#lots of ghosts kicking around in there (my brain)

[ezekielonlysleptfor2hourd]

I may have rewatched a lot of horror and creepy films and now my brain is going crazy over fear and adrenaline. Sooo how should I cope? By writing fanfic! Yall know they drill, it’s the Gang! I’ll list the warning!

Warning: Graphic violence, body horror, intense fear, trauma, psychological distress, disturbing imagery, and unsettling themes. This fanfic contains scenes of extreme danger, creature attacks, and emotional turmoil. Reader discretion is advised.

For the love of whatever, please understand this warnings.

Blood Price:

A Bounty in the Dark

༺♰༻☽⛧ ⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧ ⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧ ⛧☾༺♰༻

The sun burned the top of Kamor’s head as he winced at the bumpy road. The gang rode across the cracked dirt path on robotic horses, their metal hooves clanking with each step. Kamor shifted uncomfortably—these things weren’t built for comfort. Worse, he was riding with Hipswitch, his arms locked around the man’s waist. He swore his heart rate was louder than the damn horses.

Ahead, Attila, sat straight-backed, reading from a crumpled file. “Linton Graves. Robbed three banks. Killed two tellers, a sheriff, and a bounty hunter. Shot ‘em all in the head, so he’s efficient. Last spotted near Black Hollow.”

Albus snorted. “Black Hollow. Of course it’s called something ominous.”

Kamor shuddered. He knew that name. He just wasn’t sure why.

“Speaking of ominous,” Albus added, turning in his saddle with a grin. “Kamor, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe you’re just terrified of being this close to Hipswitch?”

Kamor scowled, glaring daggers at him. Hipswitch, ever gentle, chuckled. “Don’t be shy, partner. I don’t bite.”

Kamor wasn’t convinced.

The sun dipped lower, bleeding into the horizon, and the road ahead twisted into a narrow trail flanked by skeletal trees. The warmth faded fast. The wind shifted. And as they rode deeper, Kamor felt it—something watching.

Something waiting.

Kamor jumped at the sharp caw of a crow, his grip tightening around Hipswitch’s waist before he realized what he was doing. He quickly loosened his hold, grimacing. Damn birds.

It wasn’t just any crow that made his skin crawl—it was what they reminded him of. The Mad Crow.

His pulse pounded in his ears as the memory threatened to surface, but he shoved it down. Now wasn’t the time. He forced his gaze forward, ignoring the way the crow perched on a dead branch, its beady black eyes locked onto him. Watching.

Albus noticed his reaction, of course. The bastard always did. “What’s wrong, Kamor?” His grin was all teeth. “Bird got your tongue?”

Kamor shot him a glare so sharp it could’ve sliced his throat, but Albus only laughed.

The road ahead darkened as the skeletal trees pressed in closer. Mahatma clicked his tongue, scanning the horizon. “Black Hollow ain’t far now.”

The crow let out another shriek and took off into the sky. Kamor couldn’t shake the feeling that it was delivering a message. Or a warning.

…

The town was dead.

Not just abandoned—dead.

Buildings slumped like broken ribs, their windows hollow and black. The wind whispered through the streets, kicking up dust that danced in the dying light. The only sound was the creak of a rusted sign swaying above what used to be a saloon.

Kamor slid off the robotic horse, boots crunching against dry earth. His gut twisted as he scanned the empty town. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Albus dropped down beside him, his usual cocky smirk nowhere to be found. His fingers twitched toward his gun before he yanked Kamor close, gripping his sleeve tight.

“Stay close,” Albus muttered.

Kamor blinked. Albus? Taking something seriously?

This was the same man who laughed when they were being chased by a horde of zombies, who cracked jokes even when some bounty was swinging an axe at his head. But now, in this empty town, his jaw was tight, eyes sharp as he scanned the shadows between buildings.

Kamor nodded slowly. He didn’t like this either.

Hipswitch and Mahatma dismounted, both tense as they took in the eerie silence. Hipswitch adjusted his hat, eyes narrowing. “Something ain’t right. Should be bodies. Signs of a struggle. But this place ain’t just abandoned.”

“It’s emptied,” Mahatma murmured.

A soft tap echoed from an alleyway. Kamor stiffened.

Then another. Tap. Tap.

Like footsteps. But wrong.

Too light. Too slow.

Albus’s grip on Kamor’s sleeve tightened.

From the shadows, something moved.

The moment Kamor heard that laugh—a low, rasping chuckle curling like smoke in his skull—his blood turned to ice.

The Mad Crow.

Not here. Not now.

His body moved before his mind could catch up. His instincts screamed. Move. Now.

He grabbed Albus and Hipswitch’s wrists, yanking them toward him with a strength that surprised even himself. At the same time, he shoved Mahatma backward, forcing him into the nearest building just as—

SCREEEEEEEECH. (I tried be scary)

The sound ripped through the town, warping the air around them. It was wrong—too high, too deep, too hungry. It didn’t belong to any alien known, any animal. It was something else.

The tapping stopped.

Silence.

Then, slow, deliberate scraping, like claws dragging along rotted wood. Kamor didn’t dare move. His heart pounded as he turned his head, inch by inch, toward the alley.

Something was there.

Just beyond the shadows.

Watching.

Waiting.

…..

Kamor’s breath hitched as he slapped a hand over his mouth and nose, forcing himself to stay silent. He didn’t know why—just that he had to.

Mahatma, quick to pick up on the danger, followed suit, covering his own mouth. Albus and Hipswitch, still crouched by the doorway, slowly peeked out.

And then—they froze.

Kamor didn’t want to look. He really didn’t.

But he had to.

His head turned, slow and stiff like rusted gears grinding together.

And there it was.

The thing.

It stood in the center of the street, impossibly still, impossibly tall. 8’10 at least. Its body was black—no, not black. Empty. Like a void carved into the world, devouring all light.

But the face. The face.

White as bone. Wide, lidless eyes that burned like pale moons. And that smile—stretched too far, too wide, jagged like broken glass.

It didn’t blink. It didn’t breathe.

It just watched.

Then—

It twitched.

A single, unnatural jerk of the head.

Albus sucked in a sharp breath, and Kamor knew—if he made a sound, they were dead.

……

Kamor’s stomach churned, the overwhelming sense of dread tightening around his chest. He wanted to vomit, but his body wouldn’t let him move. His mouth went dry, his throat closing as the terror threatened to swallow him whole.

His heart hammered, each beat a drum of panic.

He knew.

He knew what it was.

He didn’t understand how or why—he just knew. That thing, standing in the street, twisting the air with its unholy presence…

It was a Mimic.

A terror from the depths of his own nightmares. Things that copied, things that became the ones you feared most, the ones you hunted.

The Mimic—it had a taste for flesh, yes, but what it truly craved was something darker.

The thing in front of them let out another screech, but this time it changed.

The distorted sound morphed, bending and twisting until it was no longer an otherworldly wail, but a voice.

The voice of Linton Graves.

The bounty they were after.

“Help me.” The voice was pained, guttural. “You have to help me…”

Kamor’s breath hitched. His vision blurred, and his body trembled. He tried to step back but couldn’t—the terror had rooted him in place.

It was the Mimic.

It was using Graves’ voice to lure them. To deceive them. And they were so close to walking right into its trap.

Tears welled up in Kamor’s eyes, not just from fear, but from a deep, gnawing knowledge—that he had seen this before. That he had known this would happen.

It was too late.

——

The world around Kamor turned into a blur. His head rang with the chaotic buzzing of his own thoughts, drowned in the maddening laughter of Mad Crow. The laugh echoed through his mind, dark and mocking. He could practically hear the ghostly smile of the Crow, taunting him.

“Come play, Kamor. A game of tag, don’t you think?”

The words twisted like daggers in his chest. Tag? No, this wasn’t a game. It was his death sentence. Kamor knew all too well the Mimic’s power—it could end him in an instant. The thought sent a chill through his spine. He wasn’t afraid for himself, though. What terrified him was what would happen if it got his family.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Kamor wobbled as he tried to steady himself. He could feel the weight of his fear pulling him down, but he wouldn’t be a coward. Not now. Not when they were all in danger.

He looked at Hipswitch, his eyes filled with desperation. Hipswitch whispered something, but Kamor couldn’t hear him over the buzzing in his mind. He had to act.

Albus hissed at him to sit down. Kamor could barely register the words before his instinct kicked in. No. He couldn’t sit back and wait.

With a shaky breath, Kamor bolted toward the opposite door, throwing his body through it with all the force he could muster. He crashed into the dirt, scrambling to make noise—anything to grab the Mimic’s attention.

A loud, sharp clatter rang through the air as he kicked over a metal barrel, sending it tumbling across the street.

Kamor’s chest heaved as he turned, looking over his shoulder at the others. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t shout, but his eyes—his eyes screamed at them to run.

He couldn’t speak, but his body was screaming it. The panic in his gaze was the only warning they needed.

His heart raced as the Mimic’s head snapped toward him. Its eyes locked onto Kamor with a hunger that made his blood run cold.

The game was on.

And Kamor had just become the prize.

———

Kamor’s legs burned as he ran, every footstep a frantic thud against the cracked earth beneath him. The Mimic’s presence loomed behind him like a nightmare come to life, its distorted screeches cutting through the silence. It wasn’t chasing him—no, it was playing with him.

It knew.

The thing was toying with him, mocking his every move. Kamor could feel it in his bones—the way it let him think he had a chance, only to let him get just far enough before it slowed down, its unnatural movements dragging like it was savoring the chase.

Every now and then, he’d glance over his shoulder. It wasn’t rushing, wasn’t even truly running. It was drifting, its long, lanky form swaying unnervingly as it followed behind, too slow to catch him, but fast enough to make Kamor’s pulse race.

Kamor knew this game—he knew it all too well.

This was the Mimic’s way of playing. It was a predator, savoring the fear, the panic, the chase. It wanted him to feel hopeless, to feel that crushing weight of inevitability.

But Kamor wasn’t going to give it the satisfaction.

He couldn’t stop.

Kamor’s heart slammed against his ribs as he pushed himself harder, faster, ignoring the fatigue, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to drag him under. He had to stay ahead, had to keep the Mimic at bay, because if it caught him…

Kamor refused to let it catch him. He couldn’t let the others suffer because of his failure.

The Mimic let out another laugh—a low, sickening chuckle—and for a split second, Kamor’s blood ran cold. It was mocking him. Mocking him for thinking he could run, mocking him for thinking he could survive this.

He glanced over his shoulder again.

The Mimic was still there, but now, it was gaining—its head tilted, that inhuman smile stretching wider as it took a more aggressive step forward.

Kamor felt a sickening chill crawl up his spine.

The world seemed to stop as Kamor’s foot caught on something hard, and he stumbled, falling forward onto the ground. His breath hitched in his throat, his pulse pounding in his ears.

He barely registered what had tripped him, too consumed with panic, but as his hands hit the dirt, he felt it—the cold, slippery texture beneath his fingertips.

He turned his head—and the world seemed to collapse.

A corpse. Half-eaten, torn apart. Its face was barely recognizable, skin stretched and shredded. Blood and sinew were exposed, a grotesque mess of broken bones and gaping wounds. Kamor’s stomach churned as his eyes locked on the remains of Linton Graves—the bounty they had been hunting.

But this… this wasn’t just a corpse. This was a warning.

Kamor’s vision blurred. His stomach twisted violently, and before he could stop it, he bent forward, his body convulsing as he vomited onto the ground. The rancid sight of the mutilated body, the jagged teeth marks, the hollow eyes—it was too much. Too horrible.

But it wasn’t just the body. It was the thing behind him.

The Mimic was there.

Leaning down, its grotesque white face hovering just inches from Kamor’s. Its eyes were wide, unblinking, and that sick, twisted smile stretched impossibly far across its face.

And then, to Kamor’s utter horror, it began to sing.

At first, it was soft—a distorted, warbling voice that was eerily familiar. Kamor’s blood turned cold as he recognized the tune.

“Run, rabbit, run…”

The words were stretched, mangled, the melody twisted and warped beyond recognition. The voice was deep, guttural, like something scraping against the very fabric of reality.

The Mimic’s eyes never left Kamor as it continued, the tune growing louder, more distorted. “Run, rabbit, run!” It was like a sickening lullaby, the kind of thing that made the hairs on the back of Kamor’s neck stand on end.

Kamor’s heart dropped.

The thing was mocking him. It was toying with him, and in that moment, Kamor knew. It wasn’t just playing the game anymore.

It was telling him he had no way out.

——

Kamor’s breath caught in his throat as the Mimic’s voice was abruptly cut off by a guttural thud. His heart stopped as he whipped his head around.

Something else—some new horror—had entered the fray.

A creature, or several of them, crashed into the Mimic, sending it tumbling backward. Kamor’s pulse throbbed in his temples as the sight before him shifted into something even more nightmarish.

These creatures were human-looking, but their faces were wrong. Their eyes were too wide, their mouths stretched unnaturally large, with jagged teeth that snapped and gnawed at the air. Their skin was a sickly shade of grey, fur like coarse bristles running along their arms and backs, making them look like twisted, monstrous dogs.

But dogs that laughed.

The creatures giggled in an eerie, high-pitched cackle, like a hyena with a twisted sense of humor. The sound made Kamor’s stomach turn, like nails scraping across glass. They were circling the Mimic, tearing into it, gnashing their teeth. But it wasn’t the violence of the attack that made Kamor freeze—no, it was the fact that they laughed as they did it.

The sick, twisted sound of joy mixed with violence made Kamor’s blood run cold.

As they tore into the Mimic’s black, void-like body, the creature screeched in distorted agony, but the dog-like things just laughed harder. Their eyes glinted with madness, their mouths splitting wide as they savored the chaos.

Kamor’s heart pounded in his chest, but he couldn’t look away. His body was paralyzed with fear. He had thought the Mimic was the worst thing here. But now, these things—these sick, twisted creatures—were showing him just how much worse things could get.

He wanted to run.

But his legs refused to move.

___

Kamor’s world tilted as he felt cold hands grasp him, yanking him upward with frightening strength. He gasped, his vision spinning as he was hoisted into the air, disoriented. His heart raced, but then—he recognized the hands.

Hipswitch.

Before Kamor could register what was happening, Hipswitch had him settled onto the robotic horse with a speed that left him breathless. The metal steed hissed beneath him, the low mechanical hum vibrating through his body, but Kamor barely noticed. His mind was still reeling from what he’d just witnessed.

The sound of monsterous screams echoed through the air—distorted, savage cries from the Mimic and its new, sickening attackers. Kamor’s chest tightened as they faded into the distance. The chaos was still unfolding behind them, but Kamor didn’t dare look back. He was still trying to process what had happened, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

“We’ve got to move, now,” Hipswitch said, his voice calm but laced with urgency.

Kamor barely had time to register the words before the robotic horse lurched forward, galloping into the distance. The landscape blurred around them as the air whipped past, but Kamor barely felt the rush of wind against his face. His mind was consumed by what he’d just escaped.

As they neared the edge of the bridge, Kamor spotted Albus and Mahatma waiting for them, standing at the ready. Albus’s face was tight with concern, his eyes sharp as he watched Kamor approach.

“What the hell?” Albus demanded, his voice low but urgent.

Kamor’s breath caught, but he didn’t speak. His mind was a whirlwind of images—the Mimic’s face, the creatures’ laughter, the corpse… Linton Graves.

He wasn’t sure how to explain. How could he?

But as they neared the others, Kamor felt something deep in his gut. Something far worse than the fear.

They weren’t out of danger yet.

Kamor’s body convulsed as the tension finally cracked, and he fell from the robotic horse, landing in a crumpled heap on the cold stone of the bridge. His stomach churned violently, and he couldn’t stop the rush of bile that surged up his throat, spilling out as he vomited again. His whole body trembled, the aftershock of fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Albus’s voice rang out, harsh and angry. “You idiot!” His words were sharp, cutting through the air like a knife. “What the hell were you thinking, running off like that?! You don’t just throw yourself into danger like that!”

Kamor’s hands shook as he tried to push himself up, his head spinning. The world around him felt distant, muffled by the ringing in his ears. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t get his body to cooperate.

Mahatma was the first to reach him, kneeling beside Kamor with quick hands. His eyes scanned Kamor’s trembling form, quickly noting the bruises and cuts, the way his body was still shaking violently from the shock. Kamor’s breath came in shallow gasps as Mahatma gently placed a hand on his shoulder, his touch gentle.

“Hipswitch,” Mahatma said, his voice calm, but urgent. “Help him up.”

Hipswitch immediately moved to Kamor’s side, lifting him carefully, holding him steady. Kamor’s head lolled against Hipswitch’s chest, his body too weak to do anything but let himself be supported.

“Easy, partner,” Hipswitch muttered, his voice low and steady as he helped Kamor back to his feet. Kamor didn’t even have the energy to glance up at him—he just closed his eyes, too drained to protest.

The others were still talking—Albus’s voice was full of frustration, Mahatma’s mumbling, but Kamor couldn’t focus. He could only hear the rush of his heartbeat and feel the burn of bile still rising in his throat. The fear, the terror, was still clawing at him, lingering like a shadow he couldn’t shake.

They were safe—for now. But Kamor knew that wasn’t the end. The Mimic and those things were still out there, waiting.

Kamor stood under the hot water, feeling the stream wash over him, soothing the tension in his muscles. The dirt and blood from the day’s chaos spiraled down the drain, a visual reminder of just how close he’d come to losing everything. His body was sore, bruised in places he couldn’t even remember, and the trembling hadn’t quite stopped.

The memories of the Mimic’s face, the sickening laughter of those creatures, still clung to him like a second skin. Kamor wanted to scrub that fear away, but no matter how much water he let run, it was still there, deep inside of him.

When Hipswitch had offered to help him, Kamor had shaken his head, a silent plea for space. He didn’t want Hipswitch to see just how shaken he was. He didn’t want anyone to see the cracks forming beneath his usual mask.

