#it'll curdle???

[woolmasterleel]

I'm curious, what do you guys usually use as the liquid in your smoothies??

#Leel's polls #Curious because I always use orange juice #and I find it weird when people use milk...... #it'll curdle??? #Maybe that's because I use citrus in my smoothies but even if there isn't I personally find it odd #maybe it's just me #I love smoothies so much though #Mango smoothie with beet and kale?? So good #I like making smoothie bowls too when I have the time!

[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)

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #goddd this is foul #and was supposed to be up hours agooo but Nahanni closed at 5 today oops #cod #call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #cod smut #simon riley smut #simon riley cod #ghost call of duty x reader #ghost cod x reader #in many ways this is a psa on the symptoms of rabies

[crimsonbubble]

Dom! Miguel O'Hara and Dom! Peter Parker both sucking f! reader's titties and making her cum untouched and making her brain go dumb dumb 🫢🫢

cw. nsfw, afab!reader, lactation kink, praise, nipple play, double fingering (it'll make sense when you read it) *not proofread, just pure horny

[brain went places... also the original idea was that reader was pregnant but it made little to no differenc so i removed that detail-] reader is married to miguel. peter and mj (shes not mentioned in this fic tho-) are readers and miguels honorary spouses. I just love poly fics <33

MINORS DNI!!

the sounds of your slick cunt being fucked open on two sets of fingers fills your ears and the stuffy air of your bedroom.

the three of you use mayday's nap time as a short break to finally satisfy the curdling need for a pleasurable release. Peter pulled off your nipple with a heaving breath, his fingers curling up deliciously against your good spots.

Miguel pulled off soon after, pushing peters palm further against your clit as he also pushed Peter's fingers into your sweet spot. the pressure made you dizzy, your cunt is swollen and sticky, gushing around their fingers as he nipped and suckled around your leaking breasts.

Miguel kissed along your shoulder, his eyes fixated on how much milk you were leaking and how much your pussy is drooling around their fingers.

"there you go, honey. let it all out, make a mess, c'mon." Peter kissed up your throat, nipping your supple skin with his teeth. you threw your head back against the pillows, your hips stuttering up against their hands.

"need a little more, I'm so fucking close-" your voice is shaky as the pleasure leaves you pliant and ditzy. Miguel presses harder into peters hand and your body shudders. "god you're so fucking gorgeous, mi niña bonita."

Miguel lets out a groan muffled against your neck as he forced Peter's hands to curl up against your spot even more. Peter kisses down your chest, taking your sore and leaky nipple into his mouth again. the warmth of his mouth on your skin, the pressure of both of their hands stuffed into your cunt and pressing into every part of you that makes you writhe, sets you off.

you all but hid your face in the crook of Miguel's neck, biting into him as you were launched headfirst into your blissful orgasm. you don't even want to think about the mess you made of yourself, their hands and the bed, but you can tell it was a lot.

#bubbly speaks <3 #ash answers #bubbly writes <3 #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara imagines #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara headcanons #peter b parker #peter b parker headcanons #peter b parker imagines #peter b parker smut #peter b parker x reader #spiderverse x you #spiderverse x reader #spiderverse #spiderverse x reader smut #spiderverse x y/n

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: WE MADE IT TO CHAPTER FIVE!! EVERYBODY CLAP!! labour of love fr <3 but we're almost to the scene that sparked the whole freakin series and i. oh man im just yearning for that hurt/comfort

word count: 4.4k

synopsis: You test out if your efforts with the tonics are worth anything and Azriel bestows you with a gift. He asks about the Blood Rite and you ponder the strange, golden thread you've been feeling in your chest. Disaster strikes when night falls.

CHAPTER FIVE :: CONFIDANTS

You look younger in your sleep, Azriel thinks.

He doesn't think he's ever seen you like this before. The hard lines of your face are all smoothed out as you rest, so unlike your usual expression. There's something softer about you.

The constant furrow between your brows is whisked away for once. He can still see the familiar line between your brows though, if he looks close enough.

If he can look past the bruises that mottle your face, that is.

The damage you've sustained from training within the camp is severe enough to curdle something sour in his stomach.

Azriel had held his reservations about his trip back to Velaris— a suspicion that proved to be well founded. His own memories of training at Windhaven provide plentiful ways for you to have ended up in this state.

You’re curled up instinctively in your sleep, wings tucked around yourself. It sews of thread of worry through Azriel's chest, a slight concern at the state of your wounds and how the position will agitate them. While you don't move much in your sleep, he knows from experience that it'll be hell when you finally do stretch back out.

But... he can’t bring himself to wake you. You need the sleep desperately.

Azriel is fairly certain that the huddled form you take is some subconscious way to protect yourself, even in your sleep. Your wings drape across yourself, keeping yourself covered, hidden.

And while that makes some part of Azriel's heart ache, he can't deny that you—it looks… sort of cute.

Azriel forces himself to avert his eyes, ducking his chin for extra measure. Those pesky thoughts were becoming more and more frequent — something that he's pointedly ignoring at this point.

Protect, his shadows whirl around his ears like tiny gusts of wind, whispering their suggestions. Protect, they whisper.

Protect. Both a thought and a feeling. A guiding intuition that seems to reverberate from his very bones.

The suggestion from his shadows isn't entirely left field either, as they always take inspiration from what he can see. From his wandering thoughts, from his prolonged gentle gaze that lays upon you whenever he can.

Azriel scowls lightly at himself. He had no claim to protect you and further more, most Illyrian males like yourself would take great amounts of offence to the mere insinuation. He knows that you are more than capable.

He steals another glance at your peaceful, sleeping figure and his shadows seem to quieten in response— at least about you. The whispers don't ever truly quieten.

Azriel's fairy certain where they're getting their ideas. It's what he wonders too as he takes in your battered face once more—whether it’s the truth or just his familiar brand of desperate hope.

Something that would explain the urge to protect beyond reason.

Something like... a bond forged in starlight.

The Mother's Kiss whistles quietly outside and Azriel shifts his gaze again and this time, it lays upon the Heartstriker.

Sitting atop the one table-top in your shelter, the blade stays sheathed away in the very same bejeweled case that Azriel had found it in. Same as on that very first day he laid his hands on it.

It had been a wretched mission. One of his very first. It was not performed with the eloquence he would come to learn in future years.

Heartstriker had not been the objective of the mission. Far from it, in truth. The objective was a simple stealth reconnaissance into the Court of Nightmares.

He was to delve beneath the rock of the mountain in a mission very similar to his current. Swirlings of rumours and whispers of rebellion, against the new Highlord. Azriel was there to learn who had the guts to pick up the knife and try.

Heartstriker was a ploy. A shiny trick that Azriel had not yet learned how to evade.

He was still a novice by his own standards, only a few hundred years old. Spying in this sense was still fresh, still new. The work he had done under Rhysand's father during the war had been far more reliant on his brute strength. He had strict instructions not to hesitate to draw his blade.

It had taken time to relearn the importance in a message sent with words.

To remember the power of mercy.

This mission had been the first and only time Azriel had underestimated the measures in place in the Court of Nightmares, meant to keep out the likes of him.

His hesitance to kill had given another Fae time to trip an alarm, to flood the room with warriors. So when he had been backed into a corner by the snarling miscreants that lived in the belly of the mountain, taken by surprise, he hadn't hesitated to snatch up any weapon he could reach.

And it had branded him, singeing him right to his core.

But when he tried to force his fingers apart, they wouldn't obey, even as they screamed with the pain of the invisible flames. It was as though his hand had become fused with the blade, each atom of his being completely joined with the bronze of the sword through a terrible, unstoppable and invisible force.

Every part of him shrieked in agony. An age-old fear reared up within him, his hands burning like they were set alight and he could feel the flames licking at his skin, at his hands, could smell the scent of burning flesh—

He had fought on and won, all the same, taking on two battles at once. Fighting foes by real and faux, all whilst burning up from within all the while. The sword was immeasurably heavy and yet too light, all at once.

And only once almost all his enemies were slain, their blood staining the marble floors, did the burning cease. The blade seem to hum in response to the battle— drawn to the final foe who was clawing for his breath through his blood-soaked throat.

The tip of the sword had urged Azriel forward, like pulled by an invisible string, and he let it lead him, plunging the blade through the chest and into the heart of the last enemy left.

Only after, had the humming stopped. The sword finally clattered from Azriel's strong grip, the fusion broken.

His hands were same as ever, mottled with their scars, but with no indication of the burning he knew he had felt.

On his return, Rhys had told him the history of the sword and it's duly fitting name: Heartstriker.

It hadn't been claimed in centuries and as such, naturally it had come to live amongst other cursed objects within the Court of Nightmares. Unable to be used, unless someone bested the pain it took to raise it.

But Azriel had, entirely by accident.

It is said that once mastered, it will always strike true. Rhys had said, violet eyes gleaming as he looked over the bronze sword with piqued interest. That it's more than a regular sword but a living thing you must work in tandem with.

If anyone tries to take it from you, they must suffer the same fate. It can be gifted freely but, He had paused, that smirk that held no warmth in it pulling at his lips. I'm sure you can guess how often that happens down there.

It hadn't been used within the Night Court either, condemned to another hundred years or so without sight of battle. Azriel had more than enough blades of his own. The Illyrian broadsword that he had earned all that time ago in the Blood Rite for a proper battle and his Truth-Teller for the finer details.

Heartstriker wasn't right for his stature. Too short, strange weighted.

He'd kept it all the same. Perhaps, he told himself, to keep some other Fae from suffering the same fate if they laid hands on it.

His hazel eyes drift back across to you, bundled within yourself. You make a noise in your sleep, a gentle snuffle, and Azriel finds himself smiling.

Or perhaps, he thinks, he knew to keep it for entirely other reasons.

—

The quick healing of Illyrian's is more often a blessing than it is a curse.

On today's quiet winter morning, it is somehow both.

When you wake, dragged from your slumber in the early hours, it's before the sun has begun to make an appearance on the horizon. The shelter is coated in a soft darkness of dawn. The trees sway outside, a thousand creatures still roaming amongst their branches, reliant on the dark before daylight breaks.

It's the pain that wakes you, ebbing in through your sleep til it shakes off your sleep. You wake with your teeth already gritted.

The only pleasant surprise is that fact you're not shuddering yourself awake out of a nightmare, especially considering yesterday's training session.

You have a feeling that it has something to do with the sleeping Illyrian, propped up beside the fireplace, keeping watch.

His shadows still move about, even in his sleep. His neck is tucked down, his forehead pressed against his knee. It hides away part his face but as your eyes adjust to the shadowy light, you can make out his closed eyes. His hair looks messier than you've ever seen it.

It can't be comfortable, sleeping the way he is— but you have a feeling that Azriel has slept in places far worse before.

Shifting about in the darkness, your hand comes down to press tenderly at your sides, assessing as quietly as you can. There's no immediate sting of sliced skin as your fingers tips poke and prod at the skin, which makes you sigh in relief. You press down again, at bit harder this time, and it forces a wince out your gritted teeth.

Extremely bruised. But at the very least, the skin has knitted itself together in the nighttime.

Your face still aches, too. It's not quite the same ringing that made both eyes throb painfully yesterday and with a slow wrinkle of your nose, you can assess that the worst of your broken nose has healed up too.

Your ears, however, poses a different problem. One of them, the right side, still rings lightly. It would be more concerning, you think, if the left one itself wasn't so muffled altogether.

Huffing out a breath, you drag yourself up to a sitting position, moving at a tentative pace. Pain ricochets around your body. You're doing the best you can to be quiet but it's futile it seems — there's one creak of the bed as your weight shifts and Azriel's wings twitch, giving him away. He’s awake.

He lifts his head slowly, letting it roll from one side to the next, stretching out his neck. It's the only indication he gives you of feeling sore from his cramped sleep all night, his attentive eyes already watching you closely. His shadows, you notice, seem to gain speed at his rousing— circling his shoulders and neck closely.

You clear your throat and focus your gaze forward, resuming the task at hand. Raising one hand, you snap your fingers beside your left ear, then your right.

Frustration bubbles up inside you as you repeat the motion, as if it’ll change the outcome.

It doesn’t.

At least beyond the ringing, your right ear can hear the snap clearly— a keen Fae sense that like any warrior, you rely heavily on. The left one…

All you can think is that they must have hit you pretty damn hard to leave it as dulled as it feels. It can still hear, thankfully, but the noise that filters through is muffled around the edges. Buzzy. It makes you feel off kilter and unbalanced.

You let your hand drop and try to remain stoic, so used to hiding your emotions away from your face. You don't realise your drooping, limp wings give you away anyways.

Azriel gets to his feet swiftly, the movement so smooth you would have never guessed he spent the night tucked up uncomfortably against the bricks of your fireplace. He regards you with those burning amber eyes and your heart seems to lurch forward in response. You avert your gaze.

"It would seem we have an opportunity to test out our efforts." He says. His voice is still coated in sleep, low and rumbley, and it sends a bright zing down your spine. You lift your gaze from your lap and raise your brows in question.

He waves a hand to the table, in gesture.

Your various ingredients for brewing the tonics stay tucked in one corner, some wrapped up and set beneath the table. There are several different bottles too, stoppered with corks and containing yours and Azriel's attempts at the healing tonics.

It takes another moment to understand what he means.

"No," You say sharply, climbing to your feet. A thousand parts of your ache and groan in protest and you channel your focus into not letting a single ounce of it show.

Rolling your tense shoulders back, you wander towards your armor in slow steady steps. "Those aren't for me. I've healed enough in the night."

"I see." Azriel replies. "Is that why your left ear isn't working right?"

Gaze snapping back to him, you curse his ever-so observant nature. Maybe that's on you for trying to keep a secret from a Shadowsinger.

You are keeping a secret from a shadowsinger, something whispers in you.

A cold flush fills your body, numbing out every nerve for a single moment. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Your wings hike up, tuck in. It feels wrong.

For the first time in your life, it feels so so utterly wrong to be keeping this secret from someone. To be hiding who you truly are.

But Azriel... he was a stranger not too long ago, wasn't he? You're not sure if you can even call each other friends, even if you had begun to in your mind, without even realising.

You think back to last night, to when he could have easily lifted your shirt a few inches higher when trying to save your life and known.

Then you wonder if he did — and he hasn't said anything.

If he's waiting for you to trip up, to fess up, to explain to him why you've been lying to him from the moment you first met him.

Azriel seems to sense your internal battle, the same way he seems senses a thousand things from you as though he's known you his whole life. He clears his throat to get your attention. When you focus your vision back on him, you notice one of the bottles is in his scarred fingers.

"I will train you today," He says. "On the condition that you take it."

Your nose twitches. It's an ultimatum. He knows you want to train, to brush off yesterday and let the pain in your body fuel the determination of today but he won't let you do it so carelessly. Bastard.

Before you can blink, he tosses the bottle across to you. You react instinctively, cradling your hands to catch it quickly before you realise what you're doing. Your nose twitches again, a tiny flare of annoyance at his smugness.

No, not smugness. Surety. His expression, bordering on bored, tells you that he knows you don't have any other options— unless you want to climb back into bed and rot for the day.

You yank the cork off the bottle harshly. Then, just to show him how unpleased you are with this, you lob the cork at him with all your might. Your bruised side screams in response. Azriel snatches from the air easily, without so much as a blink.

He looks like he wants to smile but thinks the better of it, placing the cork gently onto the table. "I'll meet you outside." He eyes the uncorked bottle in your hand then back at you. "Drink it. Please."

—

The tonic, as you find out, is only mildly effective.

It's a gutting discovery. The mixture is nowhere near potent enough to fix the level of nerve damage that gets inflicted during clippings if it barely lightens the bruises on your side.

The mottled blue painted on your skin gives way to a light purple, the edges of them retracting to a tinged yellow. The skin glows hot as the tonic works as best as it can.

The taste of it is nearly as rancid as the failure feels.

You deal with it the only way you know how; chewing it up and spitting it back out as determination to do better. The drive to push yourself harder in training rears up, fiery and stubborn— harder than you logically know is any help to yourself.

What was already tedious and heinous training is made that much worse by your injuries.

You're moving sloppily today, offbeat. The dullness in your left ear helps to keep you off balance. Still, you manage to keep up with Azriel— not quite the one step ahead you're usually aiming for but, at the very least, you're still holding your own.

Your ribs ache and your heads throbs. The ringing in your right ear has disappeared with the help of the tonic, only to have started up in the left. A relief in one sense— it's good to be hearing more of anything. A fucking pain in another.

The only major upside, really, is the sword.

The Heartstriker, Azriel had called it

You had been half convinced it was a hallucination, the gift. Sure that it some desperate illusion born out of the delirium of the blood loss because, really, when was the last time you had ever gotten a gift?

When you'd limped your way out into the snow and saw it in his hands, you had blinked in disbelief.

But it's almost like Azriel had expected it, his scarred hands reaching out to gently curl around your wrist, murmuring its name as he had pressed it into your hand. It's yours, he had said.

He had let go of your wrist go immediately, stepping back but not far, still hovering close by. He let you have a moment to marvel at it before he urged you to follow to the usual neck of the woods you trained in. The sound of clashing steel had soon followed.

It's a perfect addition, you find.

The blade is like a mere extension of your own arm. It's light enough to carve through the air with ease but when you strike, it's buries deep. Compared the Illyrian broadsword used in training at camp, it suits your stature far better. You move more agilely, hit more frequently and harder when you do.

It's probably the best thing you've ever owned— ever held.

You're gazing at it where it rests on your lap, glinting in the light of the day, as you try to catch your breath. Azriel had given you a moment to recover, far earlier than normal, due to your injuries, no doubt. Normally, you'd grumble and snarl and push him to continue but today, you're quite happy to have another moment to stare at the first gift you've gotten.

Azriel breaks the silence with a question.

"Why haven't you competed in the Blood Rite?"

Something icy spikes in your blood and your back straightens instinctively, the hair on the nape of your neck standing on end. Whether he knows it or not, he is treading close to dangerous territory.

"Why do you ask?" You answer his question with another question.

Azriel regards you with a certain look, his dark eyes dragging down your body intensely and back up to your face. It's enough to make you fluster momentarily, to feel a faint stirring in your heart that doesn't entirely feel like your own. No one has ever looked at you like that before.

"You're strong. You hold your own. You're of age." He states carefully. "You remain attached to this camp with no rank until you pass it. Why not?"

You scowl at his frame of thinking, as if you haven't passed over those reasons a thousand times. Beyond the fact you can't ever ensure you wouldn't be burdened with your cycle during the Blood Rite, there's more than enough reason for you to remain a nobody.

You feel oddly disappointed that he would think only in that manner; glory and rank.

"What makes you think I want any rank in my camp?" You spit bitingly, watching as his wings sink down an inch at your tone. His misunderstanding of why you've chosen this way of life bothers you more than you expect.

"Because you did?" You ask. "Because three bastards fought their way through it and won and left their shitty pasts behind? I am not you, Azriel."

Azriel doesn't react, not even the raising of his brows. Only his shadows give himself away, whirling around slower than usual. He speaks in that same careful tone as before.

"I know you are not."

He makes you feel foolish for giving in to any lick of your anger, for so quickly snapping at your only friend. You turn your head away and stare down into the snow, taking a breath. Cauldron, you're tired. Lifting you arm, you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand, clearing the sweat that beads there.

"I could leave but for what reason? Ever since I—" You suck a sharp inhale, swallowing back words that dance too close to giving you away. You pray he doesn't notice your hesitation. "Ever since I was young, this has been my goal. This change must come from within, you know that."

You inhale again, feeling the breath rattle past every ache and pain in your chest.

"I can only do the things I do... the things I must achieve, by being unnoticeable."

You cast a glance up to him. "To them, I am some bastard who won't give up and die. I am not a proper threat. You, of all people, should understand that it's easiest to work when people are not paying proper attention."

And that's all you have known — how to become unnoticeable when needed and how to be noticed when wanted. Attention, you've learned, only means a target on your back.

Beyond that... you can't imagine someone who would want to notice you for anything more. You've had many, many years to make peace with that bitter fact.

I am.

Without warning, there's a sudden thrum from deep within you, like a echo of a drum, of a call. It's golden and threaded with softness. I am paying attention.

It startles you, one hand flying to your armored chest in surprise. As quick as it had appeared, the hum flees and leaves your bound chest twingeing only in its usual discomfort. One moment of brief serenity. You long for it, despite the unfamiliar nature.

You realise abruptly that you've trailed off and force yourself to move, body aching in the process. Heartstriker sinks into the snow and you use it to clamber to your feet, not nearly as graceful as you would like. Azriel doesn't say anything.

In fact, when you lift your gaze to meet his, he's staring at you more intensely than usual. His shadows seem more agitated. They flit about, circling his hands more than his shoulders, and you can barely see the scarred skin through their inky darkness.

There's a long moment. Around you both, the trees creek as they bend in the wind, a thousand leaves rustling around you in a chorus.

Azriel breaks the silence, casting his eyes to the ground and lifting his blade. "No more questions."

He says it like a promise, his lips pulling at the edges like he might be offering a smile.

"Just fighting."

—

By the time the moon rises, the ache in your body has dimmed to a more bearable pain.

While you'd be miffed at the idea of Azriel pulling his punches, you can't deny the sliver of gratitude you have for it now. As you reach over the cauldron of simmering stew, only a few of your ribs twinge enough to make your motions falter momentarily. The stew bubbles and brews, filling your shelter with a hearty smell.

It's been too long since you last cooked something to share.

You try to shelve the guilt away—you and Azriel have been running a very tight schedule, switching between training, tonics and rest. Taking time to cook, for yourself or others, hasn't even had time to cross your mind.

Your brief brush back with the reality during yesterday's training, however, had provided you with ample reminders. Your home camp and all its violent glory.

So, you cook. The logs crackle on the fire and above them, the stew simmers gently as you stir absentmindedly at it. Giving yourself this quiet moment, you let your thoughts drift as the tiredness of the day trickles into your body. Your thoughts turn to the quiet Shadowsinger.

He had taken his leave as soon as he had declared the end of your days training, needing another trip to Velaris.

I'll be back by morning, he had said, each of his seven cerulean siphons flaring brightly before he stepped between the fabric of the world and disappeared. Another hidden trick up his sleeve.

You'd allowed yourself only one moment of surprise before you closed your mouth— you really needed to stop underestimating him. As the stew before you begins to hiss and spit, you pull yourself from your thoughts and prepare yourself for the discomfort of meal times.

They never are as friendly as you might hope.

Despite your generosity, the different outcasts of Exordor remain cagey. Regard you with pensive and guarded looks, hands hovering on the butts of their swords. You can't blame them in the slightest.

But those that can brave the walk to your cabin, risking both themselves and your own safety against the other Illyrian brutes in the camp, are rewarded with a hot meal. Tonight, you feed 12 hungry mouths before your doorstep grows quiet.

You pack it all away in silence, with a quite yearning for company you've only just become used to having.

It's only as you're tucking in for the night, your wings wrapped around yourself tightly, does the first pain strike. Right to your core, the very insides of your gut feels as though it's being shredded. You gasp, your entire body curling up tighter to fight against the pain.

For only a moment, confusion clouds your mind at the attack that seems to come from nowhere, from an invisible enemy. Only one answer comes forward—the only thing that can threaten to reveal your secret without your permission, through mere scent alone.

A certain agony that only tortures you twice a year.

#azriel #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger x you #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar #azriel fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #acotar #i have nothing to say but sorry it took more than a month!!!!!!!! ahhhh!!!!!!!!! #mwahmwah please forgive me #we're GETTING there #i just keep being dedicated to the backstory lmao #TOO dedicated

[towards-toramunda]

Thinking about more iconic lines from the show over the years instead of going to bed and created a list that is far too long:

- What’s my mother’s name?

- My best. Finally.

- I have so many flowers to bring to her.

- You were not born with venom in your veins. You learned it. You learned it.

- Don’t get on my ass about it! All I heard is that its pretty easy to do here thats all I took from what you said. (Bonus: its for the god of arts and crafts)

- At dawn, we plan.

- Doo doot doo doo doot doooo donuts!

- What matters more, the dream or the dreamer?

- Sleep well with your bad decisions.

- Nothing happens for a reason. It’s absolute fucking chaos.

- Patience is fine, but it can curdle into apathy.

- I’ve met the devil, thats not him.

- You never take copper. That's just kicking someone while they're down. You take silver if they're an asshole, and you take gold regardless.

- Time is one of my specialties.

- It’s entirely off-putting how disarmingly charming you are.

- How lucky I am to have had all of you. How lucky indeed.

- I smell like a crayon.

- I could tell by the bone structure and the contempt.

- I think I can punch ghosts now.

- Big moon, little moon.

- Pop, pop!

- I need chaos. I have faith in chaos.

- Molly said not to steal from happy people.

- I am going to tell you the story of how I murdered my mother and father.

- Smiley day to ya!

- I killed my family, I’ll throw you under a bridge.

- We’re on the moon bitch.

- She throws it. I shoot it. It explodes! NO STRUCTURAL DAMAGE! (FLUFFERNUTTER)

- I am all for faith, and I'm not going to pick a god. They can pick me. It'll be the first one that actually praises me and then maybe I'll fucking answer. I'll wait. They can fucking beg. And I will listen, which is more than they ever fucking did.

- I would like to RAGE!

- The worst thing that has happened to me has already happened.

- We're running; it's bad.

- You can reply to this message.

- Dagger, dagger, dagger.

- Opinions are like opera. Sure, you can listen to them, but why would you, really?

- There is no god that strides this world that I worship more than I worship your heart.

- I would like to live long enough to be someone else.

- Help, its again.

- Whoever it was, just put it back. I think they've earned it. Put it back.

- I’m fun scary.

- Sorry, babe. Gotta handle these ninjas.

- I’m the cleric? I’ve never traveled with a bunch of people I thought would die in front of me.

- He thinks I’m gonna go into the water for some fucking buttons.

- You are, at the moment, the luckiest person in Whitestone. Do you know why? Because you’re at the bottom of my list.

- You need me more than I need you.

- I protect him. He’s my boy. And I keep him safe.

- I made the earth remember him.

- Come correct or get corrected.

- Do not go far from me.

- Are you worth saving?

- How do I want to do this?

- Heaven to some, and hell to others.

- Fix him!

- Why do we tell stories?

- Do you spice?

- Listen you fucking jungle! I'm a paladin of the Wildmother. You're going to move or we're going to bust you wide open! We'll wreck this place. Don't make me fucking tell you twice!

- I am your god, long may I rein, eat of my fruits.

- Anybody can make lights. Anybody could send a message through a wire. I want to bend reality to my will.

- Would you like to talk before or after?

- What the fuck is up with that?

- To reach a hand down to somebody, they need to be beneath you! And I'm beneath nobody.

- The one eyed monster slayed my pussy.

- Time is a weird soup.

- I’m killing someone. Hold, please.

- Gold is a resource by which mortaldom climbs.

- Why are you so mean to me?

- Yours is the face I saw when murder entered my heart.

- This one time I saw a bug carrying a piece of bread that was like five times its size and he was carrying upstairs, like up and then he would turn, and then up, and then he would turn.

- I live as long as Whitestone lives.

- Vox Machina! Fuck shit up!

- I’m not disappointed, I’m just angry.

- Someone prayed for a miracle and there you were.

- We don't leave people behind. That's just the rule. You do not leave people the fuck behind.

- Call me child one more goddamned time!

- Finish it, Champion.

- I am of the Empire. But I am no friend to the Empire.

- I think it has been a long time since anyone has pointed out to you that you're a fool. Pain doesn't make people, it's love that makes people. The pain is inconsequential. It's love that saves them. And you would know that but you have none around you. You said so yourself, you surround yourself with lies and deceptions. And I wish for you, in the future, to find someone to mourn you when you are gone.

#critical role #cr3 #bells hells #cr2 #the mighty nein #cr1 #vox machina #there are so many good ones #by all means reblog with more keep them coming #my god taliesin has so many good ones they’re insane

[callmearcturus]

Recipe: Garlic Cream Chicken

this is like mostly for my reference bc my mother just told me "I don't care what you have to do, put this recipe down somewhere so you remember" so that is what I am doing

ingredients:

chicken (breasts for ease, thighs for flavor, doesn't matter)

fresh thyme

lotta garlic

garlic Better Than Bullion

white rice

green beans

regular whipping cream

what to do:

Throw rice into rice cooker, set it and forget it.

Season the chicken with seasoning salt and garlic powder. Oil the saute pan and put it on medium-high, put the chicken in, leave it the fuck alone until that side gets that maynard reaction going on. Flip the chicken, turn the heat down to medium.

Dice up a lot of garlic cloves. Looking for probably around 3 aggressive teaspoonfuls.

Once the chicken is maynard-y on the other side, remove from pan and put aside to rest.

Add some oil to the pan, scrape up the fond, add in the garlic and cook for like 2 or 3 minutes, don't let the fucking garlic burn, nothing is worst.

Add like a teaspoon of garlic BTB and like a cup of water. Toss in some sticks of thyme, let that simmer down.

Prep the green beans to your liking, either by doing a steam or just nuking them in the microwave for a bit, don't overcomplicate it.

Once the stuff in the pan tastes super good, add in the whipping cream at the edge of the pan to avoid curdling. I had the tall narrow carton, I added like a third to a half of that. Sauce shouldn't be too pale, it'll lose the flavor. Better to taste test then add more cream if the sauce is too aggressive than to add too much at the start and ruin the sauce.

TAKE OUT THE THYME STICKS DO NOT FORGETTTTTT

Slice the chicken. Add the chicken and all the juices from it sitting into the pan, leave it on medium-low. Let everything warm up in the sauce. Add some parm if you feel like it but not too much or the sauce will break.

Plate up, cheers.

#recipes #note to self

[munsster]

hitched?

A/N: i love love love proposal/marriage trope 💞 she is near and dear to my little heart

Pairings: Steve Harrington x GN!Reader

Summary: Steve gives you a cold proposal, maybe you just need to warm up to the idea? 1.5k words.

Warnings: fluff, proposal, marriage and divorce discussion, pet names (sweetheart), insecurity, marriage propoganda, little bit o angst, lovesickness 🥺

“C'monnn," he whines with a big grin stretched across his face, "why won't you marry me, sweetheart? Don't like me enough?"

"I like you plenty, Harrington, but I won't marry you."

"Why not? I've got solid genes. Great hair, perfect smile—"

"Marriage is stupid; name one good thing that comes outta marriage."

He takes a second. Really, he pores over it all while sidling up close enough to catch your breath. And he's looking at you like getting married is more than an age-old phrase used by people looking for wealth or status or power or whatever. He's looking at you like getting married is more than tradition. Like getting married to you would be for love. Not for the hell of it.

"One good thing, huh?"

"One thing, that's all."

"Gosh"—he tilts his head back and guides his cold fingertips into the opening of your coat and around your sides, dipping them beneath your blouse with a smirk—"Besides the whole you're mine and I'm yours deal, it'll be kinda hard to think of something."

"But I am yours. And you are mine."

"Forever?"

You drop your forehead to his chest with a heavy sigh. And he feels your pulse down your spine, carefully calculating how much room is left between each vertebrae and trying to ignore the way your heart rate spikes at the question. Then comes your soft grumble:

"Fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce, and the rest of 'em end in death. The odds are pretty much stacked against us, Stevie."

He takes a deep breath and tilts your chin up, looking concerned as ever with his brow furrowed sweetly. It tempts you. His face is so touchable—holdable—it's awful the way he uses it against you. On you. He gets what he wants with it.

"Hold on, now, sweetheart, you think we're gonna get divorced? Where's this coming from?

"Well... what if you don't want me forever?"

It gets him antsy. He's bugging out at the thought. You think he won't want you forever. You're worried he'll change his mind. How could he ever change his mind when you're all that's on it.

"What if I—" he scoffs a little and pulls away to look at you, "'what if I don't want you forever?'"

You shrug. "Yeah."

"Where'd you get that idea?"

"Dunno. It could happen."

"Not for me. Not to us."

"It could! I don't wanna trap you into a marriage you'll regret for the rest of your life."

"Trap me? Sweetheart, you think I'd ask you to marry me if I didn't mean it."

"Dunno."

"I mean, I know that I can be a little ambitious at times and that I come off a little ignorant, but I mean well. It's not like I have this idealized vision of marriage in my head. You've seen my parents, my mom's parents, my dad's parents, hell even Dustin's parents. I know all about the fifty percent, alright? And I wanna marry you."

Oh, despite, despite, despite he wants to marry you. Despite the odds and despite what he knows and what he can't know. Despite himself he wants to marry you. To have and to hold, that's the promise. His promise. It makes his blood curdle, he's so excited at the thought of it. His ring, your finger. God, the choice of despite and all its exhilaration.

But you give him that droopy look. You hold his hands and pull your mouth into a flat little line. And it makes him want to kiss it away. Bring back the fullness and color.

"Why can't we just... go through the motions? I don't want you to feel stuck if you change your mind down the road."

You moan and drop your head back, embarrassed now that you're hearing it out loud. Not because you've suddenly changed your mind and not because you don't want to marry him, but because why should he marry you? With all the choices in the world, all the fish in the sea and the stars in the sky, why you? And if you had only asked, you'd know why. He has reasons enough to fill the sea and the sky over and over. Oh, if only you'd ask.

He sees it in your waterline. How your lip quivers and you bring your hands to your cheeks and your lashes grow damp and solemnly temperamental. It makes every bone in his poor body want to fuse with yours. If he had some sort of industrial strength, non-toxic glue, he'd probably use it on the two of you. He wants forever more than he knows. Forever with you. Two rings and as many decades as forever allows.

But maybe it's not that forever is impossible for you and Steve. It's not that he can't afford any of it or he's not romantic enough or forever might only be a month or you don't want to or you both wouldn't love it. No, it's something vaguely familiar and much more nuanced. Something he's known very well once before.

"Sweetheart... You're tellin' me you won't marry me 'cause you think you're disposable or something? 'S that it? You don't want forever 'cause you think I'll... I'll just change my mind?"

"No."

"Hey, look at me, how could I—"

"No—Steve—"

"C'mon, you're killin' me, I love—"

"Steve, please—"

"You, sweetheart, all you. And you love me, don't you?"

You sigh and cast your wet eyes down like you're intimidated, and it makes him feel too big. Too much, too heavy, too loud, too loving. Until you grab his hand. And look up at him. And he's just right, though he feels bad he's the reason you're tearing up.

"Yes, I love you, I love you so much, but—"

"But, what?"

"But... what if that changes? What if I can't promise you the life you want, and what if you can't promise you'll love me forever? What am I supposed to do when you're done loving me, and... and you don't want my love anymore? What then? We'll just be married and unhappy and fighting until we hate each other?"

"No, that's not—"

"It happens, Steve," you huff. He pushes the tears from your cheeks before you even catch yourself sobbing and holding his wrists. "It happens everyday, and I want... I want you to have an out because I would rather you leave loving me than spend the rest of your life despising me for what you could've had without me."

He's never heard this kind of woe before. Not from you. You the spitfire, the stubborn, the meanest, sweetest, most beautiful and affectionate. You, filled with woe enough to burst. And you do.

He tugs you close, arms slung around you and one hand on the back of your neck because it's warm. Because you told him one time that it feels safe when he does that. He liked the way you said it muffled into his shoulder. But now you're shaken, and you have to know he loves you.

"You know what I love most about you?"

He feels your lungs expand into the dip of his tummy and peter out into a soft whine. You shake your head, 'no'.

"There's lots'a things, but top of the list? Gotta be the way you cover your face when you get grossed out or embarrassed or annoyed—”

You chuckle and groan at the snot that bubbles from your nostril. His face screws in and he wipes his thumb under your nose, wiping it on the thigh of his jeans with a disgruntled sound.

"We're so gross," you grumble, sniffling and wrapping your arms sweetly around his waist.

He sighs with a grin.

"I guess it's meant to be," he coos. You rest your chin on his chest, pecking his jaw just as he beams at you and dips close for a kiss. He's warm like a heater. Perpetual and renewable and reliable. And you get to thinking: he's got the prettiest brown eyes in the whole world and ninety-percent of the time, he's got them laser focused on you. He squeezes your hip and whispers: "There's no way in Hell I'll ever change my mind about loving you."

You play up a big frown, fat tears welling in the corners of your eyes until he smooches your face content. It's hard to believe in the kind of love that stays and promises and thrives despite. Despite any statistic or preconceived notion. Despite the past and despite the future. The kind of love that exists to better and grow. The kind of love shared between romantics and poets and lunatics alike. It's hard to believe until you've got it in your steady palms.

"I promise I'll do it properly with the ring and the knee and the view and the speech," he hums.

"I'd say yes even if you forgot all of that."

"You mean it?" he chirps, excitement tense in his muscles when you play with a longer strand of his hair.

"I do."

masterlist

#stranger things #x reader #stranger things x y/n #stranger things x reader #fluff #steve harrington #x fem!reader #x gn!reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things fic #angst

[untaemedqueen]

At Your Service

Escort!Jeongguk x CEO!Reader

Genre: Strangers to Lovers!AU, Angst, Fluff, Smut

Chapter 19.

Series Warnings (Will Be Updated): Angst, Fluff, Cold Heartedness, Emotional Trauma, Healing, Smut, Dark Humor

There's a silence that creeps over the mansion as the morning sun begins to bleed its large rays through the tall windows. It feels somewhat dreadful in some ways. The sun is not bright nor is it hot, it's hazy and hidden behind thin wispy clouds that seem to threaten rain at any given moment.

As Guk sips his coffee, he leans against the large glass doorway watching mist and fog creep over the perfectly kept garden without so much as a loud sigh.

You've been up for hours before him. You tossed and turned all night keeping him away for hours on end. But he can't blame you, he can't be mad at you. He can only imagine the stress of just even thinking about seeing the two people again.

When you told him the story, laid up in bed cuddling to his side, he felt viciously angry at the thought of someone even hurting you in this way. No wonder you were so damaged and lost, they scarred you.

He's known sadness before with Chloe, he's known betrayal and losing one self because of their significant other but it just seems so much worse because it's you.

Putting a hand up to his tie, he knows now just how grateful he should be that he's shaped you into a different person.

Without you, his life would still be stagnant and maybe just the tiniest bit worthless.

Since he knows you're a nervous wreck today, he's giving you some space until you're ready to go.

It's out of respect for you in all honesty.

You haven't made a peep either, slowly going through the motions of taking today's events and registering them into your brain.

When you descend the marble stairs, your heels clicking loudly to let your boyfriend know where you are, he turns to you.

A wide smile creeps onto his face at the sight of you, your black gown is regal and graceful. The see through lace that covers your back, practically hides your tense muscles and within a mere moment Guk is walking over to you.

His arms circle around your waist and he waits patiently until you look up at him. He gives you a pleasant smile, coursing a thumb over your cheek.

"Ready, sweetheart?" Guk asks softly.

You can only shrug, nervously fixing the long black satin gloves that reach up to your elbows.

"You look beautiful," he breathes, laying his other hand on your slowly growing womb.

"I do?" you inquire, your voice riddled with childishness.

"Absolutely you do. I'm the luckiest man in the universe," he whispers, kissing your forehead.

"At least it's a gloomy day for them, maybe it'll rain," you hiss, letting the vengeance curdle through your veins like venom.

The father of your child simply smirks then, knowing just how gorgeously vicious and strong his child will be when it's born.

"Let's go make them rue the day," he whispers conspiratorially.

You start to smile then, knowing that your comfort blanket wouldn't be leaving your side for even a moment.

The nervousness and childishness you feel only triples as Guk pulls up to the Arctic Club Hotel.

You weren't invited to the ceremony but that's perfectly fine with you, you wouldn't want to sit there for hours staring at them as they smile and laugh with each other.

There's something deep inside of you letting you know that the events that happened all those years ago, the betrayal and heart attack that you experienced don't matter anymore.

You're way happier now than you ever were with Jasper. You now know what happiness is and in a way you're grateful for everything because it means that you've overcome a huge gash within you.

Pulling up in front of the nice hotel, Guk fixes his hair through the mirror. His hand runs flat along the side of his head as he slicks back his hair and he fixes the one small piece that falls from his forehead.

In all of your swirling thoughts this morning, you missed out on seeing just how well he put himself together for today.

Now as you look him over, he looks dastardly handsome. The tip of his tongue slowly licks over his lip ring and he tilts his head to you when he feels your eyes boring a hole into his temple.

"What?" he murmurs happily, leaning over the console to give you a gentle kiss to your lips.

You shake your head sweetly, kissing him back.

"C'mon let's get this over with so I can get you home for cuddles," he sighs, opening his door.

When he rounds the car and opens up your door, he casually tosses the keys to your Bugatti to a valet.

You can already feel eyes on you as you take his hand and emerge from the passenger side. You know as well as Guk that no one that is arriving has as much money as you and it's apparent as they stare.

"Watch the paint!" Guk calls to the valet, tucking your arm beneath his.

You steel yourself, sighing softly at the prospect of it all. But at least your boyfriend is with you, he gives you a level of comfort you've never known before.

Stepping into the ballroom, you and the father of your child look around at all of the tables that have been gaudily made up in bright yellows and whites.

It screams mundane taste and you simply notch an eyebrow at the center pieces of fake diamonds and iris flowers. It's a lot to look at and you can't help but peer over at Guk who also seems lost in the choices made by the bride and groom.

When you find your name card, you're surprised to see that you and your plus one are to be sat at the wedding table.

"Gifts?" one of the attendants inquires as you show the card to Guk.

You didn't get a gift, you didn't care to but now that you're being put on the spot you simply dig into your designer clutch and pull out a fresh hundred dollar bill with a shrug.

The man blinks at you, taking the bill with the tilt of his head.

"How… unconventional," he breathes, turning back around to the table of presents.

"Should be grateful they're getting money and not spit," your boyfriend murmurs, putting his hand on your lower back.

You simply snort at his words, letting your eyes glaze over the crowded ballroom before they find their targets.

Simply nodding in their direction, Guk follows the line you draw to them.

In all honesty, he's disappointed. Jasper is not quite attractive enough to lose sleep over and Adi is not nearly as gorgeous as you are.

He hums in confusion, tilting his head at the sight before him.

Adi's wedding dress is so revealing that you have to try and imagine what she'd look like with clothes on.

"Wow, very impressive," Jeongguk breathes, walking you over to the table and pulling out a chair for you.

You give a simple smile to Jasper's mother, who you remember as being very kind all those years ago. Adi's mother too was very kind, since you were always together in your earlier years.

"Y/N?!" you hear as Guk sits down beside you fixing his cufflinks.

Demurely turning your head, you give Adi a polite smile. Your hair finds its way beneath your chin and Guk can only do what he wants as he curls an arm around your shoulders.

She's rushing over to you now and something in the back of your mind prays that she trips but that's just the devil in you.

She's tugging Jasper along, which he seems to hate because if he's not in charge then he's not alright with it from what you can remember.

The father of your child picks up a toothpick, slowly sliding it between his lips and teeth and it makes Adi simply stop before you.

Should have waited seven or so years to try and steal this boyfriend. It would have been an upgrade.

When she's done eye fucking your man, she smiles brightly at you.

"I'm so happy you made it!" she squeals, rounding the table to hug you.

Is she serious?

You give her another smile, allowing her to wrap her arms around you. But when she's not greeted with a warm welcome, she seems to shrink before you.

"Hello, Addison," you breathe, looking down at your nails.

You feel the vengeful spirit within you once more, swirling and gnashing at your heart and soul.

When the parents get up to mingle with others, leaving only you and your boyfriend with the married couple, you simply tilt your head.

Guk told you over and over again in the car on your way here how much more powerful you are than these people. You're smarter and more well off, you're happy and healthy, you're pregnant and glowing, you're a million times better then them and you better think it.

"Who's this?" Adi beams, sitting down beside you.

"Jeongguk Jeon, Y/N's fiance," Guk announces, coursing a thumb over your shoulder.

To hear him even say the word, fills your lungs with fresh air.

Jasper simply takes a seat on the opposite side of Guk, grabbing a bottle of beer from the chilled tub atop the table.

"You look different," he comments, pulling out his keys to open up the bottle.

"Healthy," Adi adds, looking you up and down.

You find yourself slowly losing your will at this moment. Now they're going to be attacking relentlessly. They're going to pry and say nasty things with the sweetest tone. You don't know how to build up your wall again, you don't know how to steel yourself--

"Healthy is right. She should look so healthy when she's pregnant," Guk breathes, coursing a hand over your stomach.

Adi's smile simply begins to falter. Guk will not be letting you get backed into a corner, not today.

"I heard you were making money these days," Jasper announces, slamming down his now empty beer bottle.

"Yeah, I run a wine business," you state, pulling off your gloves.

Guk simply takes them, draping them over his lap kindly. "Don't be so modest, sweetheart. She runs a multimillion dollar company."

Adi begins to rap her nails against the table, waiting patiently for Jasper to have a good comeback but he simply stares at you.

You're not the girl you once were, in most aspects you found yourself to be ruined but now you would say differently. You certainly hardened yourself from the elements, you certainly closed yourself off but the right person made you change.

"So like… you're doing really well for yourself," Adi breathes, brushing her hair off her shoulders to show off her very exposed cleavage.

Guk gets the feeling that they only invited you to make fun of you and it makes his blood boil. His hand clamps down harder onto your shoulder and the toothpick between his teeth snaps as his jaw flexes angrily.

"She's doing amazingly well. You guys should see the mansion, we just redecorated it," the father of your child hisses, combing some hair back behind your ear.

You simply mold yourself into his embrace, needing the warmth and strength he exudes as the onslaught begins.

"That's so interesting, I assumed you would be alright but not this well off, you never really had that sort of… gumption to go out and be a go getter," Jasper says, looking down at his newly acquired wedding band.

You look over at him, suddenly intent on baring your teeth like a wild animal. You don't know what the fuck you even saw in him all those years ago. He's trash and a waste of space.

"Y'know sometimes all it takes is seeing one's boyfriend fuck your best friend to realize that nothing matters and only making money matters," you deadpan, looking down at your nails, "I'm actually really grateful that you did. Imagine if you never fucked Adi and ruined everything, then I might still be stuck with your dumbass and have to hear every boring little tantrum Adi breathes every five fucking seconds. I probably wouldn't have made my business which nets me over ten million dollars a year and I'd never have met Jeongguk who gave me the amazing gift of his child. So I'm really grateful to you both. For being two incredibly despicable human beings, you've given me a second wind. And while I'm sure you're both still living in Jasper's one bedroom apartment, at least I have a mansion I can call home thanks to you guys."

Guk snorts softly, lowering his head to purse his lips.

"Money made you a fucking bitch, huh?" Jasper seethes through his teeth.

Your boyfriend is lifting his head in a matter of seconds, eyes going wide with a fury. "Watch your fucking mouth when you talk to the mother of my child."

You sigh, looking over at Adi whose eyes are red rimmed like she wants to cry. She was always like this, it's a childish trait of hers and it makes you want to sigh happily.

You're so better off without these two fucks.

"Well, I feel as if we've worn out our welcome Gukkie. Don't you?" you inquire to your man, crossing your legs demurely.

He still hasn't taken his eyes off of Jasper. He's in the mood to beat him down now.

"Whatever you say, baby," Gukkie replies.

You give them both a smile, standing up with grace. Digging into your clutch, you pull out another crisp hundred dollar bill. "Congratulations."

Guk stands up behind you, letting his muscles bulge through his suit jacket.

"Pussy bitch," he seethes through his teeth to your ex-boyfriend.

You simply let the bill fly towards the table, sighing softly when it hits the ground. "Whoops."

As you walk away, Jeongguk joins you. His arm curls around your waist and he presses a kiss to your temple sweetly.

"That wasn't so bad," you breathe, going up to the gift table and taking back your hundred dollar bill.

"Speak for yourself, sweetheart. I almost beat the shit out of him," the father of your child hisses, turning his head back to the married couple.

"We'll just have a better wedding and invite them," you suggest, starting towards the ballroom doors.

"Mhm," he mumbles, pushing open the door for you.

<- Last Chapter Next Chapter ->

#jungkook #jeon jeongguk #at your service #jeon jungkook #bts fic #jeongguk #chapter 19 #chap 19 #ays

[loraliewritesthings]

Nameless Danny au: Parenthood

Concept: Danny is both damians twin and the ghost king. Not much actual danny and damian in this. We'll see their pov in the next post in the au. I wanted to focus on Danny's parents.

(Also thank you to @bluerosefox for talking to me as I write. Their work is really good. Go give them some attention)

Both Bruce and Talia noticed her standing slightly to the side. Holding the soon to be young kings hand was a slightly taller women. Her hair was red and her kind but calculating eyes reminded Bruce of Barbara. For a moment she. had stared at them, four very living people standing among ghosts and spirits. Then she squeezed the boy beside hers hand.

Talia didn't know why she did it. It felt almost like instinct, but she rolled her eyes like a irritated teenager. She was sure if it was that the girl was coddling the boy about to take the throne. (Though a small part of her knew it was that she was mad that that strange very living girl was in that place. It didn't feel right. She tried to bat away the thought.)

Looking towards were her father had been standing she almost sighed in frustration. He was wading threw the crowd towards the very shut castle doors. As nimbly as he could. She wasn't surprised. Ras had done the dirty work of killing the unnamed child himself. Furthermore if anyone knew what a ghost king was capable of it was him.

But still to run like a coward. She couldn't lie to herself that it didn't anger her. If it wasn't for her father they wouldn't be out of the ghost kings favor to begin with.

The thought stopped her for a minute. Would this boy have become the ghost king say she didn't abandon him. Say ras didn't kill him.

Yes the boy should be thankful of the opportunity given to him. She watched the white haired boy recite a promise to his people. In English then Latin then a language she didn't understand. She was sure with a little work she could get into his good graces. They were blood after all.

Bruce could see the gears working in Talias head. He repressed a sigh. Someway somehow he would have to get his son on his side first. It's not that he wanted to turn him against his mother perse. But Talia with the power of a queen mother would be a disaster. He already saw that smirk of hers.. the same smirk Damian throws on when he had the upper hand in an argument. He glanced at ras who was now trying to play cool. Bruce briefly wondered if he would have to stop a possible murder. Obviously with how ras was acting he had been the one to initially murder the young ghost king.

The ghost king had just finished his oath to his people. The red headed young woman standing carefully beside him. Bruce couldn't help but hope that she inherited the queen mother status. She would be easy to get close to if she was like Barbara. Of course he would have to figure out what exactly made her tic.

He hated to do this, to be so cold when he was seeing his son for the first ever time... but he couldn't be without a contingency plan. He didn't know how much the league had damaged him. He didn't know if the boy, apparently crowned king Danny Phantom, would take his frustrations with his family (Which was clear as day by the way he looked at them. There must have been a mixup with invitations) out on the living.

The crown was dusted and held above Danny's head. Just then the knight from earlier gestured for them to cover their ears.

Just as the crown was placed on his head, Danny screamed out in pain. In agony. The hero in Bruce wanted to charge threw the crowd. To soothe the seething pain in him, but he was paralized. Threw the blood curdling screams a young girl (a living breathing human girl) put her hand on his shoulder. She clearly had ear plugs in. Slowly she mouthed the words

"It'll be ok"

She was in almost all black. The boy behind her (also living) looked uncomfortable in general. With his suit, with his ear plugs, and Bruce had to assume with what was happening his friend, as they were around damians age as well, and the two were the only living beings there besides the people he arrived with and the woman next to the new king.

As the screams faded and the crown seemed to bind with Danny the women next to him popped her earplugs out and wiped her tears, next to him he could feel Talia smirk again at her weakness.

Yes Bruce needed to work fast...

At least Ras hadn't immediately covered his ears.

Tags: @bluerosefox @fisticuffsatapplebees @skulld3mort-1fan @samgirl98 @itshype @thegatorsgoose @ladythugs @stargirl1331 @betinaplayingwriter

#ghost king danny dc #ghost king au #ghost king danny #talia al ghul #bruce wayne #jazz fenton #sam and tucker #i dont remember their last names #ill google it next time #Nameless danny au #dp x dc #danny phantom coronation #danny phantom #danny fenton #coronation #ghost crown #bruce being bruce #and talia being bitchy #and jazz being perfect #omg i forgot to add something #and that something is #as always #loralie is annoying #fanfiction #headcanon #dc fanfic #dc headcanon

[happilychaengs]

love isn't enough

a/n: this is a repost bc i wanted to add more but you know me ‼️ writer's block and all that so it might just be kinda bad bc it's just been sitting in my drafts. also lmk if i missed a name bc i wrote this for sana originally

jihyo x gender neutral reader

angst

love is a fickle thing.

it's not the classic fairy tale sappiness nor is it the unbreakable bond people make it out to be in the movies. in reality, it's malleable. it's a sick and twisted thing, almost always used to hurt you. and maybe you don't notice it yet, but you will and when you do, it will tear your heart in two. it'll tear you piece by piece until all that's left is your cracked and broken psyche, afraid to love again. afraid to open up. afraid to be vulnerable.

and you know because that's what jihyo did to you.

it began with the promise of forever. with the stars by your side, and her hands interlocked with yours. they seemed to never let go, like she couldn't even imagine it. it was a distant, far-off thought that she couldn't possibly think of no matter what she did because then and only then, was she simply and truly in love with you.

you imagined it so when you stared in her eyes, the feelings she had for you so potent, you could almost see it bubble and rise up to the top. she kissed you then, and it was the only thing you could think of.

i'm only yours, she said and you believed it. because it was the truth but you should've known it wouldn't last. her love was already beginning to break. you weren't capable of keeping its shape.

her love began to twist, warping into whatever fit her narrative. the narrative of you and her. the narrative of why she was out for hours on end. the narrative of who the other girl was. just a friend, she would say.

but that's not to say she was the only one at fault because somewhere within you, you knew that whatever you felt was truly already broken. you just hadn't come to terms with it yet.

your love began distorting into the perfect mold for her. one that was so easily breakable and fixable again. one that jihyo could mold to her needs.

you love me, right? she would ask. and it's an attrocious word. love. it's a word that holds so much meaning over you and yet none at all when she leaves you alone in the night. she could've used that word with anyone else when she's laying in their bed, in their clothes, and whispering their name. and yet she can say she loves you the same.

it's disgusting and it's ironic.

you don't know why you didn't bring it up sooner when it was always an inch away, curdled up under the sheets, murmuring someone else's name. you don't know why you didn't bring it up sooner when her tone changed, that airy lightness replaced with a heavy guilt despite the continuous hurt she still brings you. you don't know why you didn't bring it up when your heart began to crack and she heard every bit fall to the ground.

you don't know why you stayed.

but maybe it was the way she promised you that fateful day that still holds something over you. forever. forever is a long time. time that you imagined jihyo would spend with you but she wouldn't. she couldn't. her love wouldn't allow it. it would rope her along, sweeping you up in the process.

what is your problem? do you not trust me? it's a mutter during the night sky, the darkness seeming to absorb any meaning those questions had. it's a pointless endeavor for her to even try ask but she relents, believing it would work. though the silence you give her serves as the reminder of mistakes she's made.

her love cracks like how yours did many times over.

you know. and there's only but an echo of guilt on her face and you realize it then, that maybe her promise really was always going to be empty. her hands glide across yours, grazing against your pale knuckles. did she ever love you after all? her shoulders relaxed, almost as if there was a weight off her shoulders.

and you didn't ever tell me. you never would've. the words are nothing shy of an accusation but there was nothing closer to the truth. maybe her love was all but an illusion. fabricated.

a tear falls, dribbling down your cheek as your heart begins to shatter.

maybe it was your love after all that was fickle.

#jihyo angst #jihyo x reader #jihyo imagines #twice x angst #twice x reader #twice imagines #twice scenarios #twice reactions

[shegxox]

special halloween episode | valorant protocol

how you spend some time with your colleagues throughout the spooky season.

c.w: swears, not proofread, written on the spot lmao, will edit soon

w.c: 3,095

a.n: happy halloween, everyone! here's a special episode for you all– it'll be hc's + oneshot scenarios, enjoy!

jett , phoenix , yoru

oh boy, this trio.

they knew you were one who's easily startled and gets scared easily and they just had to take that chance this halloween season.

pheonix usually tries to scare you but would often get just a jump or flinch.

"oh, phoenix! didn't see you there, sorry."

made the man upset cause you think he wasn't trying to scare you

jett and yoru points and laugh

"guess you're not as scary as you think you are, huh, pretty boy?"

jett and yoru were like tag team partners

they scared you so bad one time at least three other agents rushed to where you guys were.

"Uhm, hello?" You laughed nervously. "Who's there. . ?"

You just switched the lights off and saw a silhouette by the end of the hallway, it was just standing there eerily and that immediately started your heart pumping fast.

You switched the lights on again and your eyes widened and jaw dropped down to the floor.

The figure just disappeared and the hallway was empty.

You looked around your surrounding with disbelief written across your face. Placing a hand on your mouth.

Calm down, (y/n).

Maybe you were just seeing things? You didn't get a full night's rest last night so maybe your mind was playing tricks on you?

Yeah, yeah that must be it.

You swallowed thickly before testing out your conclusion.

Closing the lightswitch off again, you felt your heart drop, the figure was there, but it seemed. . . closer.

"So-Sova!" You cried out for your help. "Sova get in here!"

You unintentionally switched the lights off again and gasped, seeing the empty hall once again.

You looked around the room once more, it was just you, usually Sova would come walking in right after you called him but. . .

"Fuck, Sova, where are you." You could feel your heart beating hard against your chest and an eerie chill sent shivers down your spine.

"S-Sova. . .?" You called out once again, your eyes not leaving the hall as you held against the lightswitch.

You swallowed thickly, you wanted to leave, but at the same time, there was this stupid curiosity on what would happen if you turn down the lights again.

And you did.

A blood-curdling scream broke through the air and alerted agents that were nearby.

Sova– who was being held back by Jett earlier to enter the room came in first, his face full of worry and fear from that terrifying scream.

"Gaia?!"

As soon as Jett let him come inside, he immediately saw you still screaming with your eyes shut tightly and hands on either side of your head with thorny vines sprouting out of your hair. In front of you was Yoru with his mask on.

The second agent to come in was Reyna, her eye orb was out and was ready to kill anything on sight.

"What is it, what happened?!" She demanded.

And the third agent was Brimstone, who immediately recognized your scream–dropped his coffee, and came busting through the door in panic.

"Gaia?! Kid, what's wrong?!"

Ah, let's just say that Brim wasn't too happy about the two scaring you off and the two received quite an earful from the captain.

Sova got you some ice cream and played barbie on t.v

Also– Cypher got it all on video.

cypher , kay/o , neon

after your previous scare, these three thought it might be a good idea to do it again.

originally, neon was against the idea but fell victim from cypher

surprisingly, the same goes for kay/o

neon just wanted others to experience it as well

it felt unfair that the hacker fucker got her

unfortunately, the unlucky victim was you

you just got in the lounge area together with chamber

the three knew chamber wouldn't be fazed by the scare

but you?

"C'mon, try it!" Neon said with a glint of mischief in her eyes. "It's a very easy game."

You raised an eyebrow before sitting down infront of Cypher's laptop.

"Is it like a maze game?"

There was a simple maze on the screen, you assumed you just needed to get the dot to the other side and so you did, prompting the new maze to come up.

"Oh wow, this is easy."

Cypher nodded, "Yup. It's an old game I scavenged, apparently, it was made years ago."

"So is it like vintage?"

"You could say that."

"Just make sure you don't let the dot hit the surfaces of the maze, otherwise you lose." Kay/o informed.

"Ah, so it's like that wire game?"

Neon nodded, "Exactly."

Chamber, could already tell where this was going, he knew what was going on a mile away and was about to break the news to you but Neon elbowed his side pretty hard and gave him a sharp look.

The next maze had narrower surfaces, so when you accidentally hit the dot to the side. . .

You flinched terribly together with a screech as a scary image flashed in front of the screen, making you lean back to 'get away' from the monitor and throw the mouse wherever.

Ah, poor you.

The three started to laugh at your reaction, but when you suddenly raised your hand to cover your eyes, a vine erupted from the ground and pierced through the laptop's screen.

The three fell silent and looked at you in nervousness.

"You guys are so mean!" You whined, hands still covering your eyes. "I almost had a heart attack!"

The three still gaped at you, wondering when you'll realize that you just broke the laptop.

Chamber let out a handsome laugh, helping you up from the chair, and soothed your back.

"Hush now, nevermind them, ma chérie." He gave the three a stern look, squinting his eyes, "Trust me, it'll come back around."

The three looked at eachother, before simultaneously thinking the same thing.

"Shit."

Cypher lost his hat the next day and found it again with cat ears stitched on top of them– whenever he'd remove it he'll lose it again before finding it in the same situation as before, Neon would often fall victim to jumpscares from "random" videos that would be sent to her by "someone", and Kay/o received broken toasters in front of his room for at least three days.

raze , killjoy , omen

two words. movie night.

probably the chillest moment you'd have this spooky season

the three of you would have a sleepover on the lounge area since sleeping over in another agent's room was prohibited.

so Brim granted the lounge area instead.

planned to binge all horror classics and slasher films

it was originally just you, raze and kj

omen suddenly came in and the three of you invited him over

Now there's the four of you

omen was pretty intrigued with the movies

"So do you kids think you can survive a horror movie?" You asked with a small smirk as you ate your popcorn.

"Ooh, I don't think I could survive the nun." Killjoy answers before Raze gave her a look.

"The nun? Girl, you don't even go to church! How could you even be in that situation?"

"Oh right." The three of you shared a laugh.

"Okay, okay, but honestly?" Killjoy said. "I think I won't survive the ring."

Raze nods eagerly in agreement. "Now that makes sense."

You let out a laugh, "Oh that's so true, you're so nosy in the internet you'd probably watch the video till the end."

"Actually!" Killjoy laughs along before throwing back the question to you.

"How about you, Gaia? Oh! Do you think you'd survive It?"

You thought for a moment. "Probably not, I'd come running to him myself if the It is Bill Skarsgård."

"Ah, the titan's greatest fall. A man." Raze shook said in a playful tone, shaking her head. "Couldn't be me."

"Oh please!" You giggled, "You're saying you won't go running to the predator out of invetor's curiosity?"

"Ah, touché"

"Oooh what about Omen?" Killjoy raised and the three of you looked at the man on the couch, knitting before looking up from his work.

"Me?"

"I think the killers and ghosts altogether would be running away from him." You joked.

To this Omen tilted his head, "That could be fun."

"See?"

Raze laughs, "Freddy kreuger has nothing against our Omen."

"I'm sorry, Michael Myers who?" Killjoy giggled.

"The devil could never!"

"They're all fools." Omen added. "Both the victim and attacker."

"Ah, to that we say Amen, my friend."

It was a pleasant night for the four of you, and when you, kj, and raze eventually fell asleep. Omen carefully covered your bodies with blankets and closed the television before placing his knitted products next to each of you. He made Killjoy a knitted frog, Raze her killer roomba, and you–

Omen gazed down for a moment at your sleeping face. You were the one who invited him to come and join your group earlier and he was thankful. You made him feel like he's apart of something and treated him normally like he was. . .well, a human.

It felt nice.

Omen then placed a knitted totoro next to your head.

"Thank you."

sova , chamber , sage

surprise surprise, brim decided to have a halloween dinner party within the protocol.

you volunteered to make the food

and sage too

it was going well and smoothly

until chamber peeked into the kitchen

"Be grateful, ma chérie. The best cook has arrived to aid you."

you could say that the feast later on would be diverse

now there's three of you

chamber is hella graceful in the kitchen, what the hell

this man is literally just cooking and yet he had such poise and. . .elegance in him.

chamber with his sleeves rolled back?

oui, please

you couldnt help but stare in awe at times

of course, he'd catch your staring and smirk

"focus now, eyes off me."

you'd playfully answer back to him

"but I can't, mon cher. you look absolutely irresistible."

you wink, and he'd shy away from your view. your comebacks are definitely something he doesn't expect. probably because you're the only one who plays along with it.

sage points and laughs.

"chamber, are you blushing?"

". . .mind your cooking."

It was finally time to bake, your favourite part. You caught your reflection from a glass and you sighed.

"Ugh, I look terrible." You uttered. "But at least the food looks good."

"To that, I agree with you, Gaia." Sage expressed as well, and as you turned to look at her, you let out a soft giggle.

"You have flour on your nose." You point

"Oh!" Your fellow colleagues' cheeks went red, laughing sheepishly. "Sorry."

You shook your head, "It's no problem, come here, I'll wipe it off."

Taking a clean paper tissue, you wiped the tip of Sage's nose.

"There, all good." You smiled

"Thank you. . . " Sage tucked a hair behind her ear, peeking at you through her lashes.

"Is everything going alright over here." A new voice entered and the three of you looked at the door.

It was Sova, adorably peeking his head to the side– at least from your perspective.

"Sova!" You beamed. "We're doing alright, but come!" You gestured him to come inside and he obediently did.

"Do you need any help?"

"Actually, I do."

the two of you looked so domestic as you worked, it was making a certain one irritated within the kitchen.

you forced the russian man wear a frilly pink apron

he doesn't seem to mind as soon as he saw your bright face

man tied his hair in a bun and you short circuited for a sec

oh no, he's rolling up his sleeves as well

you steal some respectful glances to him at times

chamber a little salty

"so did you just come here to help her?"

sova would chuckle as he mixed something in a bowl, "The best cook doesn't need my help, no?"

you gave chamber a sly look

"aww, chamber. are you jealous that Sova's helping me and not you?"

It was finally the dinner party, Brimstone made a rule that everyone must strictly wear a costume, and most of the protocol happily obliged.

The common area is where the party was being held, raze and killjoy absolutely did a wonderful job in decorating the place.

"Alright, that's twenty." Yoru smirked mischievously as Jett hesitantly handed him money.

They were betting on what the agents would wear, and Yoru just won for betting that Sage would dress as a witch.

"I hate your face." Jett slumped against the chair, arms crossed. She's dressed as Aang, a cartoon character from an old show called Avatar.

"I thought your arrow is the only thing that's supposed to be blue, why the face too, hm?" Yoru relentlessly teased.

"Think you're gonna win this huh?" Jett sat up properly, puffing her chest. "We still have more to go!"

Yoru pulled up a smug expression.

"We'll see about that."

Raze went as Frankenstein with colored patches of green and stitches drawn artistically on her skin, whilst killjoy went as Frankenstein's bride. Having drawn stitches with two locks of white hair extension on either side of her hair in an updo as well as a short whited puffed dress.

Sova surprisingly went as Dracula, clad in all black together with the high-collared cape and had his beautiful blonde hair down, Chamber walked in dressed in a black suit with a long coat hung over his shoulders, golden rings decorating his fingers; apparently he said he was the Don of the Mafia.

Next came Omen who literally only had cat ears on, then Cypher who dressed as a plague doctor, Phoenix came as prince Naveen from a Disney movie called The Frog Prince – not gonna lie, the royal clothes and crown suited him very well and lastly. . .

"Man, let me join in the bet!" Phoenix complained after hearing about the bets that jett and yoru were having.

"Sure," Yoru agreed with an overconfident smirk. "I like being rich."

"No fair, you called dibs on the easiest guess." Jett groaned. "For sure, Gaia is gonna dress up as a fairy."

"A fairy?" Phoenix questions. "Nah, I'm calling goddess, she'll dress up as a goddess for sure."

Yoru nudged his head to Jett. "Your guess?"

The agent hummed thoughtfully, her hands pressing on her temples.

It was kind of predictable on what you might dress up as– that's just judging based on what they're used to seeing you wear which is pastels. Something magical or fantasy-related, or perhaps something "soft."

"I'm gonna say. . ." Jett squinted her eyes before deciding on her answer. "Angel, possibly an angel."

As soon as those words left Jett's mouth, you arrived just in time to the room.

"Sorry I'm late!" You apologised as you entered, "I had no costume in my closet so I had to improvise."

All eyes fell on you and the room went silent for a moment.

"What the. . ." Phoenix's mouth went agape as he saw what you came in as.

"Oh my gosh. . ." Jett uttered under her breath whilst Yoru almost dropped the cup he was holding, looking at you in shock.

There you stood in a long black silk dress that hugged the shape of your body beautifully with spaghetti straps and a high slit on the side that exposes almost all of your right leg. Sheer black gloves adorned your arms, and your hair was styled in messy waves flowing on your back. On the corner of your mouth was fake blood dripping down to your throat and chest.

You went as a vampire.

This was probably the first time the protocol saw you in a such revealing outfit, you usually had yourself wrapped around in your comfortable oversized fit or pyjamas, and like earlier said, often wore pastels.

Who knew you looked so ravishing in black?!

You definitely gave them a new side of you that they will probably never forget.

"Why are you all staring at me like that?" You questioned awkwardly, before pointing to your mouth "This is fake blood okay?"

That seemed to snap them out of it.

"Gaia, you look spectacular!" Sage complimented as she approached you, followed by Astra, then Killjoy and Raze, all of them showering you with compliments.

"This may sound crazy but I don't even mind that I lost. . ." Yoru comments, still in a daze after seeing you.

"Yeah. . . Same here. . ." Jett replied, rasing her cup shakily as the aftershock dawns upon the agent.

"That was eerily divine. . ."

As the ladies finally left you alone, you sighed in relief. You honestly didn't expect that reaction considering you were just panicking moments ago about what to wear. You were so preoccupied in the kitchen that you forgot that you didn't have anything to dress up as, but thankfully it all worked out in the end.

"Gaia." You hear your call sign and you turned.

"Sova." You smiled before noticing his costume. "You dressed as Dracula???"

The man chuckles softly, "Indeed."

"Oh my gosh, we match!" You exclaimed gleefully as you gaze into his eyes.

"A wonderful coincidence, no?"

"You look beautiful." You complimented.

"As do you." Sova gave you a warm smile. "You're breathtaking."

Another voice suddenly joined in.

"Funny, I was about to say the same thing."

You turned and saw the french man.

"Chamber," You greeted with a smile. "You clean up nicely as always, monsieur."

The man smirked before taking your hand with his.

"You flatter me, mademoiselle."

Leaning down, he placed a kiss on the back of your hand. "But my looks must yield to you tonight, you look exquisite, ma chérie."

You rolled your eyes playfully, taking your hand from him.

"Always the smooth talker, Chamber." You scoffed with a smile. "You should try that line with Viper, who knows, you might get a date." You joked before turning your body to the side.

"Anyways I'm gonna go get candy before Jett stashes the sour patch."

"I'll go with you." Sova offered.

"Oh sure, you have big hands. Help me stash them before Jett does." You giggled mischievously. "Happy Halloween, Chamber."

The two of you went your way but not before Sova gave the Frenchman a quick glance, and to that, Chamber could only chuckle to himself.

"Happy Halloween indeed."

#valorant x you #valorant x reader #valorant x y/n #valorant imagines #valorant headcanons #valorant jett #valorant yoru #kay/o #valorant kay/o #cypher #valorant cypher #valorant sova #valorant chamber #chamber #valorant killjoy #valorant raze #valorant omen #valorant sage #valorant brimstone #brimstone #valorant series #valorant gaia #gaia valorant #valorant phoenix

[mythicandco]

A Dark And Stormy Night

tw for minor body horror

it's a dark and stormy night.

to be entirely honest, it's cliche. it knows it's cliche, but it's all it can think, looking out the window. raindrops patter against its face and it winces, closing its eyes a little.

the already black sky is completely logged with clouds, lightning illuminating the darkness in spite of stars. it feels something uncomfortable shift in its ribs and grimaces, altering its position in the passenger seat to make up for it.

he glances over at it, looks away again. it doesn't blame him, imagines how it must look now. it notes quietly he doesn't have a rearview mirror or any on either side of the car- that's stupid, and dangerous, but it would also be stupid and dangerous to have them.

he doesn't tell it to roll the window up, but it does after a moment anyways. guilt drags heavy on its bones and skin, and the last thing it wants is to get the inside of his car wet.

it opens its mouth, finds its tongue and teeth aren't in the right positions, and closes it again. if it talks, it'll come out wrong. it doesn't want to make him any more uneasy than it already has.

"you alright over there, kid?" he doesn't take his eyes off the road when he finally breaks the sound of tires on wet asphalt, rain on the metal roof of the vehicle. "I mean, as alright as the circumstances can allow, obviously."

the engine hums in both their bones. bones that click into place. tendons that quietly shift under skin. minds that slowly meld into one. the catalyst was the spark. it's only a matter of time now before it all goes up in a burning inferno of hell.

why did you help me.

it puts a hand over its mouth, but that doesn't stop the sound, if you could even call it that. it isn't... physical, like vibrations from vocal chords. it's something tinged with static, something that curls around the edges of his already-curdling psyche. he winces, and it feels more guilty.

"I don't know," Thatcher admits at length, tapping out an uneasy rhythm on the steering wheel. "you're a kid. you deserve better than that."

it swallows thickly, bleach still burning the nerves behind its eyes. he'd expected it to kill him, but instead it just ate away at all the soft tissue until there was nothing human left but the murky red puddle at its feet. that's why it's an it, not a he.

I'm a monster.

Thatcher lets out a weak chuckle that gives way to a wet-sounding cough. "aren't we all?"

you have no idea how true that is about to be. it hisses and bangs a fist on the center console, startled into speaking out loud. the words are distorted and feel wrong and don't sound like a voice so much as a machine trying to replicate one, but at least they're real. "sh-shit. I didn't mean to-"

"I get it. I get it, it's okay." he doesn't understand what it just said, but he also does, in a way. he can feel it burrowing into the back of his mind, too. he's had MAD for a long time now. "listen. I've been living with that kind of shit for years now. you're not trying to hurt anyone, and as long as you aren't, nothing you say will affect me. alright?"

it nods weakly, feeling sick. half-melted vocal chords strain to get words out. "I'm sorry."

"don't be. it's not your fault."

but it is. I'm the catalyst. everyone is fucked over and it is very much my fault.

Thatcher glares over at it, and it flinches back. he immediately pulls back, mutters an apology of his own. "don't say things like that. if anyone's to blame, it's me. there are at least four people dead because of things I didn't do to protect them. you never asked for any of this, it was all laid out for you before you were even- born, or whatever. but I had it coming."

it closes its eyes again. I want my mommy.

he pauses, processing that. after a minute, he gives up. there's not much to say.

"we'll be back at my place soon. just gotta hold on until then, okay?"

"...okay."

it turns its eyes back outside. it's a dark and stormy night.

#the mandela catalogue #adam murray #thatcher davis #they are FUCKED UP. your honor #despairduo

[saintrocklee]

pairing: itachi x reader for @thebloodredraven request prompt: "and now you're a stranger with all my secrets" angst. pining. itachi being deep, reader just existing.

There's a woman, in a tea shop.

Not an unusual circumstance. Tea shops required people to work in them, and those people were typically civilians. Specifically women. Some old, the wrinkles in their face scrunched up with a smile for a paying customer. Some young, nervously flitting from one table to another, trying not to spill anything.

Itachi finds himself here, when he needs to remember. Remember what it was like, before. Remember what he was like, before. He remembers to overpay the elder owner of the tea shop, who scolds him while scooping up the change, telling him she doesn't need his charity. He remembers to nod and pretend not to notice when the younger girl stutters and stumbles around him, her crush plain as day. It feels foreign to him, the normalcy of it all, but it's comforting in a way he cannot find elsewhere.

And then ... he meets you.

Just a woman in a tea shop. A very normal thing.

Until it's not.

When you sit in front of him, he slants his eyes to you, and can't help but furrow his brow. The small cup placed in front of him is steaming but the color is slightly off, the smell isn't quite right. You're watching him carefully, brow and lip quirked in kind. Neither of you speak as he slowly brings it closer to his face, inhaling a deeper breath. He doesn't miss the way your eyes seem to light up and you nod once encouragingly.

When he finally tastes the tea, he's pleasantly surprised.

"This is new?" He asks and you finally smile.

"Used to be." You respond, finally relaxing into your seat at his approval. Itachi hums and ignores the pointed jab. It'd been months since he visited last, and he feels something warm curl in his chest that you noticed his absence. That you would be so bold as to mention it to him.

"You around for awhile?"

The questions hangs between you for a stifled moment and Itachi feels the warmth in his chest curdle.

"Not this time."

You nod once and rest your cheek on your knuckles, elbow planted on the small table. It reminds Itachi of a long time ago, of etiquette training and the importance of proper posture while at the dinner table.

It reminds him of his mother, giving him a warning look for testing the boundaries of rules he didn't understand. Elbows don't belong on the table, just as shuriken don't belong on the floor.

It's disarming, the way you evoke such strong feelings in him while just existing. He was an expert at compartmentalizing, sticking to his carefully constructed plans, never wavering from his goal.

And then he met a girl in a tea shop. Irony, maybe? Or karma.

Maybe it's just something that happens to people. Even him.

Just two strangers, who meet by chance. Taking comfort in one another without saying anything of consequence. Two people, taking a break to just be.

A very normal thing.

He curls his hand around the cup. He wonders if you'll miss him.

"You missed a lot." You comment casually, eyes sliding over to the counter, a smile tugging at your lips as you watch the older woman shoo a stray cat out of the shop. Itachi makes a noise of agreement and your eyes find his again.

"Granny smacked a man with a broom last month."

Itachi pauses, the cup just shy of his lips, and arches a brow. Your smile stretches to show teeth.

"He tried to leave without paying. She's getting meaner in her old age."

"I can hear you, brat!"

You turn your head all the way this time, elbow falling from the table as you laugh and hold your hands up in surrender. Once again Itachi is thrown, tossed wildly into a memory he's long forgotten, and can't help but see Shisui in the way you poke fun at your friend, who waves you off with a scowl and tells you to watch the shop. He lets the nostalgia wash over him, doesn't fight against the wave of hurt and guilt that accompanies it.

It'll be over soon. He could let himself feel it, just this once.

There's a beat and you're alone. Itachi can't sense anyone else around and knows this is the time. He feels a swell of something, just under his skin, his lungs, and pushes against it with everything he has.

"You won't be seeing me after this, I'm afraid."

The left over laughter in your eyes fades away and you still your movements, still half turned in your seat.

"Are you going somewhere?"

Itachi manages a self deprecating smile.

"Yes. To see someone."

The surprise that flits across your face at him willingly offering information is charming. There's a sense of triumph there, that you finally know something about him besides his favorite tea after years of sitting across from him. You turn to face him fully, giving him your undivided attention, and Itachi prefers you like this.

All to himself. Even just for a moment.

"Who?" You chance, eyeing him cautiously, waiting for the inevitable refusal. Itachi hums.

"My younger brother."

You blink. He continues, preparing himself.

"He's going to kill me."

Itachi can physically see the way his words affect you. Shock, visible in your parted mouth and widened eyes. Disbelief, in the way you straighten your spine. Concern and fear, twitching in your hands with the need to get away but also reach out. To him.

"Why?" You barely whisper, lips hardly moving around the word. Itachi steels himself before answering.

"Because I killed our family to save him."

You stand suddenly and your chest stutters at the sudden movement, almost like you didn't mean to. Flight or fight instinct has your body reacting before you can register it, and Itachi follows you fluidly, flickering between you and your previously occupied seat as you take a step back. Your chest heaves with effort and Itachi lets you take it all in, giving himself this extra time to look at you. The soft bags under your eyes from a long day, the slope of your nose, the dip between your bottom lip, the curve of your jaw, your neck.

He knows that he'll think of you before he dies. He knows he deserves the hurt that comes with this. Another punishment, for what he's done. For what he's going to do.

"You're going to kill me." You murmur, hands clenching at your sides, eyes wide. Itachi narrows his eyes.

"No."

You blink again. The movement causes one of your eyelashes to fall and land right above your cheek, just under the barely there scar you'd told him about long ago. He feels the absurd urge to brush it away. To offer you comfort, when you obviously needed some.

Just a normal thing. Something a lover would do.

"Why are you telling me this?"

The noise he makes is almost a laugh. You glance away from him, swallowing hard, and Itachi finishes his confession.

"You're a stranger." He murmurs, some of his carefully hidden confusion leaking through. Because you were just a girl in a tea shop, a normal thing, completely ordinary, and yet -

"But you are important. I wanted someone to know me, before I died."

The way your eyes immediately find his is easy, and he catches you in his Sharigan before you even know what's happening.

"And now you're a stranger with all my secrets."

You start to slump and Itachi reaches for you, pulling you into him and immediately finding your temple with his mouth. He allows himself to breathe you in once, letting the feeling of your skin on his lips wash over him completely, before he speaks again; this time for his ears only.

"Thank you."

When you wake, your forehead is buried in your arms and you yawn, stretching your hands over your head. There's an empty cup in front of you and way too much money next to it, carefully tucked between the cracks of the worn table. Your favorite customer is gone and you rub your eyes, frowning at the way you fell asleep so easily. You barely remember seeing him and try to blink back the fog in your brain. He'd said goodbye you thought, and maybe he thanked you for the tea; but that was all you could recall after Granny had left you in charge of the shop. You shake off the sleep and slid the money in your pocket, smiling fondly at how much he'd left you.

You'll just have to thank him next time.

#itachi drabble #itachi fanfic #itachi x you #itachi x reader #itachi uchiha x reader #itachi uchiha x you #itachi uchiha fanfic #itachi prompt #i wrote this in like an hour that's a record for me #i'm not the Greatest with angst so if it's weird don't tell me i'm sick & sensitive right now LMAO #ty for the prompt request!! xo

[bulgingpushh]

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The head is almost at your slit - I can feel it, only a few knuckles in. As the head fills and deforms your birth canal, my fingers move across the roof of your pussy, slowly stroking your cock from the inside. At the same time, my thumb rolls your tip in a soft circle. God. Your moans are like a choir.

Come on. You're almost there. I know you can do it. My arms wrap around your vicelike abdomen. Our family. Together. Just a little further. Breathe in. Push out.

The further it starts to move forwards, the less you can bring yourself the push. It's agonizing. Unbearable. Not even close to the worst it will get. The head is barely visible, but it already feels worse than you could have imagined. You realize what's really in front of you, and start to sob as your body forces you to keep bearing down.

Shh... it's okay. I'm here, alright? You can do this. You're the strongest man I've ever met. If anyone could give birth to my kids, it's you. You can't back down now, it's time to go. Ready? Breathe in. Push.

Your voice starts as a low, steady, whine. As your lips part and the head passes millimeter by millimeter, you start to wail. Your legs begin to thrash towards closing, but I can't let you give up. I seize your thighs, and wrench them apart. You shriek in utter agony as our child's head abuses and stretches your gash, a searing pain in your lower vulva only starting to peak out. You can't. You fucking can't. It'll break you. I'm sorry, love. I know you cant, but you have to.

I bury my face in your neck and press you close to me. You let out a blood curdling scream and give one final, massive push, tearing your slit and bringing out a truly incomprehensible wave of utter torture. Somehow, you rode it out. Maybe it was my arms around you. Maybe you were too focused on the impossible pressure that your tdick swam in, basking in the exquisite sweetness of agony. Maybe you were just that good at messily birthing my kids, just that perfectly made to breed. God, I love you. With one last choked sob, you slide the head into my hands.

Breathe in. Breathe out. I'm so proud of you. You're almost there. I know it hurts, but you can do it. Push the shoulders out of your broken gash. Whine and thrash as the agony flashes in and out. Lose yourself in it all as the pressure bursts out of you, your senses overwhelmed. You can't tell if you black out from the pain, or how hard you cum as I pull our kid out of your ruined little pussy.

You drift back in a few seconds later to the sound of wailing - not your own. As you look down at your slightly deflated belly, a long, rubbery cord trails out of your pussy and towards the babe I place in your arms. He's perfect. You did such a good job.

You're confused when I put him to the side, frantically twisting your head back to look at me. My apologetic eyes smile down at you. You've forgotten, haven't you?

Our second born grinds further down your birth canal, and you almost break under the revelation. As the horror passes through your eyes, I lean down and pull you into a kiss. You're almost there. I know it hurts. I know you think you can't. But you need to. For me.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Push.

i cant wait to jerk off to this!! i love your writing, thank you for writing these posts out for me <3 i would totally bask in the relief of finishing birthing and then realize that i have to do it again!!

#ask box #user maiesio

[butmakeitgayblog]

Can you share a snippet from Medusa au? We need to cleanse your dash

*smudges the air and lights incense*

For everyone who stayed during the insanity 😅

As always it's just copy and pasted without editing so forgive any mistakes (it'll get cleaned up for ao3)

Medusa and the Blind Woman

/////////////

Lexa watches her from her corner. Her little nook made up of nothing more than a rickety chair and table, chin resting on her shoulder and hands frozen in her work as she takes in the form of her resident home invader half-hobbling toward the nest of leaves that takes up the better portion of what used to be her lounging room. 

Clarke leans heavier on her stick than usual, less using it to find a path for herself, instead wobbling with it as more of a crutch. Her steps are slow and lopsided as she lowers each foot with delicate precision, humming in pained breathes with every inch forward.

"What's the matter?" Lexa finally asks when she can't take the wincing hisses anymore. 

"Huh?"

She releases an annoyed sigh because despite all evidence that Clarke shows whenever she mercifully doesn't feel like talking, Lexa is painfully aware she is, in fact, not deaf as well as blind. "I asked what was the matter."

"Nothing," Clarke says, sounding strained and tired as she takes another hobbled step across the room. "All good here. What's wrong with you?"

"You're limping."

"Nope, just taking my time."

"Clarke."

"Medusa."

Lexa fails to swallow the rumble of her growl. "Fine then. Forget it." 

Her words are snipped. The matter is all but settled as she goes back to her work of stripping the bark from stems and saplings. What should she care about this obnoxiously stubborn intruder to begin with. She heats her knife over the flame of her candle and meticulously shaves away the outer layer of prickly bits and fibers, laying each out in perfectly divided piles according to length, thickness, and strength.

It's only when another hiss, more pained than before, sounds against the stone walls of the cave that Lexa looks back up from her work, hands pausing mid stroke of her knife at what she sees. 

Clarke is hunched over in her little nest, stick forgotten at her side as she gingerly peels away a stripping of leaf tucked securely into the loops of her sandals that Lexa had failed to notice before. 

A lump lodges itself in Lexa's throat at the site of the flesh beneath. 

The skin is swollen, red and riddled with welts, pocked by debris and tiny sores that weep and look far too tender to touch. A few calluses along the heel and the ball of her foot sit cracked, angry and bleeding in sluggish trickles as Clarke peels away the covering inch by agonizing inch.

"Clarke." The name sits like grit on her tongue. She's up and out of her seat without a thought, looming over the woman still gingerly cradling the foot in her hands.

Clarke doesn't turn her head up as she sighs and lowers her leg to the ground, careful to set it in a soft lump of bedding rather than the cave floor. 

"It's fine."

Lexa nearly chokes on the way her chest clenches, an eerie ringing flooding her ears as Clarke bites back a yelp and begins the process all over again on the second foot. Her stomach curdles at the sight of ragged and gnarled flesh beneath the leafy bandage. Shredded in red and raw strips along the arch, toe, and heel. 

"Clarke," she says again, quieter through the thick sludge of mud suddenly clogging her windpipe. "What happened?" 

Clarke lets out a pained laugh as she drops the blood soiled leaf wrappings to the side. "Don't worry, Medi. I'll have this all cleaned up by morning. Don't want to get blood on such rare stone flooring, I know."

The shake of Lexa's head feels as useless as she does. "How long have they been like this?" Her words sound sharper than she means to.

"Few days."

"Clarke."

"Can you stop saying my name like that? You sound like my mother."

"How long?"

"I don't know. Few days." Clarke sighs in relief this time, having finally laid her foot down in a comfortable position after a few hiss-laden tries. Her chest heaves with it, brow littered with a dusting of sweat as she collapses onto her back with a groan. "The rocks here are murder. They just chew through these damn shoes—"

"That's because those are meant for sand and chiseled stone, not a cave floor. Or a forest for that matter. Are you saying all you brought was those sandals?"

Clarke's arm flops in a vague motion toward her satchel. "What you see is what they gave me."

Lexa glances back down at the angry, shredded remnants of Clarke's feet as the realization fills her with rage.

Without so much as another word, barely an inpatient grunt of rage that she can't manage to contain, Lexa storms from the cave, not bothering to give a sound of farewell to the idiotic, prideful, mess of a woman splayed across her living room floor.

It's reprehensible. Beyond comprehension, the lack of intelligence at play. She awes at the lack of planning, or forethought, or any kind of concern for Clarke's survival her so called people must have had for her as Lexa gathers her tools and stalks away from their cave. 

The ghouls had sent this woman to a jagged, snake infested island made of rock, with barely more than a pair of slippers to use for shoes.

A simmer rage engulfs her as she makes her way across the island, trampling none-too-gently through the thickets of overgrowth that make up the forest line to chop a few more saplings for the day, making an annoyed mental note that she'll have to replace the decreased number of her yield come spring. She's worked herself up into a state of pure seething when she collects a few spare bones and strips of hide from her storage before slamming logs and sticks into a haphazard pile to quickly build up a fire. 

The mental image of that chewed and gnawed skin makes her hands shake as she rips the saplings and fires the hide, having to work to steady her hand as she rounds sharp edges of bone and scrapes the heated leathered hide to rid it of any stubborn fur. She forces her breathing into a rhythmic beat, smelling the fresh salt spray in counted intervals of three as she twists twine and threads bark and slices the softest shoots among her supply. 

She takes her time in each task. Measures and re-measures each piece, bend, and bow before tying and scorching things into place. From the sole to the straps to the hardened edged toes and the protective curve of a slender heel, working each section with practiced eased despite the anger that sits simmering and white hot in her chest. 

When only embers remain under the star strewn night sky does Lexa deem her work finished, flexing and turning one creation in her hands after the next. Thumping them on stones and testing the shock against her hands, and then, only then, does her anger begin to fade.

The fire dies in a hiss of smoke and ocean, taking with it the last dregs of Lexa's thoughts of bloodshed as she tosses aside the pail and scoops up her tools and returns then to their place. With the scorched earth vibrancy of her anger averted, her fingers feel clumsy as they clutch at the straps, the walk back to the cave spent in the sudden heavy silence of her mind.

She sighs the second she rounds the corner of her cave, finding the room in total darkness. Just as expected after her hasty retreat. 

The test of her aim turns out to be spot on when her creations get tossed in the direction of the nest in the corner, her march back toward her work nook barely stopping long enough to hear the thump of them finding their mark and the startled groan that followed. 

"Ow."

"Good, you're still awake."

"Well I am now. What was that for—"

"Stay there," Lexa cuts her off in quiet command over the strike of rock and flint. She lights a series of candles and places them in a half circle around the sorry excuse for Clarke's bed. Goes to the row of clay pots and shifts through them until she finds the one marked with the particular symbols of berries and leaves she's looking for.

Mercifully, Clarke is quiet through the process, merely sitting still and unmoving, save for the occasional twist of her head at new sounds.

Lexa settles on the ground, surprised at feeling just how quickly the chill of the stone bleeds through the linen of her wrap. She ignores Clarke's jump of surprise when her fingers wrap around a slim ankle, not fighting or fussing when Lexa gives a light squeeze and tsk in warning before she lifts the injured foot out of its cradle and places it into her lap.

"What are you doing?" Clarke asks hesitantly but remains still. 

Lexa scoops her fingers into the pot at her side to collect a generous dollop. 

"Helping."

She doesn't expound more than that, figuring the act of smearing the soothing ointment over a particularly nasty looking welt would be explanation enough. 

Her work is methodical,  slow and steady in a way that barely earns her the occasional hiss between mutters for the patient to stop fidgeting. But she knows it has to be done, that the numbing will take effect in just a few moments, and any pain now will save Clarke from losing her leg, much less her life.

She keeps her touch light, fingers smoothing over the welts and wounds that feel hot to the touch. Fingertips gliding along the ball and gentle arch of Clarke's foot with reverent care. Her patient shivers at the feel of it, neither of them saying a word during the process that extends from heel to toe. Lexa rubs her thumb in soothing circles over the notch of Clarke's ankle to calm her, feeling a wave of goosebumps erupt under her touch as she hums consolingly with each shift of discomfort.

She doesn't bother to bite back her smile when little heads lean down in a curtain around her face to investigate the matter at hand themselves. 

The second foot goes faster, the process made easier with Clarke not jerking at every swipe of Lexa's fingers quite as much. With them settling into a silent rhythm of breathing meant that flows peacefully between them.

When every gash is covered and the patient seems sufficiently numbed, Lexa takes the strips of boiled, sterile cloth and wraps them over her work, taking the time to secure the ends in folded loops so they don't unravel through the night. 

"There," she finally breathes when she deems her work finished on both feet, safe from harm for the time being. She takes more time than strictly necessary, ghosting her fingers over the bindings to check for tenderness and watching for signs that they're too tight, before gingerly lowering Clarke's foot to rest in the bed of shredded leaves covered in linen. 

She busies herself with cleanup in the stilted silence that follows. Only pauses at the sound of a throat being cleared pulls her attention from gathering up the salves and spare bits of covering.

"You didn't have to," Clarke says quietly. It takes another moment before she seems to try again, sounding more steady than before. "Thank you. Is what I mean to say. Thank you for… It feels better."

Lexa grunt is as eloquent as she can manage as she returns the pot of salve back to its place among her collection along the wall. "It's nothing."

"It kind of is though," Clarke immediately argues. Because this is Clarke. Who is apparently allergic to simply letting things be, Lexa thinks. "I didn't want to be a bother, but you really have no idea how bad that hurt."

"Yes I do," Lexa says quickly, quietly. Heavy with the memories of her first weeks stranded here on this god's forsaken island as she takes the spare rags and wipes her numb fingers clean.

#anon #meduse au #medusa snippet

[writerofadream]

Fortune favors the Bold ⛓

TDI!Duncan x Juvie Bestfriend! Reader ⛓

Chapter Twelve: Bubbling up

Put your head on my shoulder

Hold me in your arms, baby.

"Todays challenge will test your minds, your teamwork, and your skills in the kitchen." Chris had the campers gather on the beach and Duncan groaned, you sucked at cooking, a lot.

"You'll be cooking a three course meal, and serving it to me for tasting. The winners will get a reward the losers will send somebody home. Each team will appoint a head chef." Chris put a hand on his hip.

"To cook you need ingredients. Every morning a truck brings us food. Today's task starts there." A truck pulled itself out of the waters and you saw it was lined with food on the inside.

"We could do a killer italian theme." Geoff suggested. "Hello, head chef." Duncan smiled wide. "Seriously?" Geoff smiled clearly happy with his role. "We get it you love each other." You pushed the two out of the way and started grabbing food out of the truck.

Geoff laughed and Duncan rolled his eyes. Then you all got to work grabbing the food Geoff told you to get.

You all met in your kitchen holding various food items. "Okay so we have to make a three course meal and there's seven of us. So I say we all team up." Geoff suggested.

You had to smile at how kind he sounded, he was a good guy but some people just couldn't be in charge. Too nice.

You, and Duncan had desert duty which you heavily protested. "Last time I tried to make oatmeal, Tarun it turned out burnt. Hell, I've tried to make you hot cocoa before and somehow made it curdle." You just wanted to sit out of the challenge all together.

"That's because your father was a terrible cook, idiot. I'll teach you." Duncan rolled his eyes and wrapped an apron around you before you could say anything.

As the challenge progressed Duncan had you roll out dough. "Doll, I love you but your not even rolling the outside of it. It'll have huge edges and a paper thin middle." Duncan nicely critqued you. You stuck your tongue out.

He rolled his eyes and got to work fixing your mistake. He leaned over your back his chest hitting you as he put his arms around your making you roll into the correct spots. You giggled, but to his surprise you were blushing like an idiot.

Geoff snapped a picture.

---

|Trending on X right now|

#THEWAYHEHOLDSHER-

#obliviousidiots<3

#whenhecancook

#meantforeachother

#"illteachyou"brbsobbing

---

You didn't notice when Geoff winked at Duncan, but you did notice when Harold came into the kitchen wearing a pair of red underwear... and no shorts.

You gave the redhead one look and glared at Duncan. "I'm going to kill myself." You hissed.

"You'd never. You'd miss me too much." Duncan stuck his tongue out smirking. "Keep that tongue out much longer and I'll cut it off." You muttered going back to rolling the dough. Duncan quickly closed his mouth with a small smirk.

Geoff wanted to keep up with the classy italian theme so he had some old music playing in the background. The blonde also had made sandwhiches and when Harold had bit into his, he had spit underwear out much to Courtney's disgust.

Duncan pulled that trick on a bunch of dudes in juvie, frequently.

So it was to no surprise when you hit him in the back of the head. "أيها الأحمق، هل تريد الفوز بهذا التحدي أم لا؟ أقسم أنني سأدعوك بأمي إذا حاولت شيئًا آخر. توقف عن التركيز على رد الجميل لهارولد وابدأ في التركيز على التحدي أو ساعدني يا إلهي، تارون." You whispered in his ear (luckily the cameras picked it up). "Don't call my mom, doll. I'll stop." Duncan muttered looking a bit ashamed.

"Then focus on the challenge." You hissed.

---

You put the canollies in the oven and washed your hands. All that was needed to be done is the pasta sauce which Bridgette was working on.

Geoff, DJ, and Harold who was now wearing PJ's were talking about the dish pretty calmly to your surprise.

You were sitting on the countertop watching the people around you. Courtney was advising Bridgette on her tomato to water ratio, and Sadie was taking a picture of the meals to send to Katie.

"Put your head on my shoulder."

"Hold me in your arms, baby."

Duncan held out his hand to dance. You rolled your eyes taking it all the same. "I'm sorry I was a dickhead to Harold." He said not sounding all that sorry. "He deserved it, so it's fine." You smirked lightly punching his shoulder.

"This was Leo's favorite song." He commented quietly. "Was that the guard who always gave me pudding?" You asked with a small smile.

"No that was Jonah." Duncan quietly laughed as you both swayed together to the music. "Then which one was Leo?" You asked mildly confused.

"Squeeze me oh-so-tight."

"Show me that you love me too."

"He was the one who tased the dude with the blue hair on his first day." Duncan explained. "Oh! Dickface Leo!" You said remembering now. "He's the one that always took my extra pudding." You rolled your eyes.

"Mhm." Duncan smiled.

Sadie snapped a picture.

---

Sadie to Katie

S: *picture attached*

K: AW I LOVE THEM TOGETHER ROOTIN FOR THEM

S: ME TOOO

---

Duncan and you stayed like that for a while. Your head leaning against his chest as you stared at your feet swaying to the music. Duncan had his arms wrapped around your waist and his chin ontop of your head as you slow danced together.

You fit together like puzzle pieces.

---

Chris LOVED your team's food. Since DJ and Bridgette were definetely the more likeable ones on your team, Geoff decided to have them serve it too Chris.

Apparently, according to the blonde girl, Owen had devoured his teams plate.

---

You guys won dinner under the stars. Which honestly you could care less for. You would've been happy with hotdogs by a campfire. But instead you watched Duncan throw sushi into Geoff's mouth from five feet.

It was fun.

Sorta.

---

You and the girls dragged the tipsy boys back to the cabins. Once you got back you heard Heather berating Linsday for leaving her in the freezer. You had stepped out of the boys side of the cabin after tucking Duncan in and heard the words-

"For once in you pathetic life stop being such a ditzy bimbo blonde, and do something right!" Heather hissed at the girl who looked close to tears.

Leshawna was about to say something but this girl from the killer bass came up to defend the blonde.

"Okay just because no one likes your stuck-up rich white girl ass, ain't no reason to act like such a god damn bitch." Damn this girl must've had a death wish.

Leshawna watched as Heather's eye twitched and wanted to cackle.

"Go the fuck back to your cabin little miss crazy. I saw what you did to that intern." Heather hissed back getting in the girls face. "Then you know what happens when people call me crazy." The girl from the killer bass had this creepy smirk plastered on her face and Heather paled.

Y/N walked away not before giving Lindsay a hug. "Tell me if she doesn't stop being an ass." The girl whispered to the blonde who smiled gratefully.

Then the ex-con dissapeared back to her side of the camp.

Leshawna smiled. "I for one, love her." The girl laughed and Gwen agreed. "Hell yeah." The goth girl gave her friend a fistbump and Heather let out a frusterated scream. "Her cabin is over there! She shouldn't have even came over here." She whined.

"I'm glad she did." Leshawna muttered causing Gwen to laugh.

#queer writers #tdi #total drama #duncan #total drama island #queer artist #duncan x reader #total drama au #fanfic #writing #tdi noah #tdi fanart #tdi 2023 #td izzy #total drama fanart #tdi duncan x reader #td fanart #duncan tdi #heather tdi #lindsay tdi