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veethefreeelf · 1 year ago

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Hate is a strong word - Y.JH

Summary:

You were living out your dream working in an ideal company with great colleagues and friends, except one. Yoon Jeonghan has been your nemesis from the moment the both of you stepped into this company. Sometimes you wonder if you’re living your dream or stuck in a nightmare.

Wordcount: 15k

Warnings: lots of snarky, petty dialogue; jealous jeonghan; jealous reader; vaginal fingering; oral f. receiving; vaginal penetration (protected & unprotected); some shoving of panties in mouths; lots and lots of praising; tie being used as a gag/leash; spanking; cumshot; pussy slapping

Requested: yes, by @shuahasmyheartffs

P.S - Italic is for thoughts mainly from the characters’ perspective and quotes. Bold is for text messages/calls/voice messages between characters

After you graduated college, you were hoping to join the company of your dreams. You worked so hard for so many years and you were even able to do a summer internship at this company during your college years.

At the time, the team lead of the marketing department really took you in and expressed how they would love for you to contact them after you graduated to see if they had any openings for you to join them.

This had been your proudest moment, up until the day you actually joined the company. By then, the former team lead of the marketing department had moved up but you know they still helped in the hiring process to make sure you secured the position available. He had also told you at the time that in the worst case scenario, you could start in the advertising department since they had an opening and move to the marketing department once you had the chance.

However, to your delight this wasn’t necessary. You passed all your tests and interviews and they loved your portfolio even if it was a short one since you had just graduated.

You joined the team and started to get to know your colleagues. Everyone was amazing. Some had been in the company longer and others had recently joined like you but you got along with all of them amazingly well. You had always been a people person so this didn’t really surprise you. You also found out very early on that you would need to work closely with the advertising team so you should start getting to know them as well.

One of the senior members of the team - Soonyoung - (or as he preferred to be called: Hoshi) had warned you early on that the members of the advertising team were tough but you shouldn't have any problems with them at all. ‘Unless something horrible happened like the new person that would join would be the devil’ he had said and laughed. You laughed along with him. You would be just fine.

You both shouldn’t have laughed because indeed, the new person that joined that team was the devil. And, since the day you met him and he completely destroyed all of your ideas in an interdepartmental meeting, you vouched to destroy everything he loved. Okay, maybe not that. But, definitely destroy all of his ideas and make sure everyone knew what a gigantic asshole he was.

And here you are, five years later. Still hating each other and still making sure everyone knew. Always trying to one up each other and get the last say in everything.

The only difference now is that you both are department team leads. You both got promoted at around the same time. Except you got promoted one day sooner and you would never let him live it down.

Today was a very important day for you. The company had just gotten a very big account, and your team was in charge of the marketing strategies for this account. Of course, all marketing strategies and efforts need to be hand in hand with the advertising team, and this usually meant an interdepartmental meeting and your nemesis shooting down every single idea your team proposes.

You were hoping that for this big account, he would be a bit less of an asshole. You were wrong. Every idea proposed by your team was shot down.

‘Not enough budget. Too expensive to recruit developers and add those features. Just overall doesn’t make sense for their line of business’.

He found every excuse in the book. You had decided then, you weren’t going to give up until he was gone from this company. Or at least from this branch. You needed him out of your life before you committed murder.

You just didn’t get it. Their team was tough and you knew that, but to everyone else he was just so nice and available and open to new ideas. However, anything coming from your team, with your stamp of approval was immediately a target for him.

“If looks could kill, he sure would be dead as fuck wouldn’t he?” Hoshi asked you.

You were eating at the company’s cafeteria and you might have been chewing a little too hard and staring at the back of his head plotting ways to get rid of him.

“He’s just such a fucking asshole. And for what? What does he gain with this? Endless meetings with us until one of us breaks? It won’t be me this time. Absolutely not. He better be ready for a fucking fight” you told Hoshi and the rest of your team as they sat down.

“Your hate for each other is tearing both our teams apart” Sunny said mercilessly and you looked around the table. Everyone nodded in agreement.

“How is this my fault? He started this 5 years ago. Started hating on every word that left my mouth for no fucking reason. What am I supposed to do? He did it again today! And I just took it without saying a word. How are you guys blaming me for this?” you asked as you looked around the table.

“You could just be the bigger person? I’m sure if you stop acknowledging everything, he’ll give up” Hoshi said.

“Let’s not blame, Y/N. She has tried to calm things down between them. He just keeps adding fuel to the fire. He’s clearly doing it on purpose” Seokmin had told everyone.

“See? Not my fault. I’ve tried. He will just keep doing this until one of us quits or moves to a different branch. It won’t be me though, don’t you worry” you said as you continued to angrily eat your lunch.

“But he is so hot, though. You should just fuck him. I bet that will calm him down” Clara, the remaining member of your team, spoke up.

“He is the devil. I would rather die than fuck him” you answered without hesitation.

“Oh come on. I can’t believe you haven’t thought about it. Look at him. EVERYONE wants to fuck him. Every human at this company has tried and failed. Except one. Lucky bitch from IT” Clara added.

“I can’t believe Hana bagged him. He had to be drunk. He does not fuck around from what I heard. Not his thing at all. He’s apparently a hopeless romantic waiting to find the one. Very unfortunate for most of us” Sunny added.

“Guys, I will vomit. Please, stop talking about the devil that haunts my nightmares that way. And also, no gossiping, come on. Hana gets enough attention” you told everyone on your team.

“Hey, Y/L/N. You’ve really been off your game since your promotion but today was definitely a new low for you”

You knew who was by your table talking shit. Bold of him to do so while you were holding a knife. Hoshi took the knife from your hand and you stared at him.

“What? We like you as our team lead, we can’t lose you to a crime of passion” he told you and Jeonghan laughed.

“Crime of passion, Y/L/N? Have you been harboring a crush for me? I’m flattered” Jeonghan spoke again.

“The only time your name and crush exist in the same thought inside my brain is when I fantasize about crushing all your hopes and dreams before the day I die, Yoon” you said as you started to angrily clean up your tray.

You couldn’t even eat at peace here. It wasn't enough for him to torture you during meetings. He always found a way to find you around the building and push your buttons beyond explanation.

“So you are fantasizing about me. Wow. Very forward, Y/L/N” he said and smirked.

“Hmm… Is that what you desperately want, Yoon? Me, fantasizing about you? Alone, in my bedroom, just thinking about you?” you said as you got up and got ridiculously close to him. You could’ve swore you saw a flash of surprise in his eyes and that he gulped at your statement.

“Pretty fucking pathetic, Yoon. And also, never, in your wildest fucking dreams but you are more than welcome to stay delusional” you said as you backed away.

You picked up your tray and finally left.

“You could stop being such an asshole to her. To our team, I mean” Seokmin said to Jeonghan after you left.

“Be better at your jobs and I won’t have to be” Jeonghan told your team and left as well.