He didn’t want to seem weak.

But he couldn’t help it. As the water pounded against him, Kamor felt the weight of what he’d done—what he’d almost caused. He’d been reckless, using himself as bait. He’d acted out of fear, but now, in the silence of the bathroom, he realized how much danger he’d put them all in.

Albus had been pissed—furious—when he’d watched Kamor run away from the group, drawing the Mimic toward him. Kamor hadn’t said much after the explosion of anger from Albus. The words had stung, sure, but they’d been deserved. He couldn’t argue.

But Kamor didn’t want to think about that now. The guilt weighed heavily on him, sure, but he needed to pull himself together. He couldn’t keep dwelling on it.

With a deep sigh, Kamor finished the shower, letting the last of the water cascade down his body, feeling it trickle off of him as if it could wash away the lingering fear. He grabbed a towel, drying himself off slowly, the soreness in his body reminding him of how close he’d come to death. His hands shook as he wiped his face, the image of the Mimic still flashing in his mind. He wasn’t ready to face the others—not yet. They were waiting for him outside, waiting for answers, but Kamor wasn’t sure if he could explain himself.

He pulled on fresh clothes, still feeling the weight of the events in his chest. As he stepped out of the bathroom, Kamor steeled himself for whatever Albus was going to say.

Kamor’s heart stopped when he saw Albus standing by the bathroom door, his posture stiff, his eyes unreadable. The weight of Albus’s presence felt like a mountain pressing down on him. Kamor lowered his head, his mind still buzzing with guilt, unsure how to face the anger or disappointment he expected. But Albus didn’t yell.

Instead, Albus’s hand came down gently on Kamor’s head, ruffling his hair in a way that almost felt… too gentle. It was the same hand that had swung at him in frustration not long ago.

“I can’t lose another family member,” Albus muttered, the words so soft, Kamor almost didn’t hear them.

Kamor felt a lump form in his throat, a sharp, painful knot. He never wanted to make Albus feel that way. He didn’t want anyone to fear losing him, especially not Albus. He wasn’t strong enough for that responsibility.

He wasn’t strong enough for anyone.

But he didn’t argue. Instead, Kamor gave a quiet nod, swallowing the sudden wave of emotions threatening to rise. He couldn’t say the words out loud—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you—but his nod was his way of acknowledging the weight of what Albus had said. He didn’t want to make things worse.

Kamor turned away, feeling like he was moving on autopilot, heading toward Mahatma for a check-up as planned.

Hipswitch hovered close by, his usual calm demeanor cracked with a visible sense of worry. He didn’t say anything, but the way he kept a few steps behind Kamor told him everything.

“You okay?” Hipswitch asked quietly, though it was clear he was more concerned than he let on.

Kamor didn’t have the energy to lie. “I will be.”

It was all he could offer in that moment. As he approached Mahatma, he could feel Hipswitch’s eyes on him, following him as if making sure Kamor wouldn’t break apart again. Kamor didn’t want to show how fragile he felt, but the truth was, everything had been too close. He could still feel the cold of the Mimic’s eyes, still hear the laugh of those twisted creatures.

[papaya-inspiration]

@lumsel tagged me in an ask meme game:

rules: in a new post, post the names of all the files in your wip folder regardless of how non descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet or tell us about it.

Oh hell yeah. Like prev, I don't have a single WIP folder but I'll consolidate. First, from my "ideas" document:

Killing the King's Ghost

The Wyvern in the Well

Dryad Horror

Solar System SETI

Nuclear Fae

The Ghost in the Library

Trapped with an AI

Martian Clock Conflict

The Glitch Gate Setting

The Asteroid Lottery

Ghost Archeology

Ghost School

Ghost Assassin Mystery

Depression Noir

The Florist and the Gravestone

Supernatural Doorman

A Lich's Monologue

Rat Western

And here's my actual WIP folder. Several of them are abandoned lol.

00 Poetry Snippets

An Epilogue for Lady Pole

Ariel's Diary

Asteroid Seeding Story

A Dry Spell

Alabama & Stazia - The Shop

Alabama & Stazia, The Adventures of

Archive in the Stars

Chicago Romance Novel

Cornifer is Goingon an Adventure! fic

Crossovers I will probably never write

Death and the Doctor Sequel

Dragon Hoard Story

Electric Princess (shareable)

False Prophecy novel idea

Galactic Commons Fic

Girl Crossing the Desert Story

guyia Stories

Hive and Honey (Halloween Short Story)

Hollow Knight Fic Fragments

Invisible Cities Prompts

Kasslyne Astronomers Fic

LDR Comic Outline

Life on a hazy planet draft

Machina Western

Man's Last Friend

Murder Timeloop Story

Myla's Song in Many Voices

Novella Reviews

Outer Wilds Best Ending Fic

Quarantine Draft

Rainer + Peri Brainstorming

Realistic Fiction Workshop story

Scenes from Usurper D&D

SNAKE FIC

Subsurface ocean

T Kingfisher Essay

TGE + WftD Tea Document!

The Asteroid Lottery

The Vision on Lake Whilom

Time depot short story draft

Two Time Loop Stories

Unsounded Iori Fic

Zivanka at Baytown Story #2

Zivanka at Baytown NOTES

Zivanka at Baytown WORDCOUNT

Zivanka at Tombstone Market

Zivanka - Other Ideas

I'll tag: @vamonkea, @businesstiramisu, and @kikicandoit

[vatelixx]

You are the knife (I turn inside myself),

S2!Post-addiction!Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and copious amounts of angst, and like a small amount of fluff to just… balance it out), Workplace rivals, aka, enemies to lovers (who are still enemies and would rather die than tell each other they’re in love).

──── autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.

Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? it’s not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), crying— like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly.

— warning: mentions of past drug addiction.

w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)

a/n: i know tumblr hates to see me coming with my Spencer Reid one shots. I wrote this at 3am when I was supposed to be studying for my latin exam, it’s okay. Uni will understand I had greater things to do. I promise i’ll get around to my requests this week, i just got possessed by the holy ghost and wrote this.

────────────

Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, he’s an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.

You’re late today. Chicago, you’ve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesn’t work.

Here’s the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldn’t want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? He’s also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.

The list stretches on.

But you and Spencer can’t both be the brains of the team. It’s unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why can’t he just—

Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Why— why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.

The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. “Don’t,” you push, padding into the office, met with Spencer’s hardened gaze. “Late night.”

“We haven’t been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and you’ve already—“

“Get your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.”

“Did you take a break?” he asks, and you both know it’s not born from care. “Maybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isn’t the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, let’s hope we don’t find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotch—“

“Have I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?” that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you can’t know, it’s not statistically possible that you’d be aware of Hankel’s lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes you’d be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.

“Right, um— the case,” he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, it’s all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.

“The case.” you agree.

You’re attuned to each other, a psychological curse he’s forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. “Look at these markings—“ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.

The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps there’s an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you don’t need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that he’s moved onto the nuances now.

Human sacrifice, it’s not the first time you’ve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But it’s certainly the first time of its kind.

“Traces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.” you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.

Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.

It’s a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.

Metaphorically and literally you’re higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. “Regina Horthorne,” the victim, “Straight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said… bacchanal?”

“Hm. I don’t know, maybe she’s like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.” you retort.

Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if he’s analysed you the way you’ve analysed him. It’s a futile question, of course he has.

Anything to gain the upper hand.

You continue, “Maybe they’re sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.”

“I’m already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. There’s a high probability ‘they’, the dominant unsub, wouldn’t even look at me, and—“ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.

“There’s a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and you’re wasting time by insulting me?” Spencer is….. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. “The BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.”

“Oh, you wound me boy genius.” you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.

Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goods— do you struggle to sleep like I do?

You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. There’s a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.

Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. “Are you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Don’t worry, i’ll let you take the credit for it. I’m sure Gideon will be so impressed.”

Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.

The distance between you has become almost null. It’s intimate, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “I’m not bitter. And I don’t care about the credit.” A lie. “Unlike you, I don’t need to prove my worth to him.”

────────────

Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one that’s installed into your mind the moment you’re employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. You’re not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, there’s no heroes in real life. Maybe it’s the sense of family, or maybe it’s just what everyone subconsciously fell into.

You can’t understand why you’re so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakota— deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. ’I assumed you two would get along,’ Prentiss had stated— but what does she know? She’s been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.

The hostility has mounted to new levels now.

It’s hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that can’t even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still you’re both stuck in this loop.

South Dakota, of course it’s South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.

Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.

You’re sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.

The tension is near-palpable, stifling. “I can do this myself. No offence,” full offence, “but you’re unneeded right now. In general, really.”

You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He can’t remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what he’d endure. It’s still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.

“No you can’t,” you retort. Maybe it’s unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostility— people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps there’s justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.

Control. All you do is reach for the blade.

“You’re just bitter that I know what I’m doing. You’re not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.”

Well that’s certainly unlikely.

“I think,” he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But he’s exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?

“I think you’re insecure” he continues, “because you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, you’re replaceable. It’s why you’re so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You can’t stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks I’m better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.”

This is uncharted territory now. It’s never been pushed to this extent. It’s never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. You’d consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way that’s different from your own personal view of him.

Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.

There’s silence, and then he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. “Did he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?”

Spencer falters.

It’s a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that you’re right. He’d been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.

That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didn’t matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?

He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.

Spencer’s eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.

“You don’t get to bring that into this.” He murmurs. “Shut up.”

“You started this—“

“Are you 5?” he bites back, “I was making an observation.”

When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, you’re quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps it’s perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe it’s all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.

“Where are you going? You can’t walk away from this one.” you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks that’ll stain and remind and then ache— it’s repetitive now.

“I covered for your ass.” you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU could’ve lost your license, you still. Didn’t. Say. Anything.

It’s not like it took much effort to discern the truth.

“I also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.” you’re not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.

You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didn’t notice. Didn’t even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.

Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and that’s more than he’s ever received before.

All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.

All he knows is that he’s stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like he’s Icarus and you’re the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if it’ll seal his fate as foolish.

It’s a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. It’s like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance that’s impossible to endure.

He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and he’s just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates you— he hates you so much that sometimes he can’t breathe when you’re around.

You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.

“I think I’d rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.” he says, and he might’ve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.

The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like he’s trying to find an answer in response to it. There’s a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.

God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. He’s never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.

“I wish you were being held hostage. It’d be quieter,” you retort. It’s muffled, and you’re moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you don’t even realise are occurring.

You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isn’t that what you’ve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?

It’s sick. It’s sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How you’ve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.

What is sickness without pleasure?

He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it’s pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. He’s backed against the wall now, and he can’t find it in him to complain.

“Of course it would be you,” he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; he’s well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesn’t feel pure.

People like him don’t get that.

He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.

He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and he’s almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.

But he can’t. Because that isn’t him when he’s with you. “Are you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, I’d like to see you try.”

Admittedly, it’s not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, he’s muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and he’s crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.

“Only person who’s ever touched you, huh?” you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.

He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, it’s just you. It’s only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.

He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things he’ll inevitably regret. “Please, I can’t-“

He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.

“Cant— can’t take it. Oh,” he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you’re gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.

“Eyes on me, boy genius.”

He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like you’re artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once he’s had his fill.

“Let’s look at you. Hm?” you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and there’s so many layers, and he’s acting coy now, as if he wasn’t whimpering moments prior.

Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isn’t this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.

He always wanted to be seen.

He just didn’t expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He can’t fight your trailing gaze, and he doesn’t want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this it— raw uncut intimacy.

You’re softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.

“Mhh,” he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.

He’s already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.

“You’re— oh.. you’re enjoying this far too much,” he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.

It feels good, so good that he can’t process the shame that’s bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and it’s not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.

“That it’s. There you go. That’s my good boy.”

Spencer sobs.

“Shh, shh, I know, I know, it’s a lot.” there’s always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.

His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. He’s not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that he’s good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.

The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, it’s what you’re both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But you’re not. That confuses him to no extent.

“I can’t— cant, ‘m so close.” his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. It’s not the most conventional ‘first time’, but he takes it regardless.

“Yeah?” you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. “You wanna cum for me, hm?”

“Oh god,” he breaks, “Yes— yes, please—“

You have no interest in denying him, not when he’s this destroyed from a mere hand-job. “Go on then. Just because you asked so nicely.”

He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.

Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?

Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, it’s quiet, as if you’re both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.

“This is, uh— yeah.” he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, he’s starting to think you’re the personification of the serpent.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t hold his own body to such pure standards. He’s not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything he’s done to it.

“Hey wait,” you’re not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds of…. you’re not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team can’t quite understand.

“Don’t make me chase you a second time, jesus.” You can’t just leave—“ you exhale, breathe, in and out, “Are you okay?”

He stops. He stops because you’ve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.

A part of him, the small part of him that’s not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the inevitable fallout won’t occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isn’t right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.

“I don’t know, im confused—“ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, im uh… i’m fine. “I just need to leave, I have to-“ he swallows. “I can’t. Not right now, I need to do— anything but this.”

He walks out on you and it’s fine.

────────────

Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. It’s. Fine.

Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how you’ve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if it’s ever going to be reversible.

When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. You’re adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. It’s late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldn’t go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).

Everything is fine. To reiterate.

It’s not.. It’s not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? It’s exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldn’t be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?

Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.

And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.

In reality, he’s not. Because, sure, he’s sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But he’s intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and it’s making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he can’t quite believe you’re tangible.

“You look nice, I guess,” he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.

As if the ‘incident’ (as he’s taken to calling it) didn’t tilt his world on its axis.

“You also look nice, I guess.” you retort, and it’s the best you’re going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)

You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?You’re. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.

“What do you think?” you ask, “I might go as you for halloween, it’ll definitely scare the kids.”

“They make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, I’d take that as a compliment,”

It’s a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposing— no.

He wants to say something about how ridiculous you look— but it’s hard to focus, you’re taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. You’re malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which you’ve already done to a painful extent).

“You can’t just touch my stuff.” he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.

“Oh chill out, boy wonder. It’s a pair of glasses,” you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. There’s heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).

Focus.

You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, it’s a sight you’ve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. “There. Oh, were you just upset because you couldn’t see me properly? That’s sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He can see everything.

Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.

He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.

But it’s not good enough.

“You,” he says between messy kisses, “Need to keep your hands to yourself.” — okay, he’s not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.

But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.

He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. You’re bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.

But now, there’s no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god he’s tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).

The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. “This can’t keep happening,” he mumbles against your smeared lips.

“Do you remember last time?” you question. It’s taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But you’re fairly certain this compromising position wouldn’t exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.

Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.

Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some ‘dignified’ extent. “Had you just like this,” you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. “I bet you’d let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?”

And if he weren’t so far gone, he’d protest, he’d tell you that no, this is wrong, because you’re so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldn’t be him.

But you don’t let good men rise, and there’s something so enticing about the depths of hell. He’s not sure he’s good anyway. It’s a complex situation. “You’re a sadist,” he murmurs, breathless, “I wouldn’t.”

Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. He’s nervous, “Could we, like… at least find a bathroom? I’d take a bathroom, even though there’s endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, i’ll just pay— Anything. I’ll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, and—“

“Fuck,” he’s never been the type to swear, “I’ll do anything.” this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.

────────────

French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.

The second you’re both inside your apartment, you’re clattering into things. “I love your eyes,” you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, “Love it when you cry for me.”

You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they might’ve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.

No big deal!

“It’s an involuntary bodily response. You’re a dacryphiliac.” he responds.

There’s not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.

He’s reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.

“It’s not a fetish if I only feel it for you—“

Spencer breaks.

“No-no-no,” he says, too loudly, “You can’t just- say those things. You can’t tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. You’re volatile. Destructive,” he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. You’ve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.

“Why am… Why am I not scared?” he asks, “It’s not like I make you cry…”

“Because there’s no reason to be scared.” you answer simply. And at surface level, it’s true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, you’ve always trusted him. It’s a coveted admission, considering you’re circumspect by nature.

You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. He’s standing there, and you’re not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps you’ve misplaced as enmity for so long.

“You could make me cry,” you state, because if there’s one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, it’s him. It’s always going to be him.

It’s a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.

“Why would I want you to cry? That’s— i’m not even sure how I would go about it.”

You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until you’re hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. “It doesn’t always have to be bad.” you explain, because he’s looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. “Last time,” those words still feel like poison, “When I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.”

He’s staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.

Your hand catches his wrist, and then you’re hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. He’s tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. “Make me cry, boy genius.”

You act like this is the most indecent thing he’s capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, it’s up there on his list, but admittedly he hasn’t really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.

Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then he’s just groaning, cursing Gods he doesn’t believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he won’t commit to.

It’s blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if he’s worshiping something he can’t even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.

His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.

Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that you’re just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.

He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didn’t even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.

And there's knowledge here, but it’s not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when he’s got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.

The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, you’re ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head you’ve received (though you’re sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but it’s wanting, in a way that makes you ache.

“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”

You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, he’d do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.

But he can’t focus, can’t think about anything when you’re reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?

He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, let’s you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.

Your body shudders, and you’re making noises he hasn’t heard before, sounds that could only be described as obscene— and his name, you’re moaning his name, and god, he’s certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.

It’s when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.

You’re messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but you’re gorgeous, and he’d do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that he’s given you. No one else.

“I love your face.” He says, a little bluntly. But it’s true, he does.

So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,

And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.

His knees are bruised. That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when you’ve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. It’s not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after you’ve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, he’s an incriminating sight.

“Losing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.” you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. It’s a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.

“Ironic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.” he mutters.

Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and he’s lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because he’d let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before. You’re seeing him, seeing things he doesn’t even know himself. But there’s nowhere to hide, not while you’re slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that he’s unaccustomed to.

“I won’t go easy on you,” you assure. Even though that’s technically a straight-faced lie. Of course it’ll be more tender than anything else you’ve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. It’s only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.

Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.

“Hands above your head,” you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. “That’s good— good boy. Tell me if they’re too tight,” you say, binding them with his discarded tie.

You stare, and it’s like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, he’d let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.

“Too tight? I’ve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.” he retorts before tugging at the restraints, “Tighter.”

“Didn’t realise you were so into this—“

“Neither did I,” he scoffs, “I’ve never done it before, obviously.”

“Now you have. Congrats, i’ll give you a sticker once we’re done. Gold star, huh?” and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until you’re knotting it in place. Until he’s entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? It’s hard to find fear when you’ve covered him on the field for over a year (he’s prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).

“Yes, thank you. I’ll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.” right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.

And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.

Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.

You’re the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.

You’re lethal, and he’s smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except he’s never been smart when it comes to people.

Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until he’s spilling blood, and it’s a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.

“Sensitive.” you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way you’ve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.

“Are you always like this?” you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. “Poor baby, so touch-starved.”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word sensitive.” he replies, “More susceptible to the fact that you’re touching me, and that I haven’t felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, it’s usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.”

Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.

“Oh you’re a soldier, you suffer so much.“ you state, and it’s condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like you’re witnessing ascension.

It’s pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.

You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where you’re certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe there’s something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.

Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if it’s bad, even if it’s cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.

“Stop mocking me.” he replies, it’s through laboured breath. “Just because I don’t have your proclivity for taking hits doesn’t mean I don’t suffer.”

No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever cared to try. You’re his first.

“I know you suffer,” you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you should’ve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.

Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?

Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. It’s not similar to before: it won’t end after he’s found his release, and it’s not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.

“And you know i’m always going to take the hits for you, regardless.” he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.

“Oh—“ he breathes out. He’s fairly certain he’s supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then he’s retorting, “You could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.”

He’s overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isn’t worthy of being saved. Isn’t worth the effort.

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer.” you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.

“Shit— okay, okay,” he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but it’s just so good.

He’s always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.

He doesn’t even really touch himself. There’s been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But they’re rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.

He’s a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.

He’s never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because he’d always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.

He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, he’d accept it, in its most primal form.

“You get off on this,” he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.

“Well I’d be pretty concerned if I wasn’t getting off on this right now—“

“No,” he pushes, “You like that i’m, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?” he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. “Ruin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. I’ll only come back, i’ve already done it once. Statistically, it’s going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.”

When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until you’re lining him up, until you’re sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.

“You’re so—“ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. “Fuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?”

“You.” he mutters, playing coy. “But you’re a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..”

“I think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.”

“It is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..”

He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.

“Better,” you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? He’s swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.

You know him. The way you touch is like you’re searching for something. Anything about him. It’s like you’re a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you must’ve found them, because you’re suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and it’s all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.

He tugs at his restraints, because he won’t go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows it’s fated that he will inevitably fall. “Please—please untie me, just wanna hold your hand.”

And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until you’re breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. It’s such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly you’re fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.

It’s against your nature, but you can’t help, can’t refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re doing so good f’me. Such a good boy,”

Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.

He grips your hip. That’s the first thing he does once he’s sufficiently sane, well… partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.

He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because he’s sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until you’re on his lap, until you’re sat in your rightful place.

Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.

The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, he’d never be rough with you, he’s all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But it’s overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.

And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, it’s like he’s seeing god in the shape of your cupid’s bow.

“Please, I need—“ he stutters over his words, “If you don’t move, I swear—“ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder— “I swear, I’m gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you can’t leave me like this, please—”

“The Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?” you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.

“No. I’m stating my rights,” he says, “Torture is prohibited.”

“I’m not torturing you—“

You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.” he whimpers.

It’s indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices you’re certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, it’s new. It’s your own first, and you can’t even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.

His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and he’d thank you for it.

You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.

“Please,” he whimpers again— he’s too pretty to be asking so nicely. “I just— I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that I’m not even sure if my body can handle it.”

It’s not dirty talk, it’s more like he’s begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.

And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.

It’s a religious experience, like he’s about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. He’s almost afraid to touch you— to stain something divine, like you’re too much for him. But you’re not.

“I like this. Like you. Like you here. You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, and it’s untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. “so good, so perfect, all I need, please—”

“Stop it.” you bite, preferring him defiant over this— because this opens up wounds you weren’t even aware existed. “Oh fuck, stop it.”

“So good. You’re so good,” he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.

“Says you.”

“Says me.”

You fuck him harder.

“Oh,” is all he can pronounce, little oh’s every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until you’re bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.

And it’s not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. “If being nice got me this, I’d be so nice to you for the rest of my life—“

Another lie. But it’s worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until you’re clenching around him, and he’s there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and there’s nothing but bliss.

“I hate you so much,” you say in the aftermath, and it’s closest you’ve ever gotten to a confession of love.

He laughs, wipes away tears, “Hate you more.”

“Don’t leave this time.” he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, you’re both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.

“Oh i’m going to be so mean tomorrow.” you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.

He can only sigh, stare at you dreamily. “God, is that a promise?”

[lustlovehart]

Modern Monster!Twst... mmm (I need to stop making different variations of the same au LMAO)

Warnings: Human Eating, Blood, influencer!Reader (who is the opposite of MH!Reader in terms of personality. You'll see how 😭), Breaking and Entering, Zombies in your bed

Maybe rather than a monster hunter, you’re an influencer who fakes monster sightings. You record yourself sifting through abandoned places, searching every place, and without fail, something always seems to appear from the shadows, your poor self only narrowly escaping...

Most of your audience knows its, but there are always many who believe its real simply from the sheer horror! It looks so real!

With your camera in hand, you walk into the abandoned asylum, famed in history for its treatments. When patients go mad, they lock their necks with tight collars, old studies believing it would stop the illness from spreading to their heads... Heartslaybul "hospital".

Maybe it's a special live stream. While you're talking the chat begins to explode with worries, their fear seeping into you.

Your friend didn't tell you they were gonna set off the fake that early... You're ready to turn off your camera and search for them, only to be met with a glowing, transparent light. It's similar to the ghost fake you've used a few times before, but... since when was it red?

Realization finally hits you when you turn to the side; pale blue hair holds what looks like your friend's camera, curiously gazing at the contraption splattered with crimson liquid. He carries it above and lets the scarlet drip into his mouth.

You drop your stream onto the floor, not daring to look at the chat, nor your back before you sprint as far as you can. You don't even make it five feet before you're met with decaying limbs wrapping around you, orange hair invading your vision, and a heart-shaped wound on your captors face.

"You like monsters a lot, don't you?" his smile is cocky as his arms envelop your waist, "you wouldn't mind letting one take a bite, yeah?" He's about to take a chunk out of you with his canines before another rotting man appears, except with more stitches than wounds and a height that towers over everything. He's swift to hoist you over his shoulder, out of the gluttonous beast's range.

"You have to share, Ace. It's harder to find food than it was a while ago." You would jump out of his hold, but being eight feet in the air is horrifying.

Any shouts are caught in your throat, especially when another person comes into frame, except... He looks the most normal out of all them, albeit the slight wisp in his body... and the way his mouth is delayed like it doesn't belong there.

"They're kinda cute! Can't believe this frail thing is the one I've been watching!" his bright personality contrasts the dark background, as well as the stifling atmosphere. The corpse holding your friend's camera walks over. His face looks sorry, but the way he licks his lips clean of blood tells a different one.

Your lips tremble; you may not have seen it first hand, but you'd be a fool to believe they survived that. Survive...

You have to...! You really wish you had a gun right now, or maybe even a knife you don't know! Anything!

"Here's you friends... weapon, I think. They were kinda hitting me with it so."

...

"Please don't eat me!!! I've been eating junk for the last few weeks. I promise I probably taste like grease and sugar!" Maybe they're the brain-eating type... "Ah, I'm... stupid! Yeah, my brain doesn't taste good at all!" You continue your blabbering, begging them not to take a bite out of you as you flail. Your legs kick the giant you're on, and each hit has him awkwardly smiling, yet it doesn't stop him from holding you. he doesn't seem phased at all...

If you can somehow get out, the exit to the forest isn't far... In fact! Your apartment isn't far at all!

The red glow you saw first float in front of you, the stitched corners of his mouth twitching into a devious smile.

"No one's broken the rules of coming here in awhile. Even humans have gone as far to make rules themself about entering, yet you disobeyed them too." he leans closer, dark hollow eyes staring into yours. "You broke them; what is your reason?"

"I saw a picture of you online and thought you were really cute so I came to find you!"

That, is what seems to shock everyone into paralysis.

You quickly flip yourself over, your back hitting the floor before running towards your exit. You can hear them all running after you, yet when you turn, the one that catches your attention is the scarlet ghost. His eyes are distant, yet they seem fixated entirely on you.

...

Your breath is heavy as you fall down your door, processing what just happened. How... How do you explain your friends disappearance? If anything... You'll be the first suspect.

What do you, what do you do, what do you??

The stress has you passing out on your floor, your whole body trembling in fear at the reality that you have almost lost your life.

In your slumber, you fail to realize the five figures that stare at you through your window.

...

You shift in your covers, the alarm on your clock waking you up. Slowly, you lean up, your mattress creaking from the movement. A dream, a horrible dream... Your worries lift off your chest at the prospect. It was so realistic...

The sight of a bloody camera and cracked phone makes your initial relief disappear.

"Man, I didn't realize how comfy beds were now...!" the voice has you look to your left a rotten moving corpse under your sheets with you, the heart-wounded monster smiling at your shock. The shift of a different zombie has you looking to your right, pale blue emerging from under the blankets.

"He made me sleep here, i'm so sorry-"

"I did not; you came in here on your own Deuce-!"

You jump out of your bed, your body hitting the wall as photos fall to the floor. "How... How...? How the hell-?!" You reach for a fork you had lying around on your desk, an unfortunately familiar large hand gently grabbing your wrist and guiding the utensil away from the zombies.

"Sorry, silver works better on vampires." A spark of electricity leaves him when he exchanges this fact, the shock barely caressing your skin. You leap at the sensation, metal sounding off the floor. The corpse complied of different flesh, smiles at you as if you were simply jumpy, not absolutely horrified.

Those exist too?!

The curtains to your room are closed, minimal light seeping through. It might be cause for your current predicament. You swear, as they talk to you, a pair of green irises stare you down, and right when you're about to direct attention to the entity, shadows wave you goodbye.

It's as if you've given up your drive when they watch you sit on the floor, blankly staring at their rose tyrant.

"Can you at least kill me painlessly before you eat me...?" They all stare at the sudden willingness you have for their hunger... Their shock subsides when they notice the way you have a far-away camera recording them. It's no worry to them though; it's not live.

Riddle's apparitional form floats forward, the first one to break the stalemate. You shut your eyes tight, sticking your arm out for him like he was a vampire rather than a ghost.

as long as someone, anyone really, finds the footage...

You can go out famous for your mysterious death!

"Don't be foolish." Riddles cold wispy hand suddenly solidifies, his warm palm taking your hand. "the only way to truly stop a rule-breakers transgressions, is to make sure they can never do them again." They're gonna kill you. They're gonna-

"We're staying right here." Wait, is he saying...

Are they gonna live with you!?

A/n: I was actually gonna do all the dorms for this but realized i need to stop doing long posts for really small stuff 😔

It's not clear, but all of them actually know who you are solely from the phone Riddle got Cater when he went out as a human. he found you and then showed you all to them, collectively agreeing you'd be a good meal.

Riddle thought you were pretty on sight, but knows it's in his best interest to stay rule-abiding and just stick to consuming you. It must be destiny, the influencer they've all been secretly crushing on watching, said they thought he was pretty.

Cue the rest of Modern! Monster Twst about a fake monster investigator and the very real monsters who start living with them solely out of affection <3

[roxoxoxoxy]

Hi, can you pls do a fic or head canon of ex bf anton who misses reader ex?

Includes:- pathetic Anton kind of, open ended, mild angst? Very mild angst.

I don't know if you wanted them to get back together or not so I left it open ended, tysm for requesting <333

Many much typo, no much Grammer, I very dumb dumb

"Oh and there's this really good ramen place right around the corner, I remember going there and...blah blah blah blah"

Anton can practically feel his brain leaking out of his ears from boredom, he feels like an asshole thinking this but he really wishes he never agreed to go on this date. He tried to argue against the idea but after watching him mope around their house like a kicked puppy sungchan insisted he at least try to have some fun and forget about you. The problem is that, being on a date, he can't think of anything but you and how he wants you to be here instead of her.

There isn't anything wrong with her, the girl he's on a date with, she's pretty and seems nice. They both have a lot in common, at least on paper, but he just can't do this right now. She isn't you, and you're the only one he wants. He isn't sure when it happened, when he got so comfortable that you would never leave him that he let himself get carried away. Being an Idol is a taxing job with little free time and slowly he started loosing focus, spending his free time playing games or sleeping instead of trying to spend his time with you.

It's not like he didn't know it upset you, you were getting increasingly agitated at his lack of effort but....he just assumed you'd never leave. Life felt so whole and good with you that he forgot there was a time before you, that you could leave if you ever wished. So when you told him you both needed to talk he was as dismissive as ever, that was until you said you were ending things for good. Antons world shattered that day.

He's been walking around like a ghost for the past month, it's like a part of him is gone and he can't get it back. He wishes he had begged you to take him back that day, he was too prideful to do anything but accept it at the time but now all he wants to do is go back in time and promise he'll change, that he'll love you like you deserve. He feels like a fool, loosing the best thing that's ever happened to him.

"Are you even listening?" Her voice snaps him out of his trance. He looks around, a bit embarrassed.

"uh....I'm...I'm sorry." Is all he can muster up to say, because he really is sorry for wasting her time like this. She just sighs, poking around at her food, looking annoyed. He doesn't say anything to make her feel better, eating his food in silence till the bill comes.

He sighs when he finally leaves the restaurant, sitting down on his car and sinking into his seat. He's miserable without you, up until this point he'd been hesitant to accept it but it's true. His life isn't the same without you in it.

He opens up his phone, scrolling through his contacts till he finds yours. 'Future wife (🤞🏻)' he thought the contact name was sweet at the time, especially since he was so sure you would be his future wife but now it just hurts to look at. He contemplates back and forth between calling you, it's pathetic, he thinks to himself, you've probably moved on and he'd just be making a fool out of himself, he just needs to move on and give it time. He calls anyway.

The phone seems to ring forever, it's only rung twice but it sure feels like eternity, his heart is beating out of his chest and he's immediately regretting his actions. What if you don't pick up? What if you do pick up? What's worse? If he cuts the call now you'll still get the notification, god be probably seems so desperate-

"...Anton?" he lets go of a breath he didn't know he was holding when he hears your voice. Surely you care about him at least a little bit if you picked up.

"...Can we talk?.... please just hear me out, I love you, I'm so sorry"

If you guys have any ideas future fics, my ask box is open :3

[rockingbytheseaside]

Hi! It's me again! I'm here hoping to inspire you or simply share some thoughts and ideas!

1. What if we knew the harbingers before they became harbingers. For example when piętro was still studying to become a court mage.(At least I think that he was a court mage), or when Capitano was training to become a soldier and we were a doctor or a nurse, we knew dottore when he was a kid and so on and so forth. They believe we are long dead but surprise bitch we are still kicking. I thought that maybe in Dottores and Pantalones part we were an adeptai or simply something that lives a lot longer than humans. And surprise bitch number two we were looking for them the entire time because you know we love them. The moment they see us they think they see a ghost or something that came back to hunt them for their mistakes.

2. And my second idea is much more wholesome. We are simply a kid that adopted them as our fathers/uncles. And they don't want to get rid of us because we remind them of well them when they were kids. Imagine one day they come to a meeting with a kid hiding under there Coat and when ask they are like the meme with Spencer from Icarly with the smoothie and the ostrich.

So yeah these are my brain dead ideas and if they are interesting or something you would like to read more of I would be happy to send more

But anyway remember to take care of yourself first!

(Wha- You said piętro! The keyboard said piętro!!! Only I am allowed to misspel Pierro's name as piętro 20 times a day, dlaczego masz polską klawiaturę?!!)

✧ I always kind of headcannoned Reader as a person capable of living many years - either because they are Khaenri'ahn, another species, or an Adeptus; it's not really up to me. Whatever intricate details people like to imagine are up to them. ✧ Imagine knowing a Harbinger centuries before they were a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps you and Pierro were apprentices to the higher sages in Khaenri'ah, spending countless times sharing secret vows before the Cataclysm separated you. Perhaps you were Capitano's first-ever formidable opponent, one who held immense respect for you as a warrior and admired your enigmatic capabilities, yearning for another battle with you. Perhaps, you knew the young boy Zandik way back in Sumeru and you are the only being left who remembers the ruby-red eyes staring at you with determined wonder. ✧ No matter the backstory or origins of the past, this Harbinger never forgot you, and despite the 500 years of separation, this person would now use all his power and intel to seek you out. Clinging to ancient memories of the past, he still yearns to see a glimpse of you. Even if it means to reach the Abyss and back, he is still seeking.

That, in my opinion, is the best trope for the Fatui fics. Even when I write about different scenarios.

✧ A wholesome Father/Uncle/Teacher Harbinger to smaller reader is just a recipe for comic chaos. You have this high and mighty Fatuus, who with a single gaze can deep his subordinates into silence, yet now this same man is running around the Zapolyarny Palace, trying to catch you because you refuse to do your homework. You will either exhaust him to death, or he will exhaust you from running away and causing shenanigans.

One way or another it ends with both of you dozing off an armchair later that evening. The Harbinger holding you in his arms, wrapped up in a comfy blanket, while he rest his weary head on his knuckles, the fireplace crackling nearby. <3 ✧ As always, lovely suggestions, my friend! I will tag you if I manifest them into fully-fledged fics. Thank you, and hope you're doing well

[kindersurprisebacterium]

Content (Ghost/Soap/Reader)

This is part of the Polyamory Series

CW: threesome, polyamory, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, cunillingus, anal fingering, anal sex, discussion of sexual boundaries, biting, aftercare, safe sane and consensual, double penetration

Gender Neutral AFAB Reader

WC: 2.3k

I’m writing this at work, forgive any formatting errors

A small pool of drool formed on my sweatpants. Glancing down at the man laying in my lap, I smiled. I ran my fingers through his hair, toying with his curls. He looked peaceful below me. His plush lips were parted, and his thick blonde eyelashes framed his closed eyes oh so nicely.

I turned to the Scot beside me. His blue eyes focused on the screen in front of us. It was some horror movie he’d begged us to watch.

“Johnny, could you get me another drink?” I asked, pouting my lip.

“‘S the big guy asleep?” He glanced down at Simon. I wordlessly nodded. “Course I can, doll.” He leaned in, pressing his lips to mine. As he pulled away, he flashed me that smirk of his. I couldn’t help the smile that crept across my face.

The cushions shifted as he rose. I shifted my focus back to the screen. A woman with dirt smeared across her face climbed through an air duct. Her panicked panting blended in with the ambience of the background.

Simon smacked his lips, nudging his face into my leg with a soft grunt. I smiled, twirling his blonde locks around my finger.

“Here you are,” Johnny said, passing me an opened can of beer. I took a swig of the drink, blue eyes watching me closely. He threw his arm over my shoulder and leaned in to press a swift kiss to my temple.

The air duct collapsed. With a large clatter, the pipe landed on the concrete floor. As the dust settled, the half-naked woman crawled out of the vent, chest heaving as she coughed. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Johnny grinning brightly, teeth catching his bottom lip.

“Wait for it,” he said, squeezing my shoulder.

Suddenly the leg of the killer appeared in the corner of the screen, heavy footstep echoing through the warehouse. Screaming sounded over the speakers as the woman scrambled to stand.

“Can I ask you a question?” He turned to look at me. His leg was bouncing, heel tapping against the wood flooring.

“Of course, Johnny.” I gave him a reassuring smile, resting my unoccupied hand on his thigh.

“Do you think you could take both me and Simon?” His leg bounced even faster, blue eyes skimming my face for any reaction.

“I mean, the one time I tried anal, it hurt…a lot. I just don’t want you guys to hurt me.” I glanced down at the sleeping figure in my lap, taking another sip of my drink.

“It shouldn’t hurt, doll. I promise I’ll prep you good.” His large palm cupped my face, tilting my chin up to look at him. His thick brows furrowed, lips curling down into a frown. “I promise we’d take care of you.”

My stomach swirled with excitement. It wasn’t that our escapades were boring per se, if anything, they were the opposite. The prospect of having so much attention on me stirred something in my brain.

“Yeah, okay then. I’d do it.” I nodded. His eyes widened, lips curling into a smile. In an instant, his leg ceased its movement. He pressed a chaste kiss to my cheek.

Squelching echoed over the speakers, drawing both of our attention.

“Shit- we missed it.” He sighed.

-

Johnny pushed the door open. The three of us stumbled inside. With a thud, I tossed my purse onto the dining table. I gripped onto Simon’s arm as I kicked off my shoes. He glanced down at me, hand undoing his tie.

Simon leaned in, holding my face in his sweaty palm. His lips met mine with a bruising force. He groaned against my lips, thick brows furrowing as he pushed me toward the living room.

“I wanna fuck your ass,” he grunted. I pulled back, glancing at Johnny. His eyes were wide, flicking between me and the Brit.

“Do I have to…” my words droned on. Both men quirked an eyebrow, urging me to continue. “Douche?”

The two men looked at each other. Johnny parted his lips, as if he was about to speak, only to close them. Slowly, they turned their attention back to me.

“I don’t,” Simon shrugged, hands groping my ass.

“I do sometimes. It’s your choice, doll.” Johnny leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to my cheek. I leaned into Simon, pressing the side of my face against his toned chest. Looking up at Johnny, I nodded.

Images of the scenario flooded my mind, making my stomach flutter with excitement. Both men using me, splaying me open. Large hands on my body. Sweat dripping down my skin. It all seemed so enticing.

“Okay, let’s do it then.” I spoke softly, fingers toying with Simon’s suit jacket. Simon’s palms slid up my back, fingers wrapping around my waist. “The anal, not the…” I droned on.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Johnny added.

I pulled away just enough to look up at the blonde. His brown eyes scanned my flushed face for any sense of hesitancy. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and tugged him down to my height.

“Simon, I want you to fuck my ass.”

-

“So good f’ us,” Simon cooed, pressing a kiss to my cheek. I lifted my hips as Johnny tugged my underwear down my legs. Ghost hooked his hand underneath one of my knees, tugging my leg to my chest. I glanced at the man laying between my legs, and at the man beside me. My teeth caught my bottom lip, the taste of iron flooding my senses as I bit down.

“Are you okay with this?” Johnny asked, thumb stroking my inner thigh.

“Yeah,” I nodded. The scot shot Simon a quick glance before turning his attention back to me. He leaned in, licking a thick stripe up my cunt. I tilted my head back against the pillows. My plush lips parted as an unrestrained moan fell from my tongue.

His tongue flicked against my clit. I reached forward, sliding my fingers into his Mohawk. He groaned against my cunt as I tugged him forward. Simon popped the cap of the lube open. Johnny held his digits out. I watched as Simon spread a thick line over Johnny’s fingers. Johnny smirked against my cunt, tongue still laving over my clit.

I squeezed my eyes shut as his fingers circled my hole. Simon leaned in, cupping my cheek with his palm. His chapped lips pressed against my cheek and down my jaw, leaving behind a trail of wet kisses.

“You’re doing so good, lovie,” Simon cooed. I whined as Johnny pushed his finger past my entrance. He moaned against my cunt. A spark of pleasure rocketed up my spinal cord. My thighs twitched, hole clenching around his finger. He inched his digit forward, blue eyes watching as I swallowed his finger.

He pulled out, starting up at a slow pace. In and out. In and out.

“So tense,” Johnny mumbled against my cunt.

“Are you okay?” Simon asked, tilting my chin up with one of his thick fingers.

“Yeah, I’m just nervous.”

Johnny’s lips wrapped around my clit, sucking harshly on the bud. I whined, rocking my hips against his face. The tension in my core melted as he ate me out with fervor, mouth not leaving me for a second. His finger sped up, squelching with every knuckle-deep thrust.

“There we go. Add another, Johnny.” Simon said, slowly stroking his cock.

The brunette withdrew his fingers, only to add another digit. My vision grew unfocused as tension slowly pooled in my stomach. I buried my face in the crook of Simon’s neck, moaning against his collarbone.

“Feelin’ good, lovie?” Simon asked, fingers carding through my hair. I nodded, hot tears welling in my eyes. “Add another.”

I choked out a sob as another digit slid inside of me, stretching me out. My thighs quivered, nerve endings igniting with pleasure.

“Oh, fuck- I’m gonna cum,” I moaned, eyes locking onto the man between my legs. Johnny pulled back, bringing his unoccupied palm to my clit. His blue eyes locked onto my twitching cunt, teeth sinking into my inner thigh.

My jaw went slack, eyes painfully rolling to the back of my head. Hot tears streaked my flushed cheeks. I whined as I came undone on his fingers. I clenched around his fingers, vision going white. My skin tingled as jolts of electric pleasure washed over my limbs. I twitched, muscles tensing under his touch.

As he withdrew his fingers, I suddenly went limp in Simon’s arms. My sweaty chest heaved as I gasped for air. Johnny leaned in, gently brushing away strands of damp hair from my face. Simon pressed a soft kiss to my temple.

“Stay with them while I get water,” Simon said, shifting his weight on the mattress. The springs beneath us squeaked as he rose. Johnny tugged me into his embrace, arms wrapping around my back. His stubble rubbed against my neck as he trailed wet kisses along my skin. He whispered soft praises, fingers idly tracing patterns into my skin.

“Sit up for me,” Simon said, sitting down beside me. He grabbed my wrist, tugging me up. I took a hold of the water bottle in his hand and brought it to my lips. His thick fingers reached out, tucking my hair behind my ear.

“Small sips,” Johnny said with a kiss to my cheek.

I tilted the bottle back, quenching my parched tongue.

“Nae chugging! I said sip.” Johnny frowned. I handed the bottle back to Simon with a long exhale. The two men glanced at each other, and then back at me.

“Do you want to keep going?” Simon asked. I nodded.

“Course I do.”

Johnny grinned, laying on his back. He curled two fingers.

“Come here, then.” He caught his bottom lip between his teeth. I swung one leg over his hip, straddling his waist. I wrapped my fingers around his cock, dragging his head through my slit.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned, hands gripping my hips tight. My eyelids fluttered close as I slowly sunk down on his length. A low groan rose from his chest as he pulled me down onto his length. I gripped the headboard, using it for leverage as I slowly rose. His hands guided my hips up and down on his cock.

“You ready for me?” Simon asked, squirting lube into his palm. I watched as he slowly stroked his cock, spreading the lube over his heated skin.

“Yeah, go slow at first.”

“Course I will.” He grunted, leaning in to press a kiss to my lips.

“Give me one too,” Johnny frowned. Sighing, the Brit leaned in and pressed his lips to Johnny.

“Happy?” He asked, moving to kneel behind me.

“Very.”

He settled his hand on my waist, fingers splaying over my stomach. His cockhead nudged my entrance. Squeezing my eyes shut, I whined as he pushed past the ring of tight muscle.

“Oh, fuck!” Johnny sputtered, “squeezing me-”

“Come on, open up f’ me.” Simon groaned, inching himself inside of me. The air was pulled from my burning lungs as he slowly pushed forward. Simon reached around, rubbing quick circles into my clit. I tossed my head back against his shoulder, panting out shallow breaths. His palm landed harshly on my cunt. I clenched around his cock, a desperate whine escaping from my chest.

“There you go,” he grunted as he bottomed out.

“Fuck, Si, I can feel you,” Johnny moaned.

I felt Johnnys cock twitch inside of me. My head spun, clit throbbing at the sensation of being split open. Sweaty palms groped every bit of flesh they could reach.

“Move, please-” I groaned, legs quivering beneath me. The two men slowly rocked their hips in and out of me. Tears brimmed in my eyes, my vision going unfocused.

Johnny’s hand landed on my ass, flesh blossoming with irritation. I whined, clenching around both men. Their groans reverberated around the small bedroom.

Simon grabbed my chin, tilting my head to the side. He pressed kisses against my sweaty skin, teeth grazing my pulse point. He bit down hard enough for blood droplets to rise to the surface of my skin.

“You like being stuffed with our cocks?” Simon grunted against my neck.

“Yes- fuck!” My head spun, limbs going limp in Simon’s hold. I fell forward into Johnny’s chest, drool spilling from my parted lips. Static washed over my body as I gushed around the two men. Both men grunted,

gripping my hips tighter as they fucked into my convulsing cunt.

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ last like this,” Johnny moaned, wrapping his arms around my back. He bent his knees, rocking his hips up into me. Simon groaned, matching his pace with the Scot.

“Oh, fuck! I’m gonna cum,” Simon moaned, leaning forward. His sweaty palm soothed across my back as his hips grew erratic. Johnny whined, hips stilling inside of me as he came. Simon followed suit, fucking me through his orgasm, before slowly coming to a stop.

The two men panted, hands running over my sweaty body. Simon’s hands wrapped around my waist pulling me into his warm embrace. My eyelids fluttered open, taking in the brown eyes before me. His lips curled into a smile. Johnny was soon at my side, fingers brushing stray hairs from my face.

“Johnny, would you mind running a bath?” Simon asked, looking up at the Scot. The brunette leaned in, pressing his lips to Simon.

“Course.”

-

I leaned back against Johnny’s chest as he scrubbed my skin with a cloth. Simon sat opposite us, knees tucked to his chest.

“You sure you’re okay?” Simon asked again, fingers skimming up my thigh.

“Yes, Simon. You can stop asking.” I laughed, tilting my head back against Johnny’s shoulder. Simon’s brown eyes flicked toward Johnny.

Johnny’s chest heaved as he cleared his throat with a cough. I turned my head, looking up at the man. He folded his hands neatly in my lap, pursing his lips tightly.

“Would you…want to do this again?”

Masterlist

[midnightsmusings]

-Kneel, Alpha- Pt. 2

I did it! This was harder than expected, getting the dynamics right with Ghost's reluctance to accept his submission. Nevertheless! Smut is here: (although I apologize I didn't mean for it to be this LONG I just had so much to say about these two)

This is WAY different than the wip I posted so enjoy that as a little peek into how my brain works I guess?

-CW: 18+ MDNI, handjob, top omega Soap, bottom alpha Ghost, Ghost's a little mean to himself

Ghost swallowed, groaning as Soap's hand squeezed. He was waiting for the laughter at the way an alpha was acting needy from an Omega snarling and shouting at him.

Yet when he glanced up after the silence became too agonizing he didn't find disgust. Instead Ghost watched as the realization on Soap's face quickly turned to pure want.

Ghost let out another sound, embarrassingly whinier than the last one as that dark gaze trailed down to his lap. Flushing under his mask Ghost squirmed knowing even through the humiliation and stress of this whole ordeal his pants were still tight. Straining up against the warm palm.

"I can't be anything like what an alphas supposed to be" Ghost muttered through a clenched jaw. Still trying to save face even with the omega's hand squeezing his clothed cock. His voice was tight as everything he'd been holding back was now out. Ghost felt flayed open and exposed now, seen as the sorry excuse for an alpha he was.

"You're everything I want in an alpha ye old fashioned git" Soap finally said, his own voice lowered and equally strained. This was how Ghost chose to explain? Make him feel up his bulge? God Soap was hopelessly in love with him.

Soap couldn't resist giving another squeeze, just to hear that low groan again, to see those eyes roll and feel Ghost's length twitch.

"Ye think..after a life of me being told to quiet down, to be more submissive I'd fall for a partner who would want ta' tell me the same thing?"

Soap sighs fondly, anger flooding out of him. He figured the man brushing him off was another part of that front he put up, gruff and unapproachable. Figured Ghost was wary of letting his guard down after the shit he's been through. Soap never guessed it was because the alpha would melt so easily at a sharp tone and a some rough handling. Would hate that side of himself.

Soap knew a talk needed to happen. The stubborn alpha wasn't in a place to voice his wants, probably wouldn't be without a lot of work.

So, he leaned back and lifted his hand off the cock that was just begging to be rubbed raw. Soap's own length hardening at the low pained whine Ghost let out from the full loss of touch.

"Och I know" he cooed sweet and teasing at the halfhearted glare sent his way before turning more serious, gaze sharpening and taking in each minuscule reaction.

"Now yer gonna go shut and lock that door" Soap said with a commanding tilt as he jerked his head towards the still wide open door of Ghost's office.

Ghost sat, mind whirling as he looked up at Soap, thinking of nothing but his ache for relief and the man's commanding tone. Eventually his mind cleared in understanding.

It was an out. Soap was giving him an out.

A subtle one, but one nonetheless.

Ghost stood and walked stiffly to the door, body tense warring with himself between using this option and walking out that door...or shutting it and accepting he was a soft and shite alpha.

Soap watched with bated breath as Ghost hesitated, gloved hand tight around the knob before the man finally shut the door and locked it with a loud click. Soap watches with a grin as he turned, looking surprisingly bashful.

"Good lad, come sit that pretty arse back down" Soap commanded kicking the chair out towards him with a smirk. His blood was thrumming and scent deepening with arousal at the sight of the large alpha following his orders so well, even if he was still putting up that bratty act.

Ghost let out a soft growl, irritated the way his cheeks heated up at that praise but stomped over. Sure he shut that door, signaled he wanted this but that didn't mean he could stomach acting like an obedient welp.

"Isn't that what you are though?" His mind helpfully supplied.

As soon as Ghost slumped back in the chair Soap reached his free hand up to grasp his angled jaw, tugging at the fabric of his mask.

Ghost felt the fabric sliding over his skin, only reacting with a snapping of teeth just shy of Soap's fingers but otherwise letting him tug it up.

He couldn't hide the flush deepening on his half exposed face at Soap's teasing chuckle from his halfhearted attempt.

"Bite me if ye want but I'm fuckn kissing ya" Soap said eyes dark and blood thrumming in his veins.

Ghost paused, cock throbbing as Soap leaned down. The words weren't a growl or a warning, they were said with a casual acceptance that had Ghost melting back into the chair and his scarred lips slipping open in answer.

Soap hummed as the man went pliant under him, soft pants escaping his mouth. Soap didn't actually worry about being bit the closer he got to the Alpha.

He would wear Ghost's teeth marks proudly and knew he was just struggling to accept Soap wanted this. Wanted him

"I'll bite you if you don't kiss me" Ghost grumbled pressing his teeth into Soap's thumb impatiently as the omega just looked.

Ghost was completely undone, aching and getting exactly what he's been missing for so long. At least he would if Soap hurried up.

With a narrowed yet fond gaze Soap finally sealed their lips together and twin groans of relief rang out. They moved together desperately, teeth clashing and desperate sounds being swallowed as Ghost shifted forward in the chair as far as he could. Soap smiled against his lips and pushed him back down, a warning squeeze to his cock as a silent command to stay still.

"Ye didn't think I was holdin back too?" Soap growls against Ghost's mouth once he finally pulls back. He bit at Ghost's notched upper lip before diving in for another sloppy kiss. Soap was more confident now that he's put it all together. Licking into the alphas mouth unashamedly while keeping his grip on Ghost's cock just shy of enough.

"I didn't-you never...fuckn hell" Ghost stumbled over his words, panting and reeling. His mind stuck on the hand torturously squeezing his cock and the tongue in his mouth. His head was blank, any hope of defending his choices going out the window under Soap's ability to make him feel so small.

The scent of the omega was saturated around him, it wasn't like the usual sickly sweet scent that made Ghost's stomach roll. No, Soap's scent was harsh and smoky, like a wildfire.

Soap just chuckled down at the man, delighted to see his walls crumbling.

Instead of going back for more, flooding the alphas mouth with the taste of him Soap stood back up. He stroked Ghost's spit slick lips his fingers. The touch reverent and savoring this moment despite the heat and need thrumming between them.

He felt the clenching of Ghost's jaw, saw the war of emotions in his eyes and decided to keep prodding. Knew it wouldn't end how it did last time based on the length under his palm only getting harder.

"Didnae not think I might be worried an alpha wouldn't want some hardheaded omega who wanted ta take control?"

Those words finally got through to Ghost, his squirming ceasing as he blinked up at the man dumbly for a moment. Soap wanted control?

Ghost groaned a low pained noise at the confirmation. There was still a tinge of irritation in Soap's scent but under that Ghost scented want and desire. His gloved hands clenched on the arm rests of his chair as he took a deep breath in, his hips immediately jerked up into Soap's hand, rocking with intent now.

"Shite-god Johnny" he panted out, eyes lidded as he looked up at Soap. None of his swirling thoughts would it past his clenched teeth.

"I'd give it to you, anything you asked for" he wanted to say, but the words were choked back by another rumbling moan leaving his lips.

Ghost's actions always spoke louder anyways.

Soap just clicked his tongue at the needy motions, his own cock throbbing at the sight the alpha made. Ghost's thighs clenching as he practically humped Soap's hand. While it took a lot of force to take his hand away when all he wanted to do was take, he had to teach a lesson here.

"Ah ah, greedy" he chided, humming at Ghost's irritated growl from the loss of stimulation. He caught Ghost's thick arm as it shot down to his lap, intending to finish what Soap stopped. Soap just shook his head with another click of his tongue.

"Cmon now Ghost, ye gotta start asking for what you want"

Ghost let out a drawn out groan, head dropping back as he keeps getting denied stimulation. He worked his jaw for a moment, fingers trailing up Soap's arm that held his own back from giving himself the relief the omega was drawing out.

"Fuckn 'ell it's been so long just do anything" Ghost got out finally, skin buzzing and flushed hoping desperately that was enough for the touch to resume. He would die before admitting his tone was begging.

"There's a good lad" Soap hummed far too pleased and smug as he pressed a smacking kiss to Ghost's lips.

"We'll work on mannners aye?" Soap chuckled tone full of promise as he tilted his head down at Simon, delighting in the alpha's clear desperation for him. It was heady, having the elusive Ghost groaning under him, hard and dripping.

"Been achin for it huh?" Soap rumbled, hand moving from his arm up to squeeze over his bicep and finally to his neck.

Ghost arched up, nodding desperately along to the man's words and wanting the touch on his neck to tighten, to claim.

However, what came out of his mouth was a shaky, barely convincing rebuttal.

"No, take care of m'self fine" Ghost grunted his head arching into the long fingers sliding under the mask at his nape.

"Oh aye that so?" Soap retorted with that damned teasing and knowing chuckle that had Ghost sure he was going to burst untouched in his pants.

"Go on then, show me how good ya take care of yerself" Soap ordered close to his ear, giving a silent tug to the bottom of his mask but otherwise leaving it alone.

Ghost didn't even hesitate before ripping the fabric off, body shivering at the command and almost completely coming out of his chair to rear up and claim Soap's mouth, silencing the words that had him crumbling too fast.

"Bloody hell stop teasing" Ghost growled and bared his teeth when Soap pulled away again after a lick to his lips, pressing down on his broad shoulders to settle him in the chair again.

"Shh cmon lemme look at ya" Soap huffed grinning at the low guttural whine that left the man's lips as his hand tangled in his blond hair and tugged. "There's my bonnie alpha" Soap cooed eyes raking over Ghost's face unabashedly, watching how the pretty flush over his cheeks highlighted the various scars cutting through the pale skin.

Soap wanted to lavish each deep mark on his body with a kiss. Ached to replace each memory of pain with the softness of his lips and gentle nips of his teeth as he left his own loving mark over them. Ghost shifted in his chair, growing impatient as his hips twitched up in need. He felt fuzzy at the way Soap was holding his chin tight, casually staring at him as long as he wanted.

Usually it would make Ghost's skin crawl but right now he just felt..adored. It was a feeling an alpha should balk at, should puff up at but instead it made Ghost melt a little. He yearned for this, to be lavished with attention and praise.

Ghost's gloved hands trailed mindlessly down to his lap, a gruff moan slipping past his parted lips as he finally pressed into the bulge there but didn't allow himself to go any further, instead looked up at Soap with wide, pleading eyes. He wouldn't, couldn't ask for permission but needed it all the same.

"There's a lad go on" Soap urged, drinking in that desperate and needy gaze. It took a lot of restraint to not wrap his own hand around the red and pulsing cock as Ghost finally undid his pants, both of them groaning as it was freed.

Even for an alpha Ghost was big, uncut and twitching. Ghost wrapped a gloved hand around the base, as he squeezed his head fell back against the chair. Eyes shutting tight with a choked off moan.

"Steamin' Jesus beautiful fuckn' thing look at you" Soap groaned stepping even closer into the alpha's space, forcing his thick thighs open and tightening his hold in his blond hair.

Soap's eyes were stuck on Ghost's cock, the way it leaked with each upstroke of his hand, still gloved and surly adding a rough texture that Ghost didn't seem to mind.

The prominent vein along the bottom just begging to be licked. Soap's mouth watered, he was transfixed and utterly gone.

Ghost was reduced to pants and moans, words gone to him as he kept his eyes squeezed shut, not wanting to acknowledge the omega standing over him, praising him, fuck guiding him through this.

His hips jerked up as Soap's words kept tumbling out of his lips, hand tugging his hair and forcing his head back up for a kiss that was all teeth.

Ghost knew he shouldn't like this. Shouldn't be leaking precum like an omega leaking slick at being under Soap's control but here he was, already on the edge after just a few strokes and growled commands.

"Soap fuck-I'm gonna" Ghost gasped, words cutting off with a choked moan as the omega slid from his wide open lips to his neck, harsh bites combined with soft kisses were making him dizzy and Ghost shuddered as his knot grew. Pulsing and an angry red.

"Tha's a good alpha, now cum for me" Soap said with a commanding growl. Ghost shook his head for a moment, a low hesitant whine leaving his lips as he struggled against the overwhelming rush of pleasure.

The second he spilled over this would become all too real. Soap stoked this side of him, the side he's been ignoring for decades and Ghost wasn't sure how to just let it happen.

"Be good and cum" Soap rumbled. He noticed Ghost getting lost in his head and that wouldn't do.

He reached down, wrapping his calloused hand around the alpha's pulsing knot and squeezed, relishing in the snarling moan Ghost let out.

Ghost's orgasm was wrenched from him as soon as Soap touched his cock. Their hands bumping as Ghost's worked furiously now, immediately responding to Soap's demand.

Ropes of cum landed on the front of Soap's pants embarrassingly fast. Ghost worked himself through it, panting heavily and open mouthed, the orgasm feeling like it lasted hours as cum steadily leaked out.

He'd never had such a satisfying release, his body slumping boneless in the chair and face nuzzling into the omegas neck after finally softening.

"Bonnie thing ye are, how copy?" Soap murmured tone soft as he guided his face out of his neck, gaze raking over him and taking in his lax posture. The alpha flushed and looking fucked out.

Soap felt pride surge through him, reducing Ghost to this with barely a touch had him clutching the man tighter. Determined to never let him go now.

Ghost couldn't get words out, simply pressed a tired kiss to Soap's wrist that was near his face, the omega's hand still holding his hair in a grounding grip.

Soap hummed, smile turning soft as he stroked the sweaty strands away from Ghost's forehead, leaning down and running his nose from cheek to neck and back, scent marking him greedily.

"Theres a good boy under all that growlin aye?" He teased softly before leaning back to gently tuck him back into his pants, shushing his overstimulated growls.

Ghost just watched with lidded eyes as Soap grabbed his hand and licked his glove clean of the cum. Ghost was sure if he didn't just have his soul drained out of him, he'd cum again from the sight.

"Shite I think love you I love you I-" Ghosts brain chanted like a broken record as he watched Soap's soft lips suck over his thumb, the leather shiny with spit now.

"Up ye get Ghost, we're gonna get clean 'n talk" Soap said after a moment of them basking in the silence and the scent of their combined desire. He pat Ghost's thigh expectantly.

Ghost quickly took his silent declaration of love back and narrowed his eyes up at the omega with a grumble, refusing to move and espically refusing to talk.

"No" he grunted simply sitting and admiring the sight of his cum staining Soap's own pants, the man would smell like him for a while now.

Soap let out a huff, hand tangling roughly in the back of his hair and forcing his gaze up at him.

"Yes or yer not cummin for a week" he retorted sternly with a raised eyebrow and well-

Ghost immediately stood up on shaky legs and followed.

Taglist <3 : @toons-boop-boop

[too-much-tma-stuff]

Crack idea Danny using the Lazarus pit ends up finding about Nanda Parbat and Ra al Ghul deciding to use his ghost King abilities decides that he's charging Ra al Ghul rent for the use of the Lazarus pits by living with him

He was kicked out by the Phantom parents at 15 for being a half gifts and the de-age half ghost Ellie and Danny needs a place that's safe for them

So Danny becomes a League of assassins definitely a not human roommate sometimes it's like Danny's not even there but out of nowhere you can just catch a pair of blue or green glowing guys standing in the room wouldn't even tiny your pair of green eyes in bundled up in Danny's arms

Or sometimes Danny will just come out of nowhere and hand Ra al Ghul Ellie in a baby sling and then in front of everyone can open a portal to the internet realm because he has something to go do as their King and he can't take Ellie

Danny stayed there until he was 19 during all this time he was a family like figure to Damien and the one that helped Jason with his brain deadness after getting up Lazarus pits

Jason and Danny also someone had a little bit of something going on but never were able to pursue it as Danny terrifies Ra al Ghul even if the immortal assassin will never admit it so he does not let them get into the business of the legal a lot

Danny also be using them like free babysitters hey Talia you're free hope my daughter real quick I got to go hunt some man named John Constantine down for his soul contracts don't hurt her

The Bat Family does not understand that Danny is terrifying because Danny to them act like a normal 19-year-old teenager a daughter that he had a young age while Damian and just knows Danny has his grandfather terrified of him

I hope you like my stupid crack idea of Danny just being terrifying to the League of assassins

I like the headcannon that even though Ra's is a piece of shit he's actually pretty good with/likes babies, and I think that's the only way Danny would hand Ellie to him. But I think this is funny! The assassins don't really know who Danny is and rumours abound because no one else treats him like that, just walks in hands him a baby and leaves. They even wonder if that's Ra's kid or something but if anyone ever asks Danny he reacts in such violent disgust that oookay clearly not! So grand child??? Something???

Ra's won't talk about it because he's embarrassed and also thinks it's probably best not to draw attention to this and just go for the ~mysterious vibe~

Danny's there to see Jason crazed and glowing dragging himself out of the pit and he's twirling his hair around a finger like "Omg being unhinged and creepy all by yourself handsome?!"

When Jason's ready to leave Danny's like "Hell no! You're not leaving without me, my kid, and your kid brother >:( If you try I'll drag you back into hell myself!"

"Well shit. I guess I'm a family man/crime lord now?" says Jason

[sheeluvsme]

Let’s talk about how price is literally husband material …

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE HEAD CANNONS 🙋🏻‍♀️🙋🏻‍♀️🙋🏻‍♀️ I love this man sm …. I normally hate facial hair on a guy BUT GOD DAYM COD MEN PULL THAT SHIT OFF..

Mix of sfw and nsfw blurbs bc I’m a silly guy. I really enjoy writing this shit bc I literally will be kicking my feet twirling my hair .. ( warning fem body parts used!) as I write this shit LMAOO enjoy!!! Ps. Not proof read..I wrote this at like 4 in the morning

He literally is so good to you , you can’t even be like mad at him over ANYTHING.

There was a time he accidentally dropped his cigar and it caught the bare skin of your leg AND HE FELT SO BADDDDD

He literally can not stand the thought of you being hurt..

He DEF SENDS CARE PACKAGES WHEN HES OUT FOR MONTHS AT A TIME

Being gone for so long he always takes a shirt of yours DRENCHED in your most used perfume so when he sleeps he can trick his brain into thinking your there.

He would be a king of taking care of your son your period!!!

Your sitting there curled up trying to not wake him up but you are just in so much pain :// and his ass senses it through his slumber?:!:?:?

“ you alright love?” He mutters into your shoulder. GOD HIS MORNING VOICE IS HOT. He woke up from feeling you tense up and sigh and whine quietly from the pain. “ yeah. Just my period.” You mumble into your pillow. He carefully pulls his arm around you , “ where” he asks. “ what-?” You ask confused. “ where is it cramping now love? I’ll massage it for you.” He whispered. You can’t help but swoon because you got the best husband in the WORLD “it’s my stomach right now-“ and immediately he takes his hand rubbing your stomach. The pain is suddenly being soothed and you can finally un-tense. “ theree you go love. I got you.” He kisses your shoulder softly. “ I’ll stay like this for a bit and then ill grab your heating blanket and a cup of tea hm? “ you feel him smile against your shoulder.

He’s very caring towards you but let’s not forget how you treat him like royalty fr

He always comes back with SOMETHING wrong with his back , and he whines about it to you every time so you’ll massage his back for him. He always wins you over.

He thinks he’s def undeserving  of you, your so sweet to him! He’s not used to women liking him just because you love him as a person himself. He’s had past girlfriends that just liked him for money benefits. Not you though, you literally freak out when he spends WAY too much on you “ John price!?— how much was this necklace??” And he always smiles and says “ don’t worry about it. “ he has learned lots of money saving tricks from you , he calls you a penny pincher LMAOO, he thinks it’s cute though you worry about him spending to much money like he doesn’t got enough.

He absolutely adores when you wear his hat , he thinks your the cutest thing on planet earth but dear god he’d never let you near any of the shit he does😭

You get along with 141 pretty well and it makes price really happy.

You’ve all been to the bar numerous of times and he likes watching you and soap bicker about stupid shit “ you..you eat lamb stomach?” “ ITS CALLED HAGGIS AND ITS GOOD!!”

Ghost and price giggling in the background.

They know how much you mean to there captain so they also would do anything to protect you

Your at a bar with them and some guy try’s talking to you and grabs your shoulder THEN HE JUST SEES A BUNCH OF TALL ASS GUYS GLARING HIM DOWN LMAOO let’s hope Buddy wore brown pants 🙏🏻

NSFW !!

Price lovesssssss eating you out , LITERALLY ANYWHERE IN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE. Especially if you had a shitty day at work , your in the shower trying to rinse off the day and suddenly you feel your not alone anymore..

Manz lifts you up on HIS SHOULDERS SO HE CAN EAT YOU OUT

He’s more dominant but he doesn’t mind you taking lead AT ALL

Man goes insane when you ride him

He can’t sleep , but you know he needs to. He hasn’t been sleeping much sense his last mission, he’s clearly stressed. Your hugging him..hugging turns to kissing. Kissing turns to groping, and then it turns to you ontop of him grinding against his bulge. “ fuck..let me take care of you, yeah?” You simply shake your head “ no captain. It’s time I take care of you.” He can’t deny your request when you look heavenly ontop of him. Helping each other slip off each other’s clothes, he loves looking at your tits , he finds how they feel so nice in his hands. He can’t help but grunt when you sit down on him and slowly begin to move your hips. His hands are gripped TIGHTLY against your hips. He can’t stop himself from using his hands to help move you and fuck you , he wants to be able to hit the deepest parts of you because honestly he fantasizes about getting your pregnant. He loves shooting a full load in you and praying you get pregnant, be there to take care of you , and most Importantly get to see a little baby made by you and him!!! Makes him go nuts , that’s why you and him fuck way too much around your cycle.

He is BIG into photos and videos of you.

He records videos of him fucking you and then watch them while he’s away, or he’ll take pictures to look at when he feels lonely on a trip!!!

He keeps a nude picture of you in his wallet ;)) soap was traumatized when price asked him to get something out his wallet and he found something HE DID NOT WANT TO SEE , soap has you and him down in his phone as ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ seeing that was horrific for him 😭😭

Thank you for reading <33 commissions open!!!

[thegnomelord]

Soap and #12 with cismale reader. I was thinking they have mutual feelings for each other but not in a relationship yet, and some obliviousness mixed in for drama lol

Sure mate, though it ended up more drama than oblivious idiots in love lol. Play the game HERE.

Prompt: "What, did you think all those times I kissed you were for shits and giggles?" "Let's be real, you had a lot of fun shoving your tongue down my throat in public."

CW:NSFW, Sub Soap, Top male reader, back alley sex, semi-public sex, mild fighting, miscommunication, Soap being a jealous hoe(again)

You and Soap have a . . . thing. You're not quite sure what to call it; You're just comrades, friends, who go out for drinks after every mission and end up messily making out in the back of a bar only to get kicked out when you two inevitably get frisky and near an indecent exposure charge. But it's fine, because it gives you the excuse to go to base and fuck on the bed, or the floor, or the table, or against the wall, or any other semi-flat surface.

But you're just friends. . . or, that's what tell yourself every time your heart pitifully clenches in your chest when Soap smiles, when he laughs and pats your shoulder, when he moans your name so sweetly as you pound into him, when he looks at you as if his world starts and ends with you; because what would a bloke like Soap want with you other than sex? So you try to drown the ache for him by going out with other people, but it's never the same— not in the way they sound, in the way they move, in the way you feel.

Johnny, on the other hand, thinks you're his and his alone.

"I'm telling yea lads," Johnny says as he knocks back a beer, a lovey dovey look in his eyes like he's a lovesick puppy. "Ah've locked him down this time." He grins, and Ghost swears if he has to listen one more time about how big your cock is or how Johnny can still feel you from last time— he'll shoot you both.

"Uhuh," Gaz rolls his eyes, amused at his antics but also happy that he's finally found someone. "Yeah, su-" Something catches Gaz's eyes and he turns his head, the color draining from his face. "-ummmm."

Ghost's eyes quickly flicker over to where he's looking, "Look at that," Ghost gives a rough snort, "Locked your man down so good he's swappin' spit without you."

Soap's immediately sober as a nun, his neck audibly cracking when he swings around to look at you. The sight of you making out with a random girl across the bar has Soap's thoughts turning in his head like rusted cogs, the world almost slowing down to force him to feel all the emotions his brain spits out; Surprise comes first, like being drenched in ice cold water, disgust making his blood feel like tar at the thought of you touching someone else the same way you touch him, hot anger barreling straight through it to make fingers twitch for the trigger of a gun.

But it's the meek hurt that forces his legs to move, striding across the bar like he's on a war path. A rough hand on your shoulder makes you break off the kiss, your world spinning like a kaleidoscope from the booze and sudden force turning you around. Your eyes finally settle on familiar blue ones, but they're cold like the deepest part of the arctic. "Johnny?" You ask.

His name on your lips only makes his scowl deeper, a bruising grip on your arm as he tugs you, "We need tae talk," He spits, glaring at the poor girl you'd been making out with like she's riddled with plague.

You're not given even a second to argue before he's yanking you out the back exit into the alley between the bar and another building. A second later he's roughly slamming you into the brick wall, knocking the breath out of your lungs with a forearm against your throat and ignoring as you choke softly. "Thae fock's wrong wit' yea!" He snarls into your face, more animal than man.

Rapidly depleting oxygen forces your brain to flood your veins with adrenaline and suddenly you're moving, harshly elbowing him in the stomach and ramming him into the stone wall behind him you swear the rock cracks. "Me? What's wrong with you?"

He tries to push against you, your arms scrambling for a solid hold until you end up in a stand still, "What's wrong-" He shoves his face into yours, nearly breaking your nose while hissing like a feral cat, "-is thaet ye're shacking up with some tramp."

"So what!" You demand, a low grunt leaving your lips as you attempt to keep him pinned when he squirms like an eel, "We're just casual-" You force out those words, trying to ignore the stab to the chest your heart gives.

"Casual?" He scoffs and with a swift jerk of his head smashes his skull into yours. You stumble away, black spots dancing in your vision and that's all he needs to grab and switch your positions, pinning you to the wall. "What? D'yea think all those times I kissed you were for shits and giggles?" He demands, a bit of a traitorous hurt making his his voice crack, face pinched in pain.

"Let's be real-" Copper and iron invade your tastebuds, drawing attention to the slow stream of blood trickling from your nose, "-you had a lot of fun shoving your tongue down my throat in public."

You feel his body tense, but keep your eyes open as you expect him to punch you, to kick you, to do something to prove what you have is just temporary; pointless bliss.

"Then how'bout ah give yea a clearer message-" He leans in to lick trail of blood on your face before capturing your lips in a kiss that's more teeth than anything else. You wretch your hand free to tangle your fingers in his short hair, bodies fitting together like jigsaw pieces, reciprocating with just as much intensity as you bite his bottom lip until his blood floods your mouths. "Got it through yer thick skull now?" He asks, pulling back just a bit to stare into your eyes.

You don't know what 'it' is, but the kiss and the roughness makes heat burn through your veins, one quick flicker of your eyes confirming he's sporting the same problem in his pants as you are. "Think I'll need more convincing."

Soap yelps when you turn him around, pinning his chest to the cold wall as your hands slide down to his belt. You stall for a second to give him a way out, but he just growls, "Get on with it," So you quickly undo his pants, shoving his jeans and boxers just down beneath the swell of his arse.

"Slut," You chuckle when you catch sight of the black plug nestled between his cheeks, the skin near it still glistening with lube from how messily he'd prepped himself, "Needed me so bad did you?" You ask as you pull the plug out, putting it into your pocket as you push the head of your cock against his fluttering opening.

"'s cause ah love yea, fockin' git." He growls, his words making your brain crash.

"Repeat that," You say, softer, kinder than you usually operate, pressing against him until you're covering his back completely. "Say that again."

He notices your change, the ice in his eyes melting away enough to let him tug your head closer to kiss you, "I love you." The way he says it, like a prayer, like a sweet caress, has your heart melting into a puddle. A dingy back alley shouldn't be the place where you confess your love, but right now it feels like Paris.

"Love you too," You kiss him back and slide into him in one slow stroke, greedily swallowing down his sounds. You let him adjust before setting a hard pace like you know he loves, cock head scraping against his prostate with every thrust. "Really, really love you." You breathe out, watching his eyes lose focus as he lets out little 'ah, ah, ah's every time your hips meet.

"Bonnie, bonnie lad please-" He whines, resting his face against the dirty wall as he moans without shame, forgetting that anyone could walk in on you two and more than likely hear you across the single layer brick wall. "Fock, c'mon, give it to me."

"Yeah, gonna take care of you-" Your hand slides down to rub his cock, squeezing his base every time you bottom out and playing with his head when you draw your hips back so you can plunge back inside him, lust and love lighting up every synapse in your body. "Just say you love me again."

Johnny's eyes close as he falls into a barely comprehensible rambling of 'love you, love you, love you', his body shaking with a building heat in his stomach, precum rapidly lubing the glide of your hand as you fuck him in a harsh pace until with a sharp yell against his shoulder you cum inside him, Johnny following suit as he paints the dirty wall white with his cum.

You feel him collapse against you and have just enough strength left to support you both, though the wall does the brunt of the work. You breathe the same air as you try to get your bearings, both hearts beating in the same speed and rhythm, and Johnny whines when you attempt to shift, hole clenching greedily around you like his body doesn't want you to seperate.

"You know," You say when you've managed to catch your breath, nuzzling into the back of his neck, "There are easier ways to say you love me without biting my head off." You chuckle, as if your heart isn't beating a thousand miles per hour at the knowledge Soap loves you.

He swats at your head, "Oh awa' an bile yer heid." He growls such harsh words before kissing you softly, sharing a silent promise with you.

[i-am-hungry-24-7]

Wait the lower one is from me but i don't really remember the whole details of what I've written there 😭😂 lemme dig my brain first 😔 but i remember mentioning something abt TF 141 with good smelled reader and they can't keep themselves from clinging or getting closer to reader (?)

🦈

Sharkiee 🥹 I'm lucky enough since you still remember a bit of the request! and actually I was thinking about good smelled reader these days too, but my ass get caught in my job these days 🫨 here's some hcs but I feel like there's still a lot of things I can brainrot, I'll add more to this when I can form them into words asdfghjk, as always tyvm for the ask🫡💖

Price He rarely smokes when you’re aside because it will cover your scent.  Invades your personal space on the helo when you guys are heading back to base so he can bask in your smell. It’s refreshing and unlike those stinky men he says. The sleep-deprived captain got a lavender pillow from you, and he threw his old one immediately, hadn’t been so excited to end the day and sleep after years, because you used the same pillow, and your hair smells literally like it, and he relaxed lot more with it. (when you're both on leave then he will ditch it since he has you instead)

Soap Kick him into the shower before he smears his sweat on you with how much he likes to cling to you and is unable to pry off after missions. Getting called Soap is obviously unrelated to his body wash, the plain 3 in 1 one that makes you just shove your shower gel in his grasp. You know he just wants to steal yours so he can smell like you, but if you buy him the same product he’ll still snatch yours. Makes you wear his shirts so he can get it back and wear your scent like cologne around, he doesn’t care if you yell ew at him, nor he care that others might tease him for getting claimed by you, to be honest, that’s his goal. Everyone should know he’s knee-deep for you.

Gaz He smells good or at least not bad after missions, but still loves to tail after you. Maybe you two share the same perfume, but he insists that it smells different on you (bastard just want to find an excuse to squish himself against you, but the rejections always swallowed by you before they can come out, his beautiful eyes aren’t just decorations, he knows you’re weak when he looks at you with pleading eyes) Personally think that Gaz probably has some weird obsession with your nape, and when you spray your perfume there every morning, it’ll attract him like he’s a pokemon, sneak a chance to sniff and press a kiss there until you scowl at him. You put on lotions after showers to prevent dry skin? He won’t miss the chance to help you. Maybe that’s the secret you always smell so enchantingly, if you shoo him off and say you can do it yourself, he will look at you with sad eyes till you feel guilty and hand him the bottle of body lotion.

Ghost Caught him secretly sniffing around you after a mission and he didn’t talk to you the whole night out of embarrassment. He just sat on the bed and tried to intimidate you with his stare (0 damage when his cheeks were pink whenever you tease him). In the end he just gave in and admitted he loves how well you smell 24/7, and when you’re both on leave, he will drown himself in your bed sheets or the plushie you have. The plushie is his now, don’t expect to have it back unless he feels like your scent on it fades, that’s when you can squeeze it between you and him during sleep.

[currentfandomkick]

So. Reincarnated!Danny and Tim has taken over my brain. And the trans headcannons for both Tim and Danny, and Kitty and Johnny resulted in what’s below. Debating calling this the RookAU as i like that for Tim’s future solo identity, and color palette wise it reminds of phantom.

Toddler-adjacent Tim with ghosts, Constantine and decent parents below in fic form

Tim was used to seeing people others ignored. The nice lady in the pearl necklace and the pretty green pendant that matches her ring. She’s always with this nice biker who checked Tim over whenever he fell and said he was “a doctor before i kicked the bucket again,” while doing a reflex and booboo check.

The pair had a habit of staying around his neighbors and hovering around a Tim a lot.

No one else said high to them. The biker said its because his shadow was bad luck, but Tim saw it wrap around Batman and Robin before and go through bad guys who stopped fighting as good in a bank robbery before. The biker’s shadow is really a big helper and chooses what type of luck you get.

He’s not sure if the biker worked that out—the one with the 13 on his bike and wore the green skull necklace—there are a lot of bikers that drive through people but no one gets hurt-hurt.

Tim drew a lot of the ignored people in crayon. Some were bleeding but Mr. 13 told him they’re stuck like that as ‘Thats how shades are’ and ruffled Tim’s hair.

Sometimes the pair visited instead of only seeing him when his parents let him go to boundary by their properties. It’s nice, but they’re very weird about names, and Tim.

The woman told him she has a few names, and so does her husband. She said Tim could give them names too! Having a lot made you safer and stronger.

The biker calls her “kitty” a lot so she has to be a Catherine, but sometimes she’s “Martha” too. Tim didn’t like the idea of using the biker’s names for her.

She calls the guy Johnny a lot, Thomas and Tom. Tim doesnt know which is their middle names or what crimes they did to use those all the time, but they’re really nice to him! He’s pretty sure he likes being Mr. 13 too!

Sometimes they mention they knew him “before you went round two, little man!” but they don’t call him the name he went by, as “you and your uh, cousin I think you two decided on? Shared a name and your old one was real close to it. So not the best thing to call you that little man.”

Tim chose his name for himself, and Mommy and Daddy got it changed everywhere. No one needs to know, just like no one will know since Mommy and Daddy are very sneaky and are teaching him to be sneaky!

He was still debating if Kitty Martha and Johnny Tom would like to be Miss Pearl and Mr. 13…

The two murmured he needed to be careful about which people he noticed, especially if they were blue or green, or if other people didn’t see them. ‘Shades’ can be tricky and Tim is little enough they can do a lot of damage, according to Pearl.

But the parade of people at home made it hard. There were other people in and out of the various houses he grew up in that his parents and others ignored. Mom called them his ‘imaginary friends’ when he saw them on the street. But they pretend not to see servants and the help too.

Pearl. he liked that for her; Martha Kitty Pearl. She followed him when he left the house and shooed the others away. Sometimes Pearl blew a kiss and a bunch of shades were gone!

Johnny Tom 13’s shadow buddy cursed people sometimes. Mostly it made their phone work worse. Shadow likes cheezits.

Dad thought it was a little funny, feeding the ‘Shadow’ and giving it to the wrong spots. Shadow didn’t care, but Pearl and Johnny didn’t like it.

Dad stopped laughing about it when Tim asked why there was a bird with a person’s face flapping at some of the jars his parents brought home from the latest dig.

Mom knelt down slowly, looking at her work friends and Dad. “Sweetie, can you draw what you saw?”

Bird person noticed he was pointing at them and made a lot of loud angry sounds.

Tim covered his ears and screamed back.

The bird person froze. Tim huffed before grabbing the crayon.

“Sorry, they were too loud. They stopped trying to grab the jar though. Do you still want a picture?”

Dad knelt down beside Mom and nodded slowly.

Mom looked at the jar. “Timmy, should Mommy move it back?”

Tim told her no, the bird person wanted it there and kept moving otherwise.

After showing off his drawing, Mom and Dad changed languages they way they always did when it was a grownup conversation.

The bird person flew over and looked at his drawing, and him.

“Pearl and 13 said I’m not supposed to say hi. But you’re not a shade—are you a meta?”

Tim. Had no clue what the bird person was saying, flapping scuffling about. They pecked his drawing. A lot. They were not, very much not, happy about being there.

Tim frowned. Mom and Dad were talking to their friends in hushed tones, and moving out of the room.

Tim huffed and grabbed a map of the world and put it out for them. The birdperson squaked at him, gesturing to the place they are on it.

Tim pointed to the continent they’re on. “Mom’s friend calls it the ‘new world,’ but it’s been here for longer than I’ve been alive. But shades can be a lot older than me… and you’re not a shade.”

Tim hummed, wishing Pearl or 13 was there. They said you have to speak and feel what you mean sometimes to talk to other ignored people.

“I’m not sure what you are if you’re not a meta. But I think you want to go, go home?” Tim tried to focus on what made home, home. Mom and Dad reading to him together, holidays and singing silly songs. It was warm and an invite to play and rest.

The birdperson flew to him and perched itself on his shoulder.

“You’re very light,” Tim commented. “Do you want any water?” He focused on cups and drinking this time.

The bird person huffed, gently hitting him with their wing.

“Got it. Not thirsty.”

He went back to his book, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, and let the angry bird person hop down his shoulder, but stay touching Tim, as they grabbed the crayon and made marks on some paper he left by the map.

His parents came to check in on him and saw the bird person’s drawing on the paper, grabbed his drawing of the bird person, and whisper-yelled enough he knew they were not happy, but not to the point he knew what it was exactly.

“Do you think I did something bad?” Tim asked quietly, with this swirling abyss twisting in his gut.

The bird person ruffled their feathers and said a word that felt like a ‘no.’

A few hours later a man who said he could call him “Connie” came in. His parents kept calling him Constantine. There was a nice floating man with him that everyone but Connie ignored.

Tim waited for them to be distracted and asked the floating man one of the safe questions 13 and Pearl gave him for safe ghosts.

“What do you like to be called?”

The floating man paused, floated lower and stared at him.

“It’s okay, you’re a guest and it’s okay to talk to guests. I chose Tim!” He smiled, hoping his parents didn’t have to bring up his old name.

“Deadman,” the floating man offered his hand.

Tim shook it like Dad does.

“and try not to spread around your name to others ghosts. We can uh, overwhelm the ones who can see us.”

Tim frowned, ignoring his parents’ eyes and Connie’s look as their conversation quieted. They’d just say he was talking to an imaginary friend again.

“Is that what I should call the green and blue people? I know the one with the goop coming out are usually shades.”

“Some of us are obvious with the colors, some are more like me and very pale. Do I look solid to you?”

“If you aren’t a shade you’re solid. It’s why birdie is hard to workout. They’re more see through but feel very solid.”

“Right.” Deadman’s face tightened by the eyes and his mouth. “Most people see through ghosts like air. Sometimes we can be see-through like hair. Its. Not common to see us as solid, even at your age.”

“Oh. Is that why a lot of you glow if you get close? Not a lot, but like, like… sunset hair! but not golden just, other colors, but all of you—everywhere! Shades don’t glow unless they’re changing color.”

“I can’t say for sure, most mediums see me half here, half not.”

That felt familiar. Bird person flew over, absently grooming Tim’s hair with their feathers.

“That sounds annoying. Do you want to watch Blue’s Clues with me while Mom and Dad do the serious stuff? Blue takes a while to get what you’re saying but Mom said she’s hard of hearing and won’t get hearing aides—that’s why Dad said it’s important to learn sign language.”

“Did he?” Deadman asked.

“M’hm!”

Connie explained some adults only thing to his parents while Deadman and Tim tried to make Steve to understand they already knew where Blue was, and know just how bad he is at instructions.

When the episode was over, Tim, Deadman and Birdperson went to knock on the door where his parents were. Or Tim did.

Deadman floated through and told Connie they were ready.

Connie sat him down, and started asking questions Pearl and 13 made him promise not to answer as that’s what exorcists ask before making people go away.

He loves 13 and Pearl, and knows they watch over Mr. Wayne who acts happy when he isn’t. His happy face and his “happy” faces are very different. The “happy” face is more like Steve’s face movements, while his happy face is always soft and barely there if you don’t pay attention.

Tim always pays attention.

“Look kid, I know you can see souls who are stuck between the living realm and the dead realms. Deadman is dead.”

Tim scowled as he knows what dead is—it’s when bodies stop working. Souls and spirits are vastly different. “He’s not Gone or Ended, so he’s not dead-dead-dead. And that’s not uncommon to know or see at my age so bleh!”

“Tim!” His parents tried to chide him.

Connie waved them off and motioned for Tim to continue.

“It’s true! And if I did, then you’d make my friends Ended or Gone and they choose to stay.”

Connie paused at that, making the same face mom does when working out something weird going on in Drake Industries. “Does this guy choose to stay?” He pointed to the bird person.

“No,” Tim answered with a small frown. He did spend a lot of time trying to communicate with them afterall, and the weird ‘feels like’ thing going on. “He wants to go home, but he can’t. I think the jars are like,” Tim trailed off, looking around to find his hotwheels tucked away in a corner. “Like cars to get him home or something.”

Connie hummed. “Not wrong in his case. But, seeing souls can be dangerous kid.”

“Only if they realize you can see ‘em.” Tim argued like Mom does with the investors. “And you invited Deadman in after being made a guest, so that’s allowed.”

“And a friend of yours teach you this?” Connie guessed with the ‘fake knowing’ look his dad used on a bad shareholder before they started listening to Mom.

…Tim can admit he loves being with Pearl and 13 and Shadow. But he’s not sure if friends is the right word. But if he uses the right feeling word around his parents, they’ll get sad and mad and he… he wants them to be happy.

“Nope. Not a friend, but not-not a friend either.”

“Cryptic, little—takes after Janet, huh?”

Tim smiled back at him, even as Mom and Dad share a look where Mom pretends she has no involvement and Dad is trying to get her to admit she is involved.

“I chose me to take after thank you very much.”

Connie snorted. “When you’re older, we can talk about how to use it. Until then, I’m going to give your parents some wards to keep the nasties from you.”

Tim didn’t like it. Or the sudden craving for burgers and shakes.

“Aren’t you going to help Bird Person get home?”

Constantine sighed. “Yeah, I’ll drop ‘im off. Just don’t borrow problems from the dead, okay?”

Tim stayed quiet, trying to work out what that meant.

Connie knelt down. “Its not your responsibility. If you want to try anything, contact me first and we can get you set up as an apprentice for another paranormal detective first and foremost and work it out from there, but that will be a long, long ways out.”

Tim nodded slowly, looking at his parents. Dad had a pinched face. Mom had her Gala Jerk Repellant smile one.

Tim’s heart sank.

“If they look ghostly, ignore them unless everyone can see them. Then you call me.”

Dad didn’t like letting go of their find. Mom hated something about it all.

Maybe that Tim can see secrets and get ghost gossip that she can’t.

When Pearl and 13 moved to the Drake Estate Tim took their hands and introduced them to his parents carefully.

His parents jumped back when Pearl and 13 each put a hand on his shoulders.

“Mom, Dad, this is Pearl and Thirteen.”

Pearl smiled at his parents, her hair more inky and short than her more-usual green shag. “Pleasure to see you two again. Hope

You don’t mind us watching over Timmy here given what tends to try and stick to him.”

“As long as our son is safe and free,” Mom supplied while shaking Pearl’s hand herself.

Tim wondered if this would be another board meeting fight or not.

“Jack,”13 acknowledged.

“Nice to see you again Tommy,” Dad offered his own hand. “Didn’t know Timmy here could uh, bring you back?”

“Likewise, and its 13 nowadays. Tim’s a special case,” 13 explained while ruffling Tim’s hair. “We’re gonna need you two to keep a secret from Old Connie for us about this.”

“Why don’t we work out what we need to do while Tim wears the ‘silence headphones’ we got him and practices his penmanship and drawing?”

“I’ll help him pick out a book!” Jack called, scooping Tim into his arms.

“Pig Pancake!” Tim perked up, squirming out of his grasp and running to find his favorite picture book.

His parents put his headphones on and everything was quiet. Just him and the book. And him trying to draw the pages and wrote like the letters on the page.

Kitty waved a hand infront of him to get his attention.

13 pointed at his ears.

Tim took off his headphones.

“Tim,” Mom began. “We came to an agreement. When your father and I are not here or are busy, Martha—yes I know it’s Pearl too I was getting there dear—will stay with you. Shadow will stay with their son if they’re both with you, and Tom—Thirteen—will go between the two of you.”

Tim kicked his feet. “So no Nanny?”

“Yes you still have a nanny when we’re not around sweetheart,” Dad answered. “But you also have Pearl to play with and keep you out of bad trouble.”

“Like the rogues when they break into schools?” Tim asked.

“Exactly sweetie,” Mom smiled. “Pearl is very good at making problems go bye-bye, and can get you somewhere safe. But we have to keep it a secret from Connie when he visits to make sure the wards on the house and the repulsions we’ll be putting on you to keep nasties away are working, alright?”

A smile bloomed on Tim’s face as he nodded along.

“Can Pearl and me play mario kart now?”

“What am I, chopped liver?” 13 bemoaned.

“Yep! C’mon Pearl, you can be Bowser this time—he’s the coolest!”

[flamingpudding]

Reincarnation is a tricky thing

A/N: This was sort of inspired by this post from @nerdpoe and the rebblogs of it. I came across it again scrolling through tumblr and reread it during my break and couldn't help but continue thinking about DC characters being a different version or a reincarnation of people Danny knew. Blame the too many reincarnation or isekai light novels / manwhas / mangas I read if you want.

At first Danny didn't mind it. Becoming the Ghost King had its pros but its cons as he learned later on. By accepting the title he had become an interdimensional being, and thus had gotten kicked out of the reincarnation cycle. Clockwork nor Pandora thought about telling him that sooner. But in a way Danny still didn't mind it.

He still got to watch and protect his friends and family or at least their souls and reincarnations. Though there were some things with the recent one he definitely did not expect. For one, Dan wasn't part of the reincarnation cycle either, so to pass the years he took up the same position Fright Knight had. Danny suspected that it was more to spent time with his ghostly best friend than actually doing Danny a favor.

Dani on the other hand had become a part of the reincarnation cycle, he hadn't liked how her childhood had been but once the reincarnation of his father took her in things started to turn better for his once upon a time clone sister.

He laughed at the fact that his mother in this life had become a thief, well at least she wasn't ghost obsessed but he wasn't sure if cats were a better one considering a lot of the things she stole were cat themed. But at least she still had a thing for his dad.

The man was still a lovable oaf but different, more stoic and short worded but when he put on acts for the public Danny could see hints of his previous life shining through. His dad was still a genius and inventing things that added him and his goals in protecting the city. Just like he did previously, just a little less extreme and upfront.

Jazz wasn't his dads and mothers direct daughter this time around but she still got counted as a daughter in a way as he watched her becoming a crime fighter alongside his father and the kids his dad picked up before an incident made her take up more of a operator like position. And ancients did Danny cackle watching Jazz still pulling one over everyone every time she gathered information on their family.

He was sad to see how Sam's life went but at the same time he was proud of her. Undergrowth's influence had swapped over into this life for her and he watched how as a criminal at first she continued to fight for what she believed was right. He was definitely happy when he saw her fall in love and turn a new leaf.

Tucker was not as electronic affine as he was before but he had what the humans started to call Meta Powers now. It was funny, whenever Danny compared his usually brain behind the scenes best friend with the vigilante that got mentored by his father.

All in all he was definitely happy with the life's his family has gotten this turn. Even if the start of some of their lives wasn't as ideal as it was supposed to be. He still hadn't figured out where Vlad's reincarnation was and to the ancients he hoped he wasn't the crazy clown obsessed with his dad. That would be just wrong.

Still as he watched them he couldn't help but muse at the knowledge that he originally was supposed to be among them. He also knew who he was supposed to be, thanks to clockwork but that boy had gotten a brand new soul, one that hadn't been in the cycle before. He wasn't mad at that but just a tiny bit sad. He would have loved to become a vigilante alongside his father too, even if this version of him was socially awkward and instead of space had a fascination with animals and art.

He still would have loved to live among them but he had gotten kicked out of the reincarnation cycle so all he could do was watch over them. It still made him feel giddy whenever he found another soul of the ones he had known before.

That was until the cultist decided to use would-be-him as a sacrifice to summon the interdimensional being that was atactual-him and he ended up face to face with some stupid soul magic mumbo jumbo tied to the kid.

Clockwork was laughing at him, he just knew this was pure entertainment for the ancient of time. Pandora was most likely shaking her head and Dan was probably literally rolling on the ground of his throne room laughing.

"You are supposed to be me, aren't you?" The boy had whispered wide eyed and Danny huffed in annoyance as he saw a familiar fear flit across the boy's eyes. A fear he had seen with Dan as well as Dani so long ago before.

"Don't talk bullshit kid. I am an Ancient being. This is your life." He was just now stuck having Danny tied to him like a guardian angel while being the only one able to see him clearly. How was he going to explain to the kid that he was entirely his own soul and not tied to Danny at all aside from taking his place in the reincarnation cycle without mentioning that nearly half the people in the kids life where his family and friends previously?

Danny was starting to have a crisis stuck to his would-be-him in the mortal realm and all he could think was to yell at Dan and Clockwork to stop laughing!

[imtryingbuck]

Unchained Melody

~ gif not mine credit to owner ~

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: yns a ghost and Bucky falls in love

Word count: 5,257

Warnings: in this the blip never happened why? because I said so. swearing. ghost reader. death by fire. tiny mention of cheating, not reader or bucky. tiny mention of drugs, not reader or bucky. tiny mention of domestic abuse and child abuse. Me just making shit up, enjoy.

A/N: posting this in celebration of hitting 1k followers, I love you all🤍

Masterlist

You first saw him three years ago, shiny silver arm with a red star on the bicep shoulder length wavy hair - that you knew just had to be soft - you had watched as the team greeted him with smiles and his response? To look at them like they had just kicked his puppy. Walking at the side of Steve as you both showed him to his room, it was basic and dull not like the others your favourite belonging to Wanda, you was telling him all the things he could do with it - picking out a colour theme, that if he moved the desk over to the sid-

“I like it”

You looked at him like he had three heads on his shoulders. The room was bare and empty how could he have liked it?

As the days turned to weeks you stayed close to him, at first you told yourself it was just to help him settle in but the more times you spent with the man you grew a teeny tiny connection with him, even if he did ignore you all the time.

“So Bucky I was thinking maybe we could go to the gym and then get someth-hey where are you going? Rude.”

In a very non creepy way you liked to watch him sleep, his frown lines faded, the little twitches in his nose always made you smile, his soft snores filling your senses. Again it was done in a very non creepy way! But watching Bucky sleep brought you peace knowing he was oka-

“Bucky Bucky it’s just a nightmare it’s okay, shit, Steve! Goddamn Bucky please wake up! Steve Sam anyone!” You screamed in absolute panic the first time he had a nightmare.

“It’s okay Buck it’s just a bad dream”

“Yeah no shit Steve I’ve been shouting you for the last five minutes-hey don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to yo-you know Bucky I absolutely hate it when people shut doors on me when I’m talki-oh you’re asleep, oh okay night night I guess”

Over time the nightmares faded, he became more comfortable around everyone. Happier even.

The first time you saw him naked you couldn’t take your eyes off of him. You had walked into his bedroom - he was fresh out of the shower his hair dropping little droplets onto his broad soft back, he took his towel away from his hips in one swift motion causing your brain to fry up.

“I’m huh sor-Jesus Bucky you’re hu-shit I shouldn’t be seeing this, sor-I’m gonna go”

Leaving once again but not before taking one more cheeky look.

That went on for six months until one day you went to his room to check up on him noticing he wasn’t there you went to the gym, not there. Kitchen, not there. Briefing room, not there. You saw Tony walking past so you asked him but he didn’t tell you. You asked Sam, no reply. You asked Nat but she just carried on texting on her phone. So you went to find Steve but just like with Bucky you was coming up empty.

“He’s probably ventured outside finally” you told yourself as you waited for him in his room.

And you kept on waiting, and waiting and waiting.

It had been two and a half years since you last saw him. Nobody around you even talked about him despite you always asking them where he had gone or if he was okay.

It was like he was never there in the first place.

Steve ran past you as you was taking your daily stroll through the corridors, normally you would have followed him but since you had fell out with him you continued you stroll.

You did your first lap and were walking back towards the kitchen when you heard a familiar voice.

“-I’m okay, they got rid of my trigger words”

“I’m glad pal, you seem a lot happier. How was Wakanda?”

“It was good had my own little hut and had some goats” he chuckles, Steve joining in.

You did have to agree with Steve, Bucky looked happier. Healthier.

“Bucky” you whispered. 

Bucky’s eyes flicked away from Steve to over to where you were standing.

The two of you stare at each other, you not daring to move and him just looking at you that was until Steve broke the spell between you two.

“Buck? You alright?”

“I-um yeah” his eyes go to Steve and then back to the woman who was standing there. His eyebrows burrow in confusion as she wasn’t there anymore. “Hey Steve is there another person now a part of the team?”

“No why?”

“So who was that woman then?”

“What woman?” Steve asks as he turns around to look what Bucky was staring at.

Bucky then describes you and waits for Steve to answer.

“Buck there’s no one here fitting that description…” 

“Oh.”

“Are you alright pal?”

“Yeah, no I’m fine” He forces a smile.

For the first time in 15 years someone’s finally seen and heard you, going through all these years with no communication with anyone or having someone look at you and not through you had gotten easier as time went on. The first two years were extremely difficult and painful. You couldn’t understand why the construction crew was ignoring you and not listening to your pleading.

A year into the development of the huge building that was Stark Tower and now better known as Avengers Tower the building came to a halt when one of the workers screamed ‘we’ve found a body’, like everyone else you ran over to investigate. The burnt skeleton remains were taken away and two weeks later you heard the crew talking about the body-

“Apparently her name was Y/n L/n, died in the fire last year” Bobby the foreman said.

You laughed “that’s wrong because I’m right here guys” waving your hands around.

But nobody batted an eye or flinched when you jumped in front of them.

That’s when it dawned on you that you were dead.

You remember the day that you got your memories back from your death and it was all thanks to the bad guys who had attacked the tower.

*5 years ago*

The alarms were going off, bright red lights flashing, people were screaming and you was trying to calm them down. Helping Bruce and Nat lead people to safety, away from the destruction. The three of you and those that you was rescuing go down the stairs and Nat opened the door to the ground floor before she slammed it shut again.

“Nat we need to go” Bruce says with panic.

“We-we can’t go that way” she explains.

You knew why, you saw it as she opened the door.

The burning flames were pounding on the door that was stopping it from getting to any of you.

“Bruce we’ve got to go back up!”

Nobody batted an eye as you stumbled back and slid down the wall. Nobody batted an eye as you pulled on your hair muttering something that even you didn’t know under your breath.

They left you behind as you was transported back to 10 years prior.

*10 years before that*

You was sitting in your apartment, knees to your chest, trying to concentrate on what the couple on the screen was saying.

The raised voices coming from your fathers room we’re getting louder and louder as he argued with his girlfriend Lyra, her accusing him of cheating on her which made you laugh since you caught her having sex in the laundry room with the drug dealer that lived two floors up. Since she had no money for his supplies she had to pay in other ways.

Flinching when you heard the sound of skin hitting skin and closing your eyes tightly when you heard Lyra scream out. Your father always had a temper especially when he was drinking and since he had been laid off from the factory, drinking was all he did. A small vile part of you was happy that Lyra was around as it meant he no longer hit you, the abuse you suffered from the hands of your father started a week after your mother left him for another man, leaving you behind. 

Lyra came running out of the bedroom with tears streaming down her cheeks as the welt was already forming, your father soon following holding two lit candles in his hands he threw the first one and the next.

The next thing you knew was that the apartment you had grown up in was in flames. You was rooted in fear at not only the fire but as Lyra screaming at you to leave despite her being attacked by your father.

The fire had spread quickly throughout the apartment complex, screams and chaos all around you. You kept going down the stairs until you found yourself in the basement, with no idea of why you was down there, you tried to turn back but the flames pushed you further and further into the normally cold room.

*back to the present*

It scared you that now after 15 years you’ve been a ghost for that someone can now finally see you, it made you smile that it was Bucky that could but the question of why? Why now played on your mind.

Not even the medium who Tony brought in after heard “ghostly noises” couldn’t see or hear you, the “ghostly noises” that Tony heard was just Natasha and Bruce having sex in his lab, you promised the pair you wouldn’t say anything so you didn’t.

So you did the most rational thing. Avoided him.

Which lasted for two weeks until Bucky came onto your territory.

Minding your own business your eyes squinting at the sound of the door opening, hearing Steve’s voice you didn’t think anything of it.

“I’m telling you Buck this is the best place to hide presents, no one ever comes down here” it was true, the last time someone came down here was two agents who was trying to have sex and you wasn’t going to have that. People coming into your home and trying to do the nasty, absolutely not! So you started messing with the pipes and banging objects, causing them to stop and the woman getting scared, she ended up running away leaving the man who started calling her nasty names. He became your enemy. Not like you could actually do anything to him but the statement still stood. 

“If you say so punk”.

“I do say so.”

“Here grab these so I can get the rest”

With Steve leaving it was just you and Bucky in the basement now.

“Oh, hi I didn’t see you there” Bucky says.

“Yo-you can actually see me?”

“Yes…why aren’t I suppose to?”

“No”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a ghost”

Both of his eyebrows shoot up and he starts laughing “of course you are”

“No I actually am.”

“Yeah yeah, is this a prank that the spider kid has put you up to?”

“His name is Peter and no it’s not a pra-“

“Hey Buck who are you talking to?” Steve asks as he comes back in with more gift bags.

“Her” Bucky points over to where you stand.

“Bucky there’s no one there…”

“See I told you!” You say with your arms crossed.

“B-but”

“Look he can’t see me, even if I do this” You moved away from the wall and jumped in front of Steve who of course looks straight through you. “You’re the only one for some reason”.

Bucky pales, “but how?”

“Buck?”

“I-I need to go”

Both you and Steve watch him run up the steps and away from you.

“You know Steve, I didn’t expect him to have that kind of reac-oh yeah no its fine to leave it wasn’t like I was finished talking.”

For three weeks you kept you kept yourself isolated in the basement not knowing what it meant now that someone could see and hear you even if it was just Bucky.

Over the past 12 or 13 years you kept yourself to a routine but since Bucky had ruined that for you, you kept yourself occupied - okay you was going slightly insane.

Not realising that the door had come open you was completely unaware that Bucky was standing there watching you-

“Okay so the first order of business is that we need to take out the bad men who call themselves “The trash” in order to succeed we need strong men and women who will lay down their lif-“

You’re cut off by a laugh; you turn and see Bucky who winces at your screams.

“Sorry, sorry I didn’t mean to scare you”

“W-what are you doing here?”

“Were you talking to the mops and buckets?” He asks ignoring your question.

“That’s completely unrelated. What are you doing here?”

“You was weren’t you, hey don’t stop on my account you’ve got to finish your speech or they’ll leave”

“Yo-you’re making fun of me. Stop it” you mumble

“No I’m not, I’m just saying carry on with talking to the mops-oh is that a broom?”

“L-leave now please”

“Aw come on I’m only joking”

“I don’t find it funny, now leave”

He watches as you turn your back to him as you bring your hand up to your face, suddenly feeling guilty.

“Hey doll I’m sorry, I-I was trying to joke with you but it wasn’t funny I’m sorry”

“Whatever just leave”

Bucky listens and complies but as he reaches the top step he turns round and walks back down to you.

“D-doll I really am sorry. I just wanted to talk to you, I’ve been looking around for you and I figured I’d find you here”

“Y-you’ve been looking for me? Why?”

“Well I wanted to ask you some questions” he rubs the back of his neck with his left hand.

“Your arm…”

“Huh? Oh yeah it was a gift from Shuri, do you like it?”

“It’s very pretty” you say with a slight blush.

“Thank you” he too blushes.

“You said you had some questions?”

“Yeah, is it okay if I sit?” Pointing to an old couch that Tony had brought down many years ago.

“Of course”

Watching him sit on the dusty old thing brought a slight smile to your face.

“Are you going to sit?”

“Yep” taking the seat on the end and on the edge.

“So, you’re a ghost?”

“Yep”

“So, you’re dead?”

“Yep”

“When?”

“15 years ago”

“How?”

“Fire”

“Where?”

“Here”

“What?”

“My apartment complex was here before the tower was”

“Oh”

“Yep”

A semi uncomfortable silence fell between you two. He shifted and rubbed his hands on his thighs whilst you twiddled your thumbs.

Bucky broke the silence “how long have you been around us all?”

“Since more and more people came to the tower”

“Oh.”

“Yep”

Silence fell once again but this time lasted a good 20 minutes. 20 slow and painful minutes.

“H-how come you’re not in like heaven or hell?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Isn’t there any other ghosts you could ask?”

“There’s been a few over the years but none of them ever had any answers for me”

“May-maybe you need to do something or have something done to move you on?” Bucky shrugs.

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure. How did the fire start do you know?”

“My father” when he gave you a questioning yet shocked look you explained everything that you remembered that day.

“I’m so sorry ghosty”

“Ghosty?” You burst out laughing. 

“Yeah well I don’t know your name so…ghosty”

“Y/n”

Watching as his lips form your name sent imaginary chills down your spine.

“Y/n, I like it, did your dad go prison?”

“No why?”

“Maybe that’s why you’re still stuck here. I can help y-“

“But I don’t want to move on.” Cutting him off.

“Why?”

“Because then that means I’ll be dead”

“But doll, you are”

Standing up so you can pace around the small area “I know that but if I move on it will mean I’m dead dead you know?”

“But why? You’ve spent that past 15 years with no one seeing or hearing you. You really want to do another 15?”

“And another 15 after that if it means I get to be around people and I don’t have to be alone, I don’t want to be just gone and Bucky I’m not hurting anyone I swear!” You shouted at him, your last words more quieter, more like a whimper.

Finally admitting it to someone else hurt, admitting that you would rather keep being ignored and never seen by anyone ever again was better than being alone and dead. And yes whilst you was technically alone it wasn’t the same, you got to be around people, listened to their jokes or stories, listened to their complaints or worries. You was happy to continue to be a shoulder for them to cry on even if they didn’t know you was there or couldn’t hear you words of encouragement and advice.

And it was true what you had said to him, you wasn’t hurting anyone. You couldn’t even imagine of causing another person any form of pain, even when you was alive.

“Dol-no Y/n come back!”

Bucky was angry with himself. The first time he got to speak to her properly, he ruined it. The pain in her voice when she told him she didn’t want to be alone tugged on his heart.

He went to the basement at least eight times a day to apologise but she was never there. He knew that if anyone was walking down the corridor leading to the basement they’d be able to hear him talking to himself.

He walked with purpose down the corridor to Sam’s room, knocking on the door he grew impatient at how long it was taking Sam to answer, it had only been 5 seconds.

“What’s up Buck?”

“One I told you not to call me that. Two I need the computer thing”

“It’s called a laptop Buck”

“Don’t call me that. And can I have it”

“Sure you can Buck let me go and grab it for you Buck”

“I’m going to kill you in a minute”

“Of course you are Buck, here” Sam laughs giving him the laptop before shutting the door in his face.

Going back into his bedroom he goes on the internet just like Peter had showed him, he first typed in ‘Stark Tower fire’ coming up with all different things. Then he typed in ‘before Stark Tower fire’ which had only confused him more. Trying one more time he typed ‘Stark Tower apartment fire’ bingo!

Clicking on the first link showed him the apartment before the fire, during and after. He learned that the complex housed lower income families, that the fire was deemed as an accident due to faulty electrical systems.

Scrolling down further he stopped. The photo of you that he assumed was from school was there, the girl in the photo smiling back to him and next to it read ‘Y/n L/n died in apartment fire one week away from her 21st birthday. Her body has yet to be found’ and just a little bit further down was another link that read ‘Y/n L/n was found 1 year after the tragedy of the fire’ clicking on it he read more, how the construction crew had found her and how scientists confirmed that it was the body of Y/n’s. A photo was underneath the headline that showed the crew, Bucky had to do a double take when he saw you. Sitting on the floor looking out of frame with what Bucky thought was tears on your face.

Taking the laptop with him he ran to Steve’s room, rapidly knocking until the blonde answered.

“Buck? What’s wrong?” Steve says whilst rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Walking straight past his friend he goes to sit on the bed “come here and look”

Listening Steve sits next to him “when was this?”

“14 years ago but look, there’s that girl I described to you” pointing and looking up at Steve who scrunched up his eyebrows.

“Buck I can’t see anything…”

“Pretty girl on the ground looks like she’s crying”

“Bucky are you alright? You’ve not been the same since you came back from Wakanda. I can ask King T’Challa if you can go ba-“

“Steve listen okay this girl she’s dead. She died 15 years ago and I can see her, I’m the only one that can and I don’t know why bu-but I never saw her before until I came back-“

“Buck slow dow-“

“-but I ruined it between us and now I can’t see her anywhere I keep looking I do Stevie but she won’t appear no matter how much I beg her too an-and I think she hates me”

“Bucky please slow down! Tell me everything but slowly”

So he does.

Steve sits there dumbfounded by what his best friend is telling him, and the craziest part of it was is that he believes every word coming out of his mouth.

“Okay, let’s try and think of a plan together”

And they do.

The next day Bucky makes his way back to the basement when he hears your voice softly seeping underneath the door his heart skips.

“-I’m not sure” silence “maybe I should let him help me so I can move on” more silence “I’m just scared though”

“Y/n?”

“Bucky?”

“Hi um who are you talking to?”

“Just myself, so I came to a conclusion that I want you to help me move on. I’m ready and it’s time”

Bucky notices that there’s a slight hesitation in your words and he spots the way you gulp at the end of your sentence. “Well I have a better idea, I did a lot of research last night and I found out that you don’t have a headstone so I tho-“

“I don’t have a headstone?” You whisper.

It’s now his turn to gulp “No doll, it’s an unmarked grave but I know exactly where it is, where you are” He rephrases.

“Why? Why don’t I have one?”

Oh he hates it. He hates how small you sound; he doesn’t like how you’re twisting your fingers together. “I-I’m not sure doll” That was a lie.

Neither of your parents wanted to spend money on a funeral or a proper burial for you, so it was up to the county to do it.

“Is-is that why am not dead-dead?”

“I’m not sure, it might be… but listen I’m going to get you a headstone - a real nice one, and if-if you want you’ll always be able to go there and Y/n please don’t think I want you to leave because I don’t okay, I really don’t I just want you to find peace”

“I-you don’t have to do that Bucky, it’s a lot of money and I’m not worth a single penny”

Now his heart cracks. “Don’t say that, you’re worth it don’t worry” he smiles which doesn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s okay honestly I think there’s more of an easier, less expensive way to get rid of me. All we have to do is think”

“Y/n-“

“Come on we need to think”

“Doll there’s no need to think about anything, I’ve already gone through with my plan.”

“What?”

“The headstones being made as we speak and Steve’s getting everyone on board.”

The way your eyes bulge out would have made him laugh but he wills himself not to.

“Wh-what’s going on?”

“Sit and I’ll tell you” he smiles as both of you sit on the couch. 

On the other side of the compound the rest of the team sit with amusement written over their faces as Steve tell them about Bucky and his ghost friend.

“You two have lost the plot” Sam laughs.

“Would you two be able to be put into an old people’s home?” Nat wonders out loud.

“Probably as they’re both over 100” Tony retorts to Nat.

“Guys I’m being serious” Steve says with his hands on his hips.

“Wait when did you say the fire was?” Tony asks him.

“15 years ago”

“I remember that, there was only one person that died - many were injured weren’t there?”

“Yeah. Y/n was the unfortunate one”

“And she’s been here ever since?”

“Yes”

“So she knows us?”

“Yes. Look let me ring Bucky and get him to bring her up here and we’ll ask questions that no one else would know apart from her and see if she was around at that time”

The team nods so that’s exactly what he does.

“Doll we’re needed upstairs, the team don’t exactly believe me or Steve so they’re going to ask questions and see if you was there or not, is that okay with you?”

“Okay”

The both of you head upstairs and for some reason you’re nervous, something that you’ve never been when around any of them.

“So Barnes, Rogers here tells us that you can see ghosts?” Tony starts.

“Ghost. Just one” he answers. “Okay ask your questions”

“Where exactly are we looking?” Sam now asks.

Bucky gestures to where you stand and obviously all they see is nothing.

“Okay, I’ll play along. Little ghost was you there when I created my iron man suit?”

“She said no”

“Was it you who made ghostly noises?”

Bucky struggles not to laugh “she said no”

“Wait why are you laughing?”

“Because she told me who it was and umm Tony they weren’t ghostly noises”

“What were they then?”

“Sounds of pleasure” Bucky says as he winks at Bruce.

The team start laughing at Bruce’s bright red cheeks and when they notice Nat sinking further into her chair their laughs becomes louder.

“Okay okay I want to ask the ghost something next” Sam laughs.

“Her name is Y/n”

“Okay Y/n what’s my nightly routine?”

“I’m not saying that!” - “No Y/n” - “please don’t make me say it!” - “godsake fine! Sam your nightly routine is you have a shower, brush your teeth, you do 50 push ups whilst na-naked and then -I think I’m going to be sick- you wank off before going to sleep”

“Ah yes! I believe them, Hi Y/n”

“She says hi”

The questions continued for well over an hour, the team finally believing that she was-

“Holy fucking shit!” Tony shouts.

“What? Oh”

“Fuck”

Bucky looked at Y/n who was staring at him with a confused expression which he just shrugs his shoulders. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure, guys what’s up?”

“W-we can fucking see her!” Sam shouts.

“What?”

“We can see her Barnes!”

It was true. They could all see you.

“H-how?” You stumble out, after all these years of being invisible and being unheard from everyone around you and all its took is for everyone to believe that you actually exist.

“I-we don’t know. This is crazy even for me” Tony says.

“You can hear me?”

“Yes sweetheart”

Months went by, you was now able to leave the compound by visiting the cemetery. You was there alongside the Avengers when your headstone was placed, each member placed a rose on the grave all giving you a small smile.

It took you some time to get use to being seen and heard, no more conversations with yourself as someone was always around to answer.

Yours and Bucky’s friendship grew, it would be a lie if you said you didn’t have a crush on him. And unknown to you he had a crush on you too. It hurt both of you because you knew it wouldn’t be able to work for the two of you with the main reason being that you were dead.

It was the anniversary of your death Bucky and Steve were on a mission which Bucky wasn’t happy about. You was walking down the corridor when Wanda ran out of her room shouting your name.

“Jesus Christ Wanda don’t do that again!” You scolded, still not use to the whole they could see you now thing.

“Sorry” she chuckled.

“It’s fine what’s wrong?”

“Nothings wrong, its just-its better if I show you”

Frowning you followed her back to her room. “Wanda what’s going on?”

“So I’ve been working on something, for you-“

“For me?”

“Yes and I think I’ve managed to figure out a way to bring you back to life”

Blinking once, twice, you burst out laughing.

“Wanda that’s impossible”

“Not really…just come over here and let’s see if it works and if it doesn’t I’ll try again okay”

Doing as she says you stand in the middle of her room eyebrows raising as her fingers start to glow.

Nothing happens.

“H-how do you feel?” She asks hopefully.

“The same way I’ve felt for the past 15 years Wand, dead.”

Sighing in defeat “I’m so sorry Y/n I’ll keep try-“. Her words are cut off by a deep growl.

“W-what was that?” You stutter out.

“FRIDAY how many heartbeats are in my room?”

“Two Miss Maximoff”

“Who’s?”

“Yours and Miss Y/n’s”

“Catch” Wanda says as a book comes flying at you.

Wanda and you stand there facing each other with wide eyes. You caught the book.

“Oh my god. Wan-Wanda it worked”

After both screaming and crying your taken down to Bruce’s lab where your examined and blood, yes blood, was drawn.

Nobody could believe it and neither could you either but somehow Wanda brought you back to the land of the living.

Everyone promised not to say anything to Bucky as you wanted to surprise him.

A week later on your birthday Bucky and Steve came back from a successful mission. In that week Nat and Sam had to go and do three food shops as you kept eating everything. What can I say you’d been dead for 15 years.

You and the team was waiting on the hanger for them to exit the quinjet. Steve was out first shortly followed by a very tired Bucky but as soon as his eyes found yours he smiled hugely.

“Hey Y/n I’ve miss-“

You cut him off by throwing your arms around his neck. Bucky stiffened at first not believing it was really happening then he wrapped his arms around your waist pulling your further in.

“H-how?”

“Wanda”

“Oh”

After Tony coughed making the pair of you pull apart you - mainly Wanda - explained everything to the two super soldiers. Bucky refusing to let go of you completely. Steve smiled and gave you a small hug.

Much later that night you and Bucky was sitting on his bed with his arm around you when he abruptly stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“There’s ten minutes left of your birthday so we’re going to dance”

You watched with an amused smile as he turned the stereo on.

“I got Peter to do this when we was watching the telly earlier” he smiled.

Unchained Melody by The Righteous Brothers started playing through the speakers.

“Y-you remembered?”

“Of course I did doll, it’s your favourite song how would I forget”

Slow dancing in the middle of Bucky’s room with your favourite song playing in the background on your birthday made this the best birthday you ever had.

“I need your love, I need your love, God speed your love to me”

Bucky sings just as his lips touch yours.

~ banner credit goes to @sweetpeapod ~

Tags: @imcinnamoons | @pigeonmama

[skylersprompts]

DC x DP Prompt *12*

Phantom knew that all of this would end badly, really. But as soon as he heard that Skulker was trying to get the pelt of the Superman he knew that he didn't really have a choice.

So he flew to Metropolis to rescue the struggling hero. When he reached them, it was worse than he thought.

Skulker was wrecking havoc without regards for the civilians, while he tried to catch Superman. The hero on the other hand was at least still standing and evading the ghost. But he also couldn't land a single hit. If Danny would let them be, this fight would go on forever or till Superman tired out.

So while Skulker shot another Missile at the Kryptonian, Danny flew invisible behind him and shot an ectoblast in his back. After a short fight with a lot of banter, Skulker found himself in the thermos and Danny and Superman landed on a rooftop.

"Thank you for your assistance! I don't think I recognize you, but I'm glad that you came to my aid against this unknown enemy", the Man of Steel smiled at him and really, Danny should have just nodded, gone invisible and fly of. But... Superman was a real life alien! A founder of the Justice League! Someone who had been to space missions! So yeah, he was a little starstruck.

"No problem, really! It was somewhat my fault... We just talked while fighting and somehow you came up and he just flew straight here, because he wanted to add your pelt to his collection. Normally he only really hunts me...", and his brain to mouth filter didn't work again, great Fenton.

Superman looked concerned for a moment, before he hid it behind an awkward smile. "I suppose he is one of your rouges then? I'm glad to see that someone with your abilities uses them to protect humanity like he should."

And that was enough to shift his expression of Superman. Just because he had these powers, didn't obligated him to protect anyone, except his own hunt and subjects! And Skulker was more of a friend nowadays, he just had become to excited because of a super rare alien and his obsession had kicked in in full force, because they hadn't really found a healthy outlet yet. Just hunting Danny every few weeks when the young adult had time between college classes wasn't really enough.

"You should consider joining us and show us how to defend ourself against a rouge like this", the superhero said, without realizing the shift in Danny's demeanour.

"He isn't really a rouge anymore... It's just a bit of a work in progress still. I also wouldn't really qualify as a member for you little team, since in terms of my species I'm still a literal baby. And I don't think that all of you will still be around when I'm considered an adult or even a teenager. So the answer is No, I won't be a child soldier for the League, nor will I tell you how to hurt my friends", Danny huffed with crossed arms, just to turn invisible then and fly off, not caring for the fact that the other hero seemed to be blue screening.