-a-bottle . Let me know if you like this kind of unhinged crack fic and/or want to see more Doctor x River stuff!

The Doctor generally wasn’t a fan of kissing. It’s not that he didn’t like it. No, that wasn’t the issue. At least, he didn’t think it was. More so, the issue lay in what happened when he kissed someone. Frankly, if he ever tried to explain it to someone else he was absolutely certain they would laugh. He had trouble believing it himself. 

First, it was Jack. The Doctor didn’t even really know how to react at first. Jack had simply grabbed his face and planted one on him. It was quick, most certainly not a lingering kiss. Before he could decide what to do with the kiss, Jack had pulled away with a yelp. When the Doctor tentatively opened his eyes, wondering what on Earth could have caused Jack to make a sound like that, he was speechless. A sleek, white goose was biting Jack’s arse. Literally. Jack had simply removed the goose from his bottom half, setting it down on the floor as if it were nothing more than a dirty sock. That was that, the two men didn’t discuss it any further. 

Shortly after, it was Rose. This time the Doctor had more control over this kiss. He’d done it to save her, it wasn’t much more than that. She had taken the entirety of the time vortex into her mind, and that would most certainly kill a human. He kissed her as a means of transferring it to his mind. He was a little too preoccupied with saving his companion to really stop and enjoy or suffer through the kiss. What he didn’t expect was the exact same goose, having magically appeared again, started honking at him with a newfound ferocity. 

“Will you please shut up!” He snapped, still holding onto Rose. By now she had practically collapsed into his arms, the energy drained from her body. He could have sworn that the goose glared at him. 

“Go on, shoo,” he encouraged, glaring right back. The goose sauntered away, the soft padding of its flippers taunting him. Briefly, he wondered where the goose came from. It was a little strange that the bird had suddenly appeared in the middle of a spaceship, but stranger things had happened to the Doctor. 

He’d made a mental note to look up what it meant when geese showed up and berated you for kissing people, but he got preoccupied. He had a new body to adapt to, with all new organs and facial features. How could he be expected to remember such trivial things as strange geese? 

Rose was the first to kiss his new face. Well, technically it was Lady Cassandra inhabiting Rose’s body. He should have known, Rose wasn’t bold enough to grasp him by his hair and forcibly kiss him. This one was longer and more passionate than the others. Still, the Doctor didn’t know how to react. He ended up just standing there like putty in her hands as he pressed her - Rose’s - lips against his, her hands gripping his hair roughly. Honestly, he sort of blacked out for the whole thing. By the time she had pulled away from him, the goose was there. It practically glared at Rose, its beak firmly attached to her shoe. He wasn’t sure if geese could growl, but this one certainly was. 

By the time they had returned to the TARDIS, he practically rushed to the library, frantically searching for some kind of explanation. He didn’t know why this was happening to him! Three times in a row was more than a coincidence, the events had to be linked. 

He pondered over his books for a few hours, looking for everything he had on geese. Exasperated, he used the Sonic Screwdriver to scour the internet. He came across an American article titled “The Soulmate Goose: Urban Legend or Rising Phenomenon?” He frowned, clicking on it, if only out of curiosity. 

A Soulmate Goose, otherwise known as the “Soulmate Goose of Enforcement'' is exactly what it sounds like. A goose who acts as a spiritual guide in your search for a soulmate, just in a chaotic manner. Regardless if you believe in soulmates or not, the Soulmate Goose of Enforcement serves as an entertaining tale at the very least, and a guiding beacon in the dating world at best. 

The Doctor wasn’t entirely sure if it was a joke. Americans were good at that, making up things so entirely silly that they almost seemed real. He didn’t want to believe it, the idea was so blatantly odd. However, the current evidence at hand seemed to support the idea. What other possible explanation could there be for a goose following him around and getting incessantly violent whenever he kissed someone?

For the next few weeks, he simply forgot about the goose. He had more pertinent things to do. That was, until none other than Madame De Pompadour kissed him. She grasped him and leaned forward, pressing her lips against his. He melted into her touch, his hands ghosting around her waist as she grasped tightly onto his suit. He wasn’t sure if he kissed her back, but he was fairly certain he had. Before he could really start to enjoy the kiss, a goose crawled out from under Madame De Pompadour’s skirts. She quickly backed away from him, looking down at the bird with wide, confused eyes. The goose simply squawked at her before turning its attention towards the Doctor, looking up at him with its beady little black eyes in clear disapproval. The Doctor stared back, his mind trying to catch up. Bashfully, he nodded his understanding.

After that, he did a good job of steering away from kissing. He became almost defensive about it, constantly worried that someone might grab him for a kiss. The last thing he wanted was for the goose to show up again. 

He figured he was safe around Jackie, she was Rose’s mum after all. How wrong he was. She quickly grabbed him, spinning him around towards her so she could press her lips against his. He instantly recoiled, but she didn’t seem to notice. She rotated between hugging him and kissing him. When she was done he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, clearly disgusted. Sure enough, the goose poked its head into the room, glaring at the Doctor. 

“I didn’t like it much either,” he whispered angrily at the bird. Honestly, what was it with all of these women kissing him?

Then he kissed Martha - which he only did to save her life. He told her as such, looked her in the eyes, and begged her to understand that it was for her own good. For the good of everyone in the hospital. It’s not like it meant anything. He grasped her face in his hands and kissed her quickly. Honestly, he didn’t even really think about it, not really. Afterward, he ran away quickly, having things he needed to do. The Doctor didn’t get very far before he ran into a goose. It was just sitting in the hallway, looking at him disappointingly. In all of his rush to come up with a solution for their predicament, he had completely forgotten about the goose. 

“I did it to save everyone in this hospital!” he argued. It felt ridiculous to argue with a bird. 

Either the goose didn’t understand him, or it didn’t care. It simply got up off the floor and walked over to the Doctor menacingly. Great, the Doctor thought, now I’ve got to run away from the Judoon AND a bird. Luckily for him, he was good at the running thing. 

When he was John Smith he didn’t figure that he’d be kissing anyone. He left it out of the list of instructions he had made for Martha. In the moment, avoiding pears seemed more important than avoiding the damn goose. 

Unfortunately for him, his human counterpart had to go and fancy someone. He leaned in to kiss her, moving slowly in case she wanted to back away. When she didn’t, he leaned down and pressed his mouth against hers. 

The door barged open and he pulled away to yell at Martha, he had told her to knock before inviting herself in. However, he was faced with the goose. He frowned at the bird, confused about how it got into the room, let alone open the door. Geese don’t have hands, let alone opposable thumbs, so how did it get in?

He didn’t have much time to ponder because the goose instantly threw itself at Joan, biting at her legs through her skirt. He frowned angrily at the strange creature, forcibly pulling it off of his love interest. The goose turned its efforts to biting him, sinking its surprisingly sharp beak into the tender flesh of his hand. He dropped the bird in shock, grasping the spot where it had bit him. 

“What-?” he gasped, still holding his wound. Martha rushed into the room, looking between him, Joan, and the bird in clear confusion. The Doctor didn’t even try to explain, he wasn’t even sure how to. 

Then, it was Astrid. She really was a sweet girl, he felt awful that he didn’t have time to warn her. This was getting out of hand - what was it with women grabbing him and kissing him against his will? He wasn’t a fan of it, and the goose most certainly wasn’t either. The kiss was brief, not leaving him much time to react. By the time she pulled away, the lapels of his suit still grasped in her hands, the goose had appeared. It was squawking again, flapping its wings angrily. 

“Where did that come from?” Astrid frowned, still not letting go of the Doctor. He sighed heavily and gently eased her away from him. With a sad frown, she backed down, exiting his personal space. The goose continued to yell at her, even as she left the Doctor with a shy wave goodbye. 

“You have got to stop doing that!” he scolded the bird. He was met with a sharp cry in response. He didn’t need to speak goose to understand that the creature was mad at him. 

“It’s not like I’m asking these women to kiss me!” he protested, begging the goose for a little bit of leeway. The bird tilted its head at him, clearly listening to him. Without another word - or squawk - it padded off down the hallway, leaving the Doctor alone. 

When Donna kissed him he absolutely was not expecting OR wanting it. He asked her for a shock, assuming that she would gladly take the opportunity to slap him or something. He’d done plenty of things to piss her off, surely she was itching to sock him. Instead, she grabbed him by the face and kissed him passionately. He wasn’t sure that she liked it much more than he did. Frankly, she should have just gone the slapping route, it would have been better for both of them. When she finally released him he stumbled backward into the kitchen island, letting out a sharp breath as the poison exited his body in smoky tendrils. 

He felt a sharp bite on one of his fingers and looked down at the counter to find the goose, his pointer finger lodged between its beak. The Doctor glared at the bird and wiggled his finger free from its grasp. 

“Bad bird!” he tried scolding, holding his hand against his chest defensively. “I’m well aware that she’s not my soulmate! There’s no need to get violent.” 

He managed to escape the kissing for a while after that. He got a little too comfortable, he almost forgot all about the kissing and the goose. His life was wonderful. 

And then Christina kissed him. She didn’t even give him any warning. Like the various women before her, she had simply grabbed him and dragged his lips toward hers. The bus erupted in applause as she kissed him, vocalizing their approval. She pulled away, smirking at him. She quickly recoiled though when she felt a sharp sting in her calf. She looked down at her leg, only to find a vicious goose firmly attached to her calf. The Doctor followed her gaze and sighed, seemingly dejected. 

“I’m not interested in this one either,” he groaned at the goose. Begrudgingly, it released Christina from its grasp. She quickly stumbled back, rubbing her leg in the spot where it had been biting her. 

That was the last time he was kissed with that face. He hoped with his new regeneration that he might escape the kissing for a while. Maybe it was the tight suits. Surely that was the problem. Yes, it had to be the suits. And the hair. He made sure to get rid of both. 

Even with this new face, this new attitude, even with the new suit, he couldn’t avoid the kissing. He figured he was safe with Amy, she was getting married! She couldn’t be interested in him. Oh, how wrong he had been. 

She leaned close to him, closer than he was generally comfortable with. She continued to lean further into him, desperately trying to close the gap between them. Once he realized what was happening, he quickly shot up out of his seat, stumbling away from her. 

“You’re getting married!” he argued as she continued to try and kiss him. “I’m 906! This can never work!” 

She pouted, crowding him up against the TARDIS. “I wasn’t suggesting anything quite so… long-term,” she said seductively, grabbing him by the back of the neck and kissing him urgently. Her hands wandered across his chest, sliding his suspenders off his shoulders. He stiffened, his hands planted firmly on her shoulders as he pushed her off of him. He wiggled out of her grasp, trying to move away from her again. She tried to move for him again and he darted away from her. Where was the goose when you needed it?!

As if sending his thoughts, a goose appeared in the middle of Amy’s room. She stared at it in blatant confusion before backing hesitantly away. The goose didn’t seem deterred in the slightest and simply advanced in her direction, growling softly. 

“Do they do that? Are they meant to do that?” 

“No, not generally,” the Doctor sighed in exasperation, picking the goose up and practically throwing it away from her. It moved for Amy again and he placed his leg in front of it, blocking its path. 

“Amy, no kissing,” he scolded, pointing at her. He then turned his attention to the goose, “No biting. No attacking. No disturbing of any kind.”

The goose huffed, at least, that’s what the Doctor assumed it was trying to do. He glared down at it, almost threatening it to try again. Finally, the goose relented. 

Amy didn’t try to kiss him again, which he was thankful for. In fact, no one tried to kiss him again. That was, until River. 

He liked River, he really did. She was smart, snarky, and not afraid to flirt with him. As he returned her to her cell they talked and laughed happily. 

He said something or made some kind of comment. He wasn’t even trying to be funny or clever, it just came out that way. 

“Shut up,” River smirked, grabbing his neck softly and pulling him into her. He could have pulled away if he really wanted to. River wasn’t like the other women, she wasn’t forcibly aggressive about it. Dominant and self-assured, yes. But not aggressive, never aggressive. He let her do it, mostly because he wanted her to. 

She pressed her lips against his and he instantly melted into the kiss. This time was different, this time he wanted it, he liked it. Awkwardly, his hand hovered over her shoulder, not quite touching her. She kept one hand on the back of his neck, the other pulling him in by his waist. Oh, he liked that. His hand pressed down on her shoulder. Not like he had with Amy, he wasn’t pushing her away. Rather, he was holding her, urging her to go on. 

Then, panic started to seep in. The goose was going to show up at any point. It was going to start biting River and that was absolutely the last thing that he wanted to happen. At the same time, he really didn’t want this kiss to end. His arms flailed about helplessly and awkwardly. If River noticed she didn’t do anything to indicate as such. He continued his uncomfortable flapping, his mind torn between pulling away and pushing closer. 

The kiss ended and he looked down at her with wide, panicked eyes. She wasn’t crying out in pain and there wasn’t an ear-splitting honking filling the air. She looked at him almost sadly, as if realizing his mind wasn’t entirely on her. 

He didn’t know it, but she was realizing that this was the last time she was ever going to kiss him. A first for him, a last for her. That was the way it worked. 

The Doctor looked around her cell anxiously, searching for the goose. Where was it? Was it going to bite him now? His eyes finally landed on the familiar goose, sitting patiently in the corner.

“Doctor?” River whispered, her eyes searching his face. 

He didn’t respond, his wide eyes glued on the goose. Only, it wasn’t moving. It wasn’t attacking. He looked back at River, his eyes darting between hers. Could it be? 

“Can you do that again?” he whispered. She smirked, finding his request nothing if not adorable. She was more than happy to oblige, leaning forward to press her lips against his again. 

It was softer this time, more gentle. The Doctor actively kissed her back this time, his hands coming to rest on the dip of her waist. She smiled at that, pressing her chest against his. 

He pulled away from the kiss, his hands still holding her waist. He smiled down at her, feeling a warmth in his hearts that he hadn’t for centuries. She smiled back up at him, her hand resting gently between his rapidly beating hearts. 

Hesitantly he looked back over to the corner where the goose had been only moments before, finding the room empty. He let out a gentle breath, relieved that the aviary torture was finally over. Maybe now he could relax. Maybe, just maybe, there would be more of this enjoyable kissing in the future. For once, the Doctor could confidently say that he liked kissing. Yes, yes he most certainly did. 

He just hoped that the damned goose didn’t show up again. 

[saintsenara]

I’m obsessed with your unhinged ship opinions! They’ve really gotten me thinking about interesting combinations which is such a fun activity for the subway

My submissions:

- Narcissa Malfoy/Petunia Dursley

- Voldemort/Molly Weasley

- Nagini/Crookshanks

- Walburga Black/Barty Crouch Sr.

ahhh, thank you so much @epigaea-repens - light of my life and producer of the finest piece of fan art i've ever seen - i'm genuinely delighted to discover that somebody other than me gets something out of doing these.

narcissa malfoy/petunia dursley

i'm oddly partial to a bit of draco/dudley - entirely because the idea of vernon trying to out-pompous lucius is funny to me, as is the fact that they'd clearly both think harry would care and harry's actual response would be 'who's draco?' - and i have to confess myself partial to this too.

narcissa's narrative mirror is molly weasley - both of these women share a certain fierceness [and, especially, a fierceness and strength one might not expect of them at first glance], but they also share a certain disconnection from the rest of their family, and an undercurrent of loneliness can be detected in their characterisation.

this is present in the way petunia is written too - the implication of canon is both that she's married "up" in terms of social class and that vernon is quite a bit older than her.

[and her fandom reception is a victim, i think, of the aging up of the adult cast of the films - petunia is, at most, twenty-four when lily dies. like her sister, she marries and has children young, even by the social standards of 1970s/1980s britain, and having to take on harry changes the trajectory of her life when it's only just started - i am absolutely wedded to the idea, for example, that harry being placed in her care means that she gives up a plan to have a second biological child.]

she is, of course, also confined in a prison which is directly of her own making - the bland domesticity of her perfect little house, all of which is an artifice constructed so she doesn't have to admit how deeply she once longed to be magic. narcissa experiences the same - i always read her as someone who leans heavily on the gendered conventions of the wizarding world as a way of coping with how utterly both of her sisters defied them, and as being someone who is very concerned with keeping up appearances [hence why her wildness and desperation when she goes to see snape in half-blood prince is so shocking]. i think you can imagine that she runs malfoy manor to have the same nothing-wrong-here vibe as number four privet drive, and i think you can do something very interesting indeed with the idea of two women who live behind masks being forced to drop them when they find each other.

lord voldemort/molly weasley

does, in fact, exist, in the form of a story i will recommend to everyone - come slowly, eden by paimpont - which, like all the best rare-pair fics, takes two implausible characters and creates a genuinely meaningful love story between them, through a lovely character study of molly and her ability to notice when people [and, especially, when people who are very much in want of a mother] are hungry.

nagini/crookshanks

i had to look up crookshanks' gender for this - which is a wild thing to say on a weekday afternoon - so that i could confirm... flopping. nagini's a lesbian, crookshanks misunderstood when she said she liked pussy.

it's fine in the end, though. nagini's got something happening with one of the malfoys' peahens, and crookshanks can go back either to the enemies-to-lovers thing he's got going on with mrs norris or to the soulmates thing he's got going on with sirius.

walburga black/barty crouch sr.

i am completely obsessed with this concept, i don't even think it can be considered a crack ship, and i would like to see it written immediately.

debilitating grief at the son you thought you knew disappearing - whether literally or metaphorically? delicious.

[rustingcat]

tagged by @inkedroplets who tagged me in a few things now, and I forgot to answer some of them. Shame on me, but thanks for the tag, darling:)

1. What sort of content do you create, and what is the thing you’ve made that you’re most proud of?

I started with art, then began writing, then started animating, and recently uploaded a fanvid 😅

I'm proud of them all because they are all part of the progress 😌

2. What fandom(s) do you create for?

Supergirl. I'm counting my Sadie/Saskia vid as supercorp.

3. What is your current favourite ship (or brotp if you prefer), and how controversial is it?

Supercorp. And apparently a lot of people don't like them because they hated supergirl? (At least according to tumblr tags in polls. But those people also accuse them of being too straight...)

4. For your answer to question 3, are they canon?

They are in my heart. Also, I feel that their last conversation was as close to canon as they could get.

5. What was your first fandom, and how old were you?

I was deep into Harry Potter for a long while in my life. That's what got me into fanfiction and tumblr. I still have a sweet spot for what it represented to me in my childhood and the stuff I took away from it despite the actions of some extreme lady.

6. What is your most unhinged fandom creation to date?

My Twilight Au fic 🤣

Was written as a parody, but somehow ended up being way too wholesome.

The power of pasta is my one crack fic, so there's also that.

7. Do you remember what started you off creating fandom content, and if so, what was it?

I was an avid consumer for years, but it was all thanks to the Supergirl fandom that I dared to try and create something. I was in the process of coming out and accepting myself for who I am, which, despite being in a very open and accepting environment and family, was really hard on me. Both the show, and especially the fandom, were what helped me not only to come out but also to see it in a positive light. It made me understand the meaning of pride, and I am forever grateful for that. That's why I decided to dedicate my time to creating stuff myself as thanks to this amazing community and to do my best to keep it active.♥️

8. Do you let people you know in real life see your fandom creations?

Some, yes. I have a few friends who know I write, but had not read any of my stuff. I have a few I share my art with, though.

9. How do you feel about fanworks of fanworks? Has anyone ever made something based on a thing you made?

Someone wrote a fic based on my art a while ago, and I'm still excited about it!

10. What feeling do you most often try to evoke with your creations?

Depends on the content. Each piece has its own purpose. I try to aim for fluff, but I've been told I accidentally write a lot of angst... oops?

11. Has someone ever paid your work a compliment (in any form) that has stuck with you, and what was it?

I'm always excited when fandom friends tell me they like my stuff. Or just anyone in general. It just warms my heart.

12. What’s your favourite thing someone else has made that you’ve seen in the last 24 hours (and link it if you can find it again!)

Have you read the most recent space log update? It's pretty cool...

13. Give a small sneak preview of something you’re working on right now (eg a couple of sentences of fic from a WIP, a gif set theme, a small piece of a larger picture, whatever you feel happy to share)

"Alex, you're saying that as if we're not literally standing at the entrance of a school for fairies." Kara said as she rested her hand on the handle of her large blue suitcase.

"Fair point."

"It is ridiculous, isn't it? Like, fairy collage, it just sounds so…"

"Bizarre?" Alex raised an eyebrow as a small chuckle escaped her lips.

Kara sheepishly nodded.

"Well, yes. Very. But that's our lives now, I suppose," Alex shrugged and shoved her hands in her jeans's pockets.

"You mean my life. You're going to badass school for ass kicking," Kara teased her sister.

Because apparently I'm not done making AUs based on questionable IPs.

And a bit of my card game AU:

Lena was the one to drag Andea to sneak out of school for a change. Only unlike her best friend, Lena didn't drag her out to a party or to drink alcohol, but instead to the local game shop where she could learn more about that mysterious game. Andrea wasn't as excited as her, but reluctantly agreed (if only to get out of trigonometry class). Fight for Justice, while being a bit too cheesy, Lena couldn't deny the strange allure of the name. She was fascinated to learn the different ways the game could change from moment to moment, the various objectives one can approach to win the game, and she couldn't help but absolutely adore the art on each and every card.

14. Have you ever seen/read anything made by the person who tagged you? If so, what was it and what was your favourite thing about it? (pick a favourite if there are several)

Rich girl with issues is a masterpiece, and you should all go read it!

15. Do you leave comments on fandom works, and if so how would you describe your comment style?

I try to always comment, and especially on stuff I like. I don't think I have a specific style tho😅

16. How many works in progress do you currently have? Will you finish them all?

I have about 12 that I actively started, but more that are in the concept phase. Ideally, I'll finish them all eventually.

17. what’s the longest it’s ever taken you to finish a fandom project?

It's been almost 2 years since I started The Art Of The Game. I'm close to the end, but it's been a while...

18. Describe the thing you made most recently in a way that is technically true, but also completely misleading. Link the thing if it’s published!

The hottest new trailer for the film we all have been waiting for;)

19. Do you ever engage with fanworks for a fandom you’re not in? Which one(s) and how did you get into it?

I feel like a foreigner when I see stuff from other fandoms, and I usually don't know enough about it to interact with it.

20. Recommend a fan work from your fandom to your followers

@awaitingrain has some really amazing artwork with adorable chibi designs! I'd recommend checking out her stuff!

Suggested tag list, but there are no rules here, follow your heart.

@eqt-95 @fazedlight @autisticlenaluthor @snowydragonscave @missluthorwillseeyounow @luthordamnvers have fun;)