“I should’ve let her have the knife” Hoshi said after he left.

“I’m telling you, they need to fuck. Everything will calm down once they get it out of their system” Clara said and everyone groaned.

You got to your office and you needed to calm down. You just didn’t get it. Why couldn’t he just leave you alone. It’s one thing to professionally disagree with someone because you have valid and rational reasons to. But it’s a completely different story to target one person and shoot all their ideas down. Valid or not. This no longer feels like just a professional rivalry, it feels personal as well.

Maybe your team was right. Except Clara. She was fucking wrong. Sure, when he first joined you thought he had been the most beautiful human you had ever seen in your entire life, but as soon as he started speaking up and hating on you, that notion was long gone. He wasn’t hot enough for you to ever forgive him. ‘Right?’ you asked yourself and immediately shot that down ‘Yeah. You hate him. Absolutely never going to happen’.

Clara was wrong. Maybe everyone else was right about you being the bigger person. Maybe if you stopped talking back to him in and out of meetings, he would give up and move on to a different target.

As you were contemplating your next move and if you were strong enough to be the bigger person, there was a knock at your office door.

“Come in” you had said after sitting down on your office chair.

“Hey, sorry. Do you have a minute?”

Seungcheol. Jeonghan’s partner in crime. He was a very tough cookie but you had always gotten along with him. He was reasonable and knew to acknowledge when your team was right and they were wrong.

“Go ahead. Be quick, please. Thanks to your team lead I will be spending the rest of the afternoon in brainstorming sessions since nothing is good enough for that prick” you said as you rubbed your temples.

A migraine. Of course. Because this day hasn’t sucked hard enough.

“About that… Maybe hold off on the brainstorming. I quite liked some of your team's ideas and I believe they are well within the client’s budget and needs. I’ll be talking to Jeonghan this afternoon to show him he’s wrong” he told you after he sat down across from you.

You raised your eyebrow.

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’, Y/N? I told you. Your team’s ideas were good. So I wanted you to know that so you can pass that on to the team. I also want you to understand we are not your enemies. I mean our departments are supposed to work together but it somehow seems we keep diverging more and more every day” he sighed.

“And whose fault is that?” you asked.

“I know he has been insufferable lately. But you have to admit, you do enjoy riling him up too. You’ve also made your share of bad decisions and comments because of your rivalry”

“It seems both our teams are suffering” you added to his comment.

You get it. The both of you probably have been ruining a perfectly good job and work environment for both your teams. You wanted it to end. You just didn’t know how to do that. Every time you wanted to try, he would make an absolutely ridiculous comment and you just couldn’t help yourself. You had to answer. He couldn’t win.

“I’ve tried, Seungcheol. You know I have. Even today, at the meeting, I could’ve answered him but I chose not to. It doesn’t matter. Answering, not answering. If I don’t engage with his comments during a meeting, he will find me somehow around this building and make sure to torture me. I don’t know what he wants from me” you said sincerely and he laughed. He laughed loudly. You were more and more confused by the minute.

“Really, Y/N? You really don’t know?” he asked, still laughing.

“I don’t have a crystal ball, Seungcheol. If I did something that offended him when we both started working here, I’m sorry, but I have no fucking clue what that is and it’s been five years. Whatever it was, he should’ve let it go a long time ago” you answered him and he seemed to understand. ‘You really didn’t know’ he thought to himself.

“Well, either way it’s not up to me to bring it up. I just want peace. Both of our teams need peace. So maybe keep that in mind next time you want to answer one of his snarky comments, just saying” he told you as he got up to leave.

“Thank you, Seungcheol. You should’ve been the one promoted, not him” you added before he was out of your office.

“We both know that’s not true. He may be an asshole, but he’s brilliant” he said and left your office.

At least this time, Seungcheol came to deliver good news.

After he left your office, you had a call with your team and explained there wouldn’t be any brainstorming sessions for this account until you hear the advertising team's final verdict on the previous meeting. Everyone was relieved, maybe this would be the beginning of the end of this war.

You got home absolutely exhausted. Mentally and physically. You didn’t want to cook or clean or do anything. You got a bath ready and decided you were going to order food. Fuck it. You deserved it after this shitshow of a day.

After your bath and dinner, you just wanted to rest. You went to the couch and turned on ‘New Girl’. You needed something silly to make your soul a little happier today. You had suffered enough. Or so you thought.

Your phone dinged, signaling a text message and you had a bad feeling before you even looked down at the phone on your coffee table. You picked up your phone from the coffee table and of course. It was a text message from ‘The Devil’. Why couldn’t he leave you alone, even after work?!

“You must be really proud about today. Talking to Seungcheol behind my back. I’m not going back on any of my decisions so good luck”

You couldn’t believe your eyes. Is this man serious? This is exactly why you can’t stop responding to his shit. He always manages to piss you off beyond reason. Beyond any restraint possible.

“You got it all wrong. Seungcheol came to me. Apparently, you are unreasonable and wrong. None of that is my fault. And, I will win as usual because you are wrong. As usual” you replied.

This would be your only reply of the night. That’s it. Whatever he says next, you will not engage. You can’t. You need to think about both of your teams and you have to stop being selfish and stop this war.

“I’ll take this up the chain if I have to. My team shouldn’t pay for your team’s incompetence” he added.

And there goes all your restraint. You can take a lot of insults from him but you won’t let him step all over your team.

“My team is far more competent than you. That’s the reason I got promoted first. The only reason you got promoted after me was the fact that your boss can’t stand having a woman in charge of a team and he knew you would be his best bet at having me leave this branch or quit. Now stop texting me outside of work and delete my phone number. I did not give you this number and don’t want you to have it. Thank you.”

That wasn’t too bad. You replied and defended your team but you didn’t add fuel to the fire. It short and concise and to the point and you fucking hope he listens and stops contacting you.

And he did, at least for tonight, he stopped replying. You never found out how he got your personal phone number but ever since he did, he loved texting you once in a while to make sure you weren’t happy outside of work. Apparently, he wanted you to feel miserable all around. He always had some additional comment he forgot to add during work hours and wanted to make sure you were going to bed thinking about it.

You hated him. You never liked saying you hated anyone. It’s such a strong feeling but you were pretty fucking sure this was pure hatred.

He ruined your day at work, and now he had ruined your night of rest and sitcom binging at home. You were so pissed you decided to go to bed and hope tomorrow is a better day.

Except it wasn’t. It wasn’t a better day at all. Jeonghan kept his promise. As soon as he got to work, he went to his boss to make sure his decisions were final. Your boss then started to get involved and for the rest of the week it had been constant meetings and battles regarding this one account. Not only that, but Jeonghan had even been worse this whole week to you and your team. He was on a brand new level of assholeness. You just wanted the week to end. You wanted Friday to come so you could go to the company quarter party and get hammered.

Finally, on Friday, they had come to an agreement that one of the ideas from your team was going to go forward but your team would need to come up with new ones as the other options were vetoed. You didn’t know what to feel. It still felt like a loss and the more he smirked, the worse you felt. You couldn’t not say anything so when your boss asked for agreement on your side, you were very clear on your response.

“We will do it. However, you should know these two people across from us will be the reason we might lose this account and multiple ones in the future” you told your boss and as you turned to Jeonghan’s boss, you continued.

“You can put that on the record and give me a disciplinary warning. I will not stay silent while my team’s work keeps being put in question by people far dumber than any of us simply because the team lead is a woman. You should both be ashamed of the decisions you have made professionally based on your personal hate of me” you finished.

Jeonghan wasn’t smirking anymore. He was staring at the ground like a child that had just been disciplined by their mother or a teacher. You felt proud. You left and went straight to your office. You knew there would be consequences to your words but you can’t deal with this anymore. You are reaching a boiling point with that man and his sexist boss.

You were pacing around your office trying to calm yourself down. This day was almost over. You were going to enjoy tonight. You wouldn’t let them win and ruin everything. You were going to have a great time with your team and no one was going to stop that from happening. You started to smile thinking about the goofballs in your team and how you were going to have an amazing time when there was a knock at your door. ‘Here we go’ you thought. Your boss was about to rip you a new one.

“Come in”

You couldn’t believe your eyes. Jeonghan walked through your office door and you both just stared at each other silently. You didn’t know why he was here but you didn’t care.

“Get out” you said as you walked around your desk to your chair.

“I know things haven’t been ideal but I just wanted to say I don’t hate you. I never have” he said and you laughed while you sat down.

“Well, I hate you, Yoon Jeonghan. Always have. From the very first day you decided to start testing me. Now that that’s settled, please, get out of my office” you said and started packing up your things for the day.

“Hate is a strong word, Y/N”

“Indeed. And you have no idea how much I dislike that word. How much I dislike using it. But, you did that. Congrats. You broke me and managed to make me hate you. Hope it was worth it” you said as you started to walk out of your office.

But just before you left, you had one more thing to add.

“It’s sad really. If you weren’t this way, I truly believe we could’ve made a great team” you told him and then left.

After you got home, you started getting ready for the company’s quarter party and you decided you weren’t going to let this stop you or your team from continuing to do a great job.

Tonight would be sort of a team building exercise for the five of you. The company liked throwing these parties every quarter and it reminded you a bit of the Dundies in The Office. They also gave silly awards but instead of a trophy, you got a fridge magnet and a chance to donate $25 to a charity of your choosing. It was pretty cool.

Besides, the company usually rented the same hotel ballroom and had an open bar and a DJ after the awards. Everything was free and it truly helped employees unwind and relax after each quarter. You were proud to be a part of this.

You usually don’t choose to drink too much at these parties since word gets around pretty fast of any embarrassing moments that may have happened after most people had left. Tonight would be different though. You and your team deserved to get hammered and dance until they kicked you out of the hotel.

Once you told your team that, they couldn’t be happier. It’s like they had forgotten everything that has happened in the last few weeks. You were thankful for that. You wanted to feel that way too.

You and Clara took an Uber to the party together and Hoshi, Seokmin and Sunny also did the same. None of you ever wanted to arrive first and be alone at these parties so you usually split up into groups and went together.

The trio arrived first at the party, went to the table marked for your team and moved over to the bar immediately.

When you and Clara got there, you noticed them at the bar and decided to join them before going to your table and setting your belongings down.

“Starting early, are we?” you asked and laughed along with Clara.

“Hey! It’s the boss! And duh, of course, you said to go wild tonight so we need to start early” Seokmin told you as he sipped his cider.

“Besides, once you see who is the other team sharing the table with us, you’re going to wish you had started drinking earlier, Y/N” Hoshi added and their little trio started laughing. Of course you had to share a table with him. But you won’t let him get to you. Not tonight. You turned to the bartender.

“Whiskey & Coke please, no ice. Thank you”

“Oof, you really meant to go wild. Starting pretty strong, Y/N. Careful or you might do something stupid tonight” Sunny said with a teasing tone and you all laughed together.

After you all had your drinks, you started to move towards the table so you could sit down and hang out as a team. You wanted to take advantage of the fact that the advertising team hadn’t arrived yet.

“Okay so about that ‘doing something stupid tonight’” Clara started to add to Sunny’s previous remarks.

Hoshi and Seokmin started shaking their heads disapprovingly before she even continued her sentence.

“You should fuck Jackson from the IT department, Y/N” Sunny said and everyone whipped around to look at her. Usually, Clara is your problem child. No one quite knew how to react to what she just said.

“What? Don’t look at me like that. You know he wants to fuck you come on. Also, I heard from Cass in HR that he also has a huge--”

“Sunny!” you stopped her before she had a chance to finish her sentence. You and our team couldn’t stop laughing. Who knew Sunny had it in her. You really have to watch out for the quiet ones. They will always surprise you.

“Oh come on, Sunny. If Y/N is fucking anyone with a big cock tonight she might as well hate fuck Jeonghan” Clara added and you just gulped down your drink. She wasn’t going to give up on this idea, It was going to be a long night.

“And how do you know that for a fact? Just because Hana said it, doesn’t mean it’s true” Hoshi started adding fuel to the fire.

“Why would Hana lie about that? And why the fuck would she follow Jeonghan around like a lost puppy if he hadn’t been amazing like she keeps advertising? She was not lying and you should find out for yourself, Y/N” Clara answered.

Everyone looked at you.

“What? I’m not even gonna dignify that with a response” you said and Clara laughed.

“Hmm… Sounds like maybe you’re interested in finding out… Or are you just jealous that Hana got to him first?” Clara asked and they all started laughing and agreeing with her. You loved them all but sometimes you wanted to kill them.

“Sounds like she is both jealous and interested in finding out” someone whispered in your ear from behind you.

All your team members stopped laughing and went silent. They knew better than to laugh at what Jeonghan just said, no matter how funny it was. Jeonghan walked around from behind you with Seungcheol and they both sat down across from your team at the table.

“I already told you, Yoon. No matter how many times you dream about it, it’s never going to happen” you said and started getting up to get another drink. You need a lot more alcohol to get through tonight.

“We’ll see” he said as you were walking away.

There will be no more peace tonight at that table. And you know once your team gets enough drinks in them, it’s going to get even messier. Funny thing is both your teams get along great with each other. You and Jeonghan seem to be the only ones ruining all the fun.

When you got to the bar, you decided to just get a coke. Dinner was to come, followed by the awards and there will be a lot of wine. You need to pace yourself. You don’t want to end up completely drunk. Definitely not at that table.

Surprisingly, dinner went over smoothly. Everyone was talking and having fun with each other. Clara kept throwing in some comments about you and Jeonghan and everyone seemed to enjoy it so all you did in those moments was roll your eyes. The only two people not interacting with each other were you and Jeonghan.

The awards started and it was always quite fun. People gave great speeches and they roasted themselves and their colleagues and bosses. You always had a blast. You had won a few of these before but not recently so you were surprised when you were called in to receive the ‘Warrior of the Branch’ award. ‘Clever’ you thought to yourself.

You went over to get handed your fridge magnet by your boss and she winked at you as she handed it to you.

“Well, I would say this is a surprise but it isn’t. Even today I got a disciplinary warning for defending myself and my team so it makes sense. There’s only one person I need to thank for this because he is the reason I wake up every morning, look in the mirror and tell myself all the reasons why I shouldn’t commit murder that day. I gotta tell you, most days I don’t care about those reasons and so thank you Hoshi, for taking the knife out of my hands, forcibly” you paused as everyone laughed with you.

“So, thank you Jeonghan. I never thought any good would come from hating you, but I’m sure the charity I choose tonight will think otherwise” you ended your speech. Everyone clapped and you started heading back to your seat. You noticed Jeonghan was no longer at your table. Were you too harsh?

“You could cut him some slack, Y/N” Wonwoo from Jeonghan’s team spoke up and everyone went silent.

“He doesn’t cut me any slack, why should I cut him some?” you asked in response and left the table.

You didn’t know where Jeonghan went and you didn’t know if he left the table because of your speech but how is this fair? You always get treated like the bad guy when he is the one that started all of this. He is the one that tortures you on a daily basis. But somehow, whenever he gets upset, it all gets turned around on you.

You needed to hide for now. You wanted to be alone. You were sick of all of this. To be honest, you don’t know how much more you can take before you transfer branches or even quit altogether.

You went to the usual place in this hotel you go to hide whenever you start to feel overwhelmed at these parties. There was a small room on the side of the ballroom that was also rented out to your company. It was used to store all the awards and company belongings before the awards started and your boss has always given you the key to the room after they’ve emptied it out. She knew you often need time and space to yourself away from everyone. She was one of the reasons you haven’t given up on this job just yet.

You unlocked the room and walked through the door. You didn’t turn the lights on, no need. You locked the door behind you and moved to the window. It was a beautiful, huge window that had a nice sofa in front of it. You loved sitting there and staring outside in silence. This window was facing the garden that surrounded the back portion of the hotel and you loved to sit there and just look at the trees in peace.

“No fair. I thought I was the only one that had the key to this room after they were done using it” Jeonghan spoke up from across the room. He was sitting in a lounge chair and the moonlight was allowing you to see his face. He looked upset.

“It appears life isn’t fair for either of us. I love being alone here, yet here you are” you said and turned back to the window.

For a while there was only silence. All you could hear in this room was both of you breathing. You were staring out the window. He was staring at you. You were sure of it. You could feel his eyes on you. It wasn’t uncomfortable. You just never knew what he wanted and you were too tired to try to figure it out at this moment.

“I really can’t stand hearing you say you hate me, you know that?” he asked you.

You turned to look at him again and scoffed.

“How is that my problem? You did this to yourself” you said and turned back to the window.

You really hoped this was it. That he wasn’t going to talk to you anymore. You didn’t mind sharing this space in silence.

“Why do you always have to answer me with such disdain? I understand I’ve been hard on you and your team but you’re taking this a bit too far don’t you think?” he asked you as he got up from his chair and started to walk over to you.

And here it was. The reason why you could never keep quiet and not answer him. He always seemed to be completely detached from reality. He’s the one torturing you, yet he thinks he’s the victim. Typical.

“You’ve been hard on me and my team?? You’ve been a nightmare, Jeonghan. At work and outside of it. You actively seek me out to torture me whenever you get the chance but somehow I’m to blame?” you got up from the sofa and started raising your voice at him. You two were standing a little too close to each other.

“You’ve spent years trying to destroy everything I’m trying to build for myself, for no apparent reason and you act surprised when you hear me say that I hate you? How can I not? You’ve pushed me this far, it’s your fault and I’ll keep saying it no matter how upset you pretend to be: I hate--”

He kissed you. You couldn't finish your sentence. He kissed you hard. He grabbed you by the neck with one hand and held your body close to his with the other and he kept kissing you. And you let him.

Not only did you let him kiss you but you kissed him back just as hard. Your hands were on the collar of his shirt and you were both just a tangled mess. Trying to devour each other. All the anger you both had accumulated over the years led up to this moment. Neither of you could think. Neither of you could stop.

He started walking you back to the sofa you had just been sitting on, and once you reached it, he started lowering you down on it. He was on top of you, kissing you and you couldn’t help but to place your legs around his waist and pull him closer. When you both started to moan into each others’ mouths, he pulled away from you.

“Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll leave right now. We’ll pretend this never happened” he told you sincerely.

You could tell he meant it. He was giving you a chance to back out of this. To stop this before you crossed the ultimate line with him. And as hard as it was to admit, you didn’t want him to stop.

You couldn’t remember the last time anyone kissed you and touched you like this. Now that you think about it, you don’t think anyone has kissed you and touched you this way before. Full of passion and lust.

“Don’t stop” you answered him.

He silently nodded and lowered himself to kiss you again. He started moving his hands down your body. Touching you everywhere. As if he was trying to memorize the shape of you in case this was just a dream or in case he would never get the chance to touch you like this again. He moved down and started to kiss down your neck, moving to your cleavage next as one of his hands was moving towards your clothed pussy.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. You’re gonna kill me one of these days, I swear, angel” he said once his hand reached your panties and he started massaging your clit over your now ruined underwear.

He was right, you were dripping. You wanted this so bad. You wanted him. Especially now that he was saying all the right things. He pulled away from you and moved down your body.

“I really wish I could take my fucking time with you but you had to let me fuck you for the first time here” Jeonghan said disapprovingly and you sighed.

He lowered his face to your pussy and started to leave open mouthed kisses to your clothed core. He was driving you insane. You started to moan. You needed him to stop taking his time.

“Fuck, angel… You’re a loud one, aren’t you? I should’ve known from your smart mouth. Let’s find a way to keep you quiet, hmm?” he said as he started to take your panties off.

“Be a good girl and open up, angel” he told you after taking your panties off and tapping your lips twice with his fingers.

Fuck, why did you love being praised so much? And how the fuck did he know this was exactly the way you like it? It doesn’t matter. You did what he asked and opened your mouth. He pushed your panties into your mouth and whispered ‘good girl’ to you while he pulled back to move back down to your pussy.

He collected your juices on his fingers and started to suck them while looking into your eyes. You moaned into your panties and your breathing was starting to get erratic. He gave you a short laugh and moved down to latch on to your clit. He started sucking on it aggressively while his fingers moved around your hole. Just teasing you. He was going to be the death of you.

You wiggled your hips and he laughed again. He wanted to take his time with you but the loudness in the room next to you reminded him that he needed to hurry if he wanted to be inside of you tonight. So he gave in to what both of you desperately wanted. He started eating you out like it was his last day on earth. His mouth was on your clit and two of his fingers finally got inside of you.

He set a fast pace from the start and you could tell he was responding and adjusting his movements every time you moaned a little too loud. He wanted to understand what could make you cum the fastest. He wanted to learn what made you more and more desperate and he quickly found the answers he was looking for.

His fingers found your g-spot and he kept making sure he hit it every single time. Same thing for his tongue and mouth on your clit. As soon as he found the rhythm that made you scream into your panties, he kept at it.

He wanted to make you feel pleasure like you never had before and he was going to make sure this wasn’t going to be a one time thing. He was going to find out everything about you and your body and guarantee you would want him back in your arms after tonight.

After just a few moments of hitting the right spots and keeping at the right pace, you started getting louder and louder and he wished he could hear you more clearly. You were so close. No one had ever made you cum this fast in your life and you didn’t want to fight it or hold back. One of your hands went to your tits to massage them and the other went to his hair. He started to moan into your pussy and once his free hand grabbed your thigh so fucking hard it could leave bruises behind, you finally came into his mouth.

You were loud when you came. Jeonghan started looking towards the door to make sure no one heard you too. He was begging inside his head for you two to not be interrupted now. Not now, that he was so close to getting inside of you.

Once he realized no one heard you two and now that you were coming down from your high, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out his wallet. He threw his jacket on the floor, unzipped his pants and started to lower them and his boxers to his knees.

You finally opened your eyes after your high and looked at Jeonghan. He was getting a condom out of his wallet and you could see his half naked bottom half now.

Hana had not been lying. He was big. Almost too big. You didn’t know how he was going to fit inside of you, but fuck it if you weren’t going to try your best. He caught you staring and he started smirking.

“It’s gonna fit. You’re a good little angel so you’re gonna take me in just right, don’t worry” he told you as he rolled down the condom onto his cock.

Fuck, you could’ve cum right there on the spot after what he said. All you could do was nod and he smiled at you.

He lowered himself on top of you and he started guiding is cock into your hole. You were so wet, there was no resistance. He started to slowly rock into you and pushed more and more of his cock into you. After his third big stroke, he finally pushed all the way into you and bottomed out. You moaned so loudly into your panties. You had never felt anything like this before. You were so fucking full. You couldn’t stop clenching around him. And he was already just as wrecked as you. You could tell by the way he moaned into your neck.

After a few moments, you were ready. You needed him to move, so you moved your hips a bit to signal him.

“Not yet, angel. Please, you have to stop squeezing me like that or I’ll be very embarrassed very soon and this is definitely not the way I want this to end” he told you and you smiled. You did your best to stop squeezing his cock and you began touching his hair as you wrapped yourself even more around him.

Once he was ready, he finally started to move. He pulled back a bit from you and held your hips in place as he pushed into you with long and hard strokes. He again made sure to find your g-spot as soon as he could and once he did, he sped up his movements. He began the abuse on your g-spot. Fast and hard. He was gonna make you cum like this and so quickly again.

You were holding each other as his pace got faster and harder and you kept your eyes locked in on each other. He kept cussing and whispering praises as you both got closer and closer.

Once he started to feel you squeezing him more and more, he knew you were close and he knew he was right behind you. He bit his lips to lower the volume of his moans and you kept moaning into your panties just as loud as you did before. One of his hands moved from your hips to rub your clit and just that touch sent you over the edge again. As you squeezed him, he came into the condom and moaned into your ear.

After you both came down from your highs, you took your panties out of your mouth and you both just laid there with each other in complete silence as your breaths evened out. All you could hear was the noise from the other room where the award portion of the night seemed to have stopped and the DJ set had started.

He raised his head from your neck, looked into your eyes and kissed you. Not as hard as he had when this all began. It was soft, almost gentle. You could tell he wanted to cherish this moment which you both knew might never happen again. Little did he know, you also wanted to cherish this just as much.

After that kiss, he got up, threw the condom away and got dressed. You cleaned yourself up with some tissue paper that was on the desk and tried to look presentable again. As you took your panties to put them on, he stopped you.

“I’m keeping them, angel” he said as he took the panties from your hand and put them in his jacket pocket. You don’t know why but you didn’t protest. You let him take them.

“I’ll leave first. Make sure to wait a bit, just in case” he told you and you laughed.

“Even if I went out there with you, there would be no way anyone would think we just snuck out to fuck” you told him and he nodded with a smile on his face.

You waited for about 20 minutes after he left to go back into the ballroom where everyone was now getting hammered and dancing like it was their last night on earth.

You needed a drink. Or several. ‘What the fuck just happened?’ you asked yourself. You just fucked someone you have been hating for five years. Maybe hate was a strong word after all.

“You’re back! Where the fuck were you?” an already drunk Hoshi asked you.

“Sorry, was pissed off but then I remembered I made you guys a promise so I came back” you told him and he smiled.

“Catch up then. You are several drinks behind and Clara has been asking for her dancing twin” Hoshi added before he started to dance away from you and back to the dancefloor. If you were going to live up to Clara’s loving nickname, you would need to catch up indeed. There is no way you were about to make a fool out of yourself in front of your colleagues sober.

The rest of the night went as expected. Everyone on your team got way too drunk and you ended up just a bit buzzed and babysitting them all. It was okay though. They needed this more than you at this point and that was very clear. At the end of the night, you practically had to drag them all into their Ubers. You got help from Seungcheol and Jeonghan who were also very drunk but trying to be as helpful as possible.

The weekend went by fast. And next thing you know it’s Monday again. You were nervous going into work for the first time in years. You didn’t know what to expect from Jeonghan. Would he ignore you? Would the usual behavior stop? Would he tell everyone and embarrass you? You had no idea. You didn’t think he was that cruel but you never knew what was going on inside his head. He was always so hard to read and in this situation it might bite you in the ass.

To your surprise, the next two weeks passed by without any incidents. Jeonghan had apologized to you in front of both of your teams and told everyone he would be more patient and cooperative in finding solutions that worked for everyone. At first, everyone was shocked and a bit suspicious at the whole situation. They were all asking you what happened and what changed and you didn’t know what to say. You told them about what you had said to your boss and to his boss in the last meeting you four had had and they all agreed he probably saw the error of his ways then.

You knew better. You knew what had happened between the two of you after that meeting. You want to know if that’s what made him change but you haven’t had the opportunity to ask him yet. And, you were also nervous to ask him.

Now that your teams were closer, you actually started to have lunch together at the company’s cafeteria. It was weird at first. But now everyone is over that initial weirdness and you actually enjoy having lunch with all of them. Jeonghan’s team is funny. You already knew Seungcheol and Wonwoo well, but now you got to know Silvia and Joshua more. They were absolute sweethearts and you felt bad you hadn’t gotten to know them better earlier.

Jeonghan had never brought it up with you. Whatever happened between the two of you. You would never admit it to him but you were disappointed. You were hoping this wasn’t going to be a one time thing. Especially now that he has become a great colleague and partner at work. You see him in a whole different light now and you wished he felt the same way. But you were stubborn. You were definitely not going to tell him.

Today, during lunch time, Clara decided to be Clara and show her true colors for the first time in front of Jeonghan and his team.

“Hey, Y/N, did you ever fuck, Jackson at the quarter party? There was some suggestion of that and you did disappear for a while…” she said and everyone whipped their heads to look at her.

Jeonghan’s team was shocked and staring at Clara. Jeonghan however, was staring at you and you alone. He looked angry.

“Clara, please stop being yourself in front of the other team. They don’t know you’re clinically insane” you said as you scolded her.

“What? It was a fair question. He has always wanted to get into your pants and he’s hot. If you haven’t already, you should go for it” she added and Hoshi laughed.

“Clara how can you know so much around the office but not know the reason why Jackson wanted to bone Y/N” Hoshi said and you groaned and made a disgusted face.

“Even I know there was a bet within the IT team to fuck Y/N” Sunny added and Clara looked disgusted.

“Okay. I was wrong. Never listen to me again, Y/N” she said and you laughed.

“It’s funny that you think I would ever listen to you when it comes to people I would fuck” you said and they all laughed. Except Jeonghan. He was not amused by this conversation at all and he seemed to get in a worse mood when Jackson decided to walk up to your tables.

“It’s so nice to see my favorite teams finally together. What a happy ending for everyone” Jackson said and everyone greeted him and nodded in agreement. He then turned to you and you could swear you felt Jeonghan move his chair closer to yours.

“Hey, Y/N. I have tickets for the premiere of the movie you mentioned you wanted to see a while back and wanted to ask if you would like to join me Thursday night?” Jackson asked and everyone went silent. You could cut the tension with a knife.

“No, thanks, Jackson. But have a great time, I heard the movie is amazing” you said politely as you began clearing your tray and got up to leave. Jackson and both teams were looking at each other awkwardly before Jackson spoke up.

“That could’ve gone better… Anyway, have a good day guys”

“I don’t get what is so hard about understanding a simple no. He’s heard it so many times from her yet he won’t stop annoying her” Seokmin said as everyone started clearing out.

Everyone left to continue their work day. You were in your office prepping for the interdepartmental meeting later today between your team and Jeonghan. Even if he has been nicer lately, you always want to make sure you leave him no room to say no.

Today, it would be Seokmin presenting his ideas for a new account your company got and it was his first time presenting solo. You needed it to go well so that Seokmin gained the confidence to do this more often. But, because the universe hates you, the presentation did not go well at all. Jeonghan had chosen to be insufferable again and go back to his old ways. He kept vetoing all of Seokmin’s plans left and right with the most ridiculous of reasons and you reached your boiling point when he started interrupting Seokmin before he could explain his reasoning as well.

“What the fuck is wrong with you today? Are you back on your bullshit? If so, I would appreciate it if my team gets the memo next time” you asked Jeonghan and everyone went silent. Here we go again.

“Don’t start with me, Y/N. This wasn’t a good presentation. Most of his ideas are flawed and not reasonable at all for this client. Go back, review and come back to us” Jeonghan told you as he got up to leave.

“You’re forgetting you’re not our boss, Jeonghan. We don’t work for your team. We work with your team. You are the one that needs to go back, review the content and come up with a reasonable and logical explanation on why you want to veto all of this. Have fun” you told him as you signaled to your team to get up and leave with you.

“That’s it? No fight? Just sending me back to review things? Can’t handle me anymore, Y/N? I should’ve known… Last time, you barely handled what I gave you” he said teasingly and you stopped in your tracks. You walked towards Jeonghan and both your teams moved away from the both of you. They knew better than to get involved.

You knew that last comment wasn’t about the last meeting you had and the last time you fought. It was about that night. He was smirking now. You needed to wipe that smirk off his face.

“Oh I handled it perfectly well. In fact, if I remember correctly, I handled it so well that someone was ready to tap out very prematurely… How embarrassing…” you told him and he was no longer smirking. Perfect.

“Are we still talking about work?” Hoshi whispered to Joshua.

“I fucking hope so” Joshua said out loud and it snapped you out of staring at Jeonghan. You started to move towards your team and leave the meeting room.

“Like I said, review and come back to us. With data. No more of this theoretical bullshit or ‘I’ll take this up the chain if I have to’” you said as you mocked him from what he had once told you.

That felt good. Your team started to laugh and cheer on Seokmin after you left the meeting room. Before everyone went back to their desk on the floor, you decided to have a word with Seokmin. You didn’t want him to overthink this.

“Seokmin, can we have a word in my office, please?” you asked him and he nodded and smiled at you. You both walked to your office and sat down on the corner couch you had.

“Don’t take this personally, and don’t you dare think you did a bad job. If your ideas had not been good, I wouldn’t have let you present them. None of the team members would have. He’s probably having a bad day and wanted to take it out on you. Don’t worry about it, yeah?” you asked him and he nodded.

“I just don’t want to disappoint anyone. I know I’m the only one that hasn’t done this by myself and I don’t want to disappoint the team” he said with a sad smile.

“You could never disappoint any of us. Their team will review and we will reach a good compromise. I’m sure most of your plans for this account will come through. Let him get over himself” you said and you both laughed.

“Thank you” he added and you hugged each other.

After Seokmin left your office, you rushed to get your reports done to leave on time. You had an exhausting day and both Jackson and Jeonghan had decided to piss you off today. You needed your bed desperately. Your boss needed the final reports today and you had spent most of your time helping Seokmin prep. You were very late and you didn’t know if you would be able to finish them on time. But, no matter how tired you were, you were too proud to not do your job properly.

You sent your boss a message letting her know you wouldn’t be able to deliver the reports before 6PM but that you would finish them tonight. You also told her since it was poor time management on your side, you would do the overtime without any additional pay needed. Maybe not the smartest decision but it’s your decision to make. Your boss agreed with the promise you wouldn’t stay too late. She was incredible.

6PM came around and everyone had either left the office or was about to and you were jealous. You had a headache and needed a break. You were halfway through and you decided a power nap was needed. ‘This is why you got that couch’ you thought.

You took a 30 minute nap and got back to work. You ordered dinner and ate at your desk while you finished your reports. By 9PM you were done. Finally. You can go home to your shower and bed. You couldn’t wait.

Except the universe was never kind to you and someone was knocking at your office door. You hoped it was the cleaning crew kicking you out so you told them to come in.

“Working late? Thought I was the only one left here” Jeonghan said as he walked into your office and locked the door behind him. He was leaning on your desk with his arms crossed as you started getting your purse and jacket to leave.

“That’s what happens when you’re an asshole. You get to stay late and review your mistakes. Good news is you must have made a lot of extra money with the overtime hours you rack up” you told him and you signaled him to move to the door.

“You’re not leaving yet. Come here” he told you and it surprised you.

You didn’t particularly like being told what to do, and never by him. This time it felt different though. The air felt like it did the night of the party. Since the party he hadn’t tried anything with you at all. You assumed this was never going to happen again. That he got what he wanted and that was it. So why was he standing here now, asking you to move closer to him?

He sighed and uncrossed his arms to place them on your desk.

“Come closer, angel. Don’t fight me, you know you want to be closer to me just as much as I want to be closer to you right now” Jeonghan said and you audibly gulped. Fuck… Why does he have to call you angel and why do you like it so much? You were doomed at this rate.

You took your jacket off and placed it and your purse on the hanger close to the door. You walked towards him until you were close enough to feel his breath on you.

“You’ve been staying away from me since that night. So why now, Jeonghan?” you asked him. You wanted to know what was on his mind. Why he hadn’t tried getting closer to you until today.

“I assumed it was a one time thing. I thought you were gonna regret it and tell me it was a mistake. I didn’t want to hear that. Ignorance is bliss, I guess” he answered and you nodded.

“So why tonight? What made you take the chance of getting turned down?” you asked teasingly.

“I don’t like Jackson. At lunch, that whole scene made me… Angry. After our meeting I had time to think. Your snarky comment about our night together and your brutal rejection of Jackson made it clear for me. If you were going to reject me, you would’ve done it at the party” he told you as he pushed a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“Bold of you to assume that just because I let you fuck me that night, I wouldn’t reject you now”

“Do it then, Y/N. Tell me to fuck off. I will leave and never bother you again”

You stayed silent.

He nodded and began to move away from you. You grabbed his hand to stop him from leaving.

He turned around, stepped closer to you and kissed you. It was just like that first kiss at the party. He was grabbing your neck and your hip and pulling you impossibly close to him and you were pulling him just as close to you.

“The cleaning crew is going to be here soon. Why do you only let me fuck you like this? In a hurry? You’re unfair, angel”

“It’s your fault too. Of all the days and times to come here and fuck me and you chose right now”

“Don’t worry, now that I know you’ll let me keep fucking you, we’ll have plenty of time to make up for it, angel” he said as he moved you both towards your desk.

When you reached your desk, he turned you around so your back was against his chest. He moved your hair out of the way and dove in to kiss your neck. You were already beginning to moan. It had been too long since he fucked you. You should’ve told him you wanted more right after that night. He bent you over your desk and started to rub his clothed hard cock against your ass. He took his tie off and kept rubbing himself on you.

“You can’t be loud again, angel. Not tonight” he told you as he moved his tie to your lips. He was going to gag you with his tie. Fuck, you were already dripping and ruining your panties.

You nodded and he placed the tie between your lips. You felt him tighten the tie around the back of your head. Like a leash. You moaned and he laughed. He loved to see you fall apart like this, with the simplest of actions.

He unbuttoned your pants and pulled all your bottom half clothing down in one swift motion. He spanked you and kept rubbing his hard cock against your bare ass. He held your hip with one hand and moved to rub circles on your clit with the other.

“I love how you're always dripping for me. It makes it hard to believe you when you say you hate me, angel” he said and laughed.

All you could do was moan. He was alternating between rubbing circles on your clit and fingering you. He was spreading your juices everywhere. He wanted to get you as wet as possible but he seemed to be avoiding making you cum right away. Like he wanted to save it. You wiggled your hips. You wanted to cum. He laughed again.

“I’m just getting you ready to take me, angel. You’re cumming on my cock tonight”

After a few minutes of torture, you heard him unzip his pants and move around. You could only assume he was getting naked and getting a condom from the sounds you were hearing.

“You ready, angel?” he asked as he massaged your ass.

You could feel his cock on your ass now. You were too eager but you couldn’t help yourself. You nodded and said a muffled ‘please’. Just like you, he couldn’t wait anymore. It had been too long since the last time this happened. He placed his cock against your hole and started to push in impossibly slow.

He kept doing shallow strokes, pushing a bit more of his cock in each time. You had no idea how he was this patient but you couldn’t wait anymore. On one of his shallow strokes you pushed back hard until he bottomed out and you both moaned loudly. Your moan had been muffled but his was not. Fuck, you didn’t want to get caught like this. He spanked you, hard.

“You wanna get caught, hmm? Bad fucking angel…”

You kept squeezing him and trying to move but he was holding you still.

“Fuck, it had been way too long. Have we learned our lesson, angel? You’re gonna let me fuck you whenever we want from now on, right?” he asked and you nodded immediately. He leaned in to whisper in your ear.

“Good girl. I’m going to go hard now. Better fucking handle it like you said today hmm? If you need me to stop, tap your desk twice with both hands”

You nodded again and before you were done nodding he started to fuck you hard. You were surprised your desk wasn’t moving at all from the force of his strokes. You started to move back and match his pace and you both started panting fast. You knew much like last time, neither of you would last long.

He pulled on the makeshift leash to pull back your head and increased his pace. You were getting so close. You just needed a bit more. He moved his hand from your hip to your clit and started rubbing it furiously. You got louder and louder and kept squeezing him tighter and tighter.

“Is my good angel going to cum on my cock? Do it, I need to feel you cum around me again”

And as soon as he finished his sentence, you came with a cry of his name against the tie. He kept fucking you through your high and you kept squeezing his cock.

He kept whispering ‘fuck’ and ‘good girl’ under his breath. You knew he was getting closer and you started pushing back on him harder and harder. You wanted to push him over the edge. You wanted him to feel the way you feel right now. In perfect bliss. And a few moments later, he came as he leaned over you. He laid his whole body against yours as you both evened out your breaths.

You both got dressed and took turns using the bathroom in your office to clean yourselves. As you were getting ready to leave, you yawned so loud and he laughed at you.

“Don’t you dare make a cocky comment, Jeonghan”

“I won’t but let me take you home, please”

“And let you have my address? You already have my phone number and that’s enough”

He stopped smiling and started to leave as well.

“Hey, I’m joking. That’s what we do, right?” you asked him. You didn’t want him to leave like this.

“Sometimes your words hurt, Y/N. I know I’ve fucked up a lot but I never wanted you to hate me and think this low of me”

“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful of what I say from now on. Promise. But I don’t want to lose the snarky back and forth between us”

He smiled. He only wished you would have told him you never have hated him as well.

That night you let him give you a ride home. You were too tired to drive. It was nice. During that car ride you found out he has a beautiful singing voice. You also found out a few more things about him during your conversation. He likes legos and has a pet rock. He, Seungcheol and Joshua are like brothers. And, he loves pranks. This last one you could’ve guessed easily.

You also told him about yourself. You love reading and camping. You also like legos and have a few sets built in your office at home. You scare easily and have to deal with your team constantly jump scaring you because it’s hilarious to see you suffer, apparently.

It was a good drive. When you said your goodbyes, he told you he would text you more and you should do the same. He wanted to get to know you and he wanted to meet up in places he could fuck you slowly and have you be as loud as possible. You smacked his arm after this last comment but you agreed. He was a good guy overall and you were interested in continuing this… Whatever this was.

For the next month, you met up with him regularly. Usually after work and at his place. He had bent you over his desk and your desk a few times after a heated argument in a meeting but you tried fucking each other in more private places. He loved hearing you scream his name and you loved having him desperate for you. In this month, he had also found out what a tease you were. You enjoyed riling him up and making him wait before he could fuck you. It was a dangerous game but you both loved it this way.

No one at work seemed to notice anything and you didn’t know if Seungcheol and Joshua knew given how close they were to Jeonghan but if they knew, they had been very discreet about it. Jackson kept trying to ask you out and Hana kept following Jeonghan around like a puppy as usual. You had to say this last part wasn’t your favorite. You knew he wasn’t interested but still. She had fucked him before you. And that pissed you off. Jeonghan knows it too and he loves teasing you about it.

One line you haven’t crossed with Jeonghan yet was having him in your apartment. You didn’t know why but you were trying to avoid having him there. It was your space, you loved living there. You were proud of having been able to buy it all on your own. What if one day this ended terribly and then you were stuck with memories of him around that place? You didn’t want to ever be sad inside of that apartment so you tried keeping him away.

Jeonghan wasn’t dumb though. He knew you were trying to keep him away from your apartment. He tried being understanding but he was getting tired of it. This wasn’t fair. You had been in his apartment multiple times. He had fucked you in almost all available surfaces in his apartment and he wanted to do the same in yours. So he did the most Jeonghan thing possible. He texted you asking if you were free and once you said yes he showed up at your door.

“This is why I didn’t want you to have my address. How did you find out my apartment number?” you asked as you let him in your apartment.

“The same way I got your phone number. A magician never reveals his secrets though” he answered as he took his jacket and shoes off.

You were looking at him moving around your apartment. He was looking at every picture frame, every detail, every room and you just followed him silently through your apartment.

“So this is what you were hiding from me? It’s very you” he said smiling as you both moved towards your bedroom.

“If you knew I was hiding it from you, why would you come here uninvited?” you asked teasingly.

“I don’t like secrets. And you’ve been to my apartment multiple times. It was only fair”

“I should be angry at you, Jeonghan”

You asked him as you moved closer to him.

“But you aren’t angry at all. Isn’t that right, angel?”

You nodded with a pout on your face and he laughed as he moved your hair away from your face. He kissed you and you started unbuttoning his pants. Between kisses, you undressed each other until you were both completely naked. You kissed down his body until you were on your knees in front of him. You grabbed his cock and started to stroke it. He moved both his hands to your hair and intertwined them. Before he could say anything, you started to lick and suck his tip and he moaned.

“Don’t be a tease tonight, angel”

You batted your eyelashes at him innocently but you did what he asked and you started to suck him off just how he liked it. After a month of meeting up, you had gotten pretty good at fitting as much of his cock down your throat as possible. You were both very fucking proud of it.

With your hands, you stroked whatever you couldn’t fit in your mouth and throat and massaged his balls. That always got him so close. You wanted him to cum more than once tonight. You knew he could. You had talked about it before but he had always held off on it. He came here tonight without your permission, so you were going to make him cum at least twice, you had decided. He pulled you off of him by your hair before you could continue your plan and he raised an eyebrow at you.

“What are you playing at, angel?”

“Want to make you feel good, Jeonghan. Isn’t that why we’re doing this?” you answered him in your most innocent voice but you knew he wasn’t buying it. Before he could protest, you kissed him, deeply.

“Wanna ride you” you whispered against his lips and he groaned before moving away from you towards the bed.

You got a condom and threw it on the bed. He was sitting and leaning on the headboard. After he put the condom on, he signaled you to come over to him and you crawled to him. He whispered ‘good girl’ against your lips and kissed you again. You could never get enough of his kisses. He always kissed you with such passion. Like he could lose you at any moment.

You turned your back to him and placed your legs on either side of him. He hummed and placed both hands on your ass cheeks to massage them.

“Reverse tonight? I wanted to see your pretty face, angel”

You hummed and started to rub your pussy up and down on his cock. You knew he would forget all about looking at your face if you just kept pushing him. And you were right. He held your hips and pulled you closer to his cock. He aligned his cock with your hole and you didn’t wait any longer. You started bouncing on his cock without any warning. By now, you were more than used to his size and even if it stung a little bit you wanted to push him tonight. You were going to get what you wanted. You kept up an agonizing pace, bouncing hard and fast and you could hear his pants and grunts getting louder and louder. He placed both hands on your hips and tried to change your pace.

“Slow down, let me enjoy this, angel”

You shook your head no and kept going. His hands tried resisting your movements at first but after a few more bounces he gave up and let you speed up again. You started to touch your clit to get you to cum faster. You knew having you cum on his cock always made him cum as well. You were getting closer and you could tell he was too by the way he was squeezing your ass with both his hands and by the sounds he was making. He calls you angel all the time but he’s the one that sounds like an angel even in the most depraved of moments.

You kept rubbing your clit until you came. He came right after you into the condom with a grunt of your name. After you both started to come down from your highs, you felt good enough to keep going. He was still hard and once he tried moving underneath you, you stopped him by bouncing on his cock again. You started your rhythm back up, merciless and you heard him whine. You had never heard him make that noise before and you needed to hear it again. You weren’t going to stop. He was going to cum inside you again. You were going to make sure of it.

After your initial bounces, he spanked you hard.

“I knew you were up to something. Want to get more of my cum, hmm? One load is not good enough for you angel?” he asked between moans and you kept going. Harder. Faster. And he snapped.

He pushed you off of him and on all fours. He took the condom off, threw it on the ground and slapped your pussy hard. You moaned his name.

“You want another one? Better fucking take it all then”

He pushed his cock into you completely. Your elbows gave out on you and he took the chance to push your head down on the mattress with his hand as he started to fuck you hard.

Usually you would need more to cum, but his dominant aura, the way he pushed you down on the mattress and the way he’s fucking you raw are just enough and you cum again. This time your hands are grabbing the bed sheets desperately and you are whining and moaning. That was fucking intense and Jeonghan didn’t stop.

He kept fucking you hard. His moans and grunts get louder and louder. He pulled out and started stroking his cock with his free hand. After a couple of strokes he came on your back. You could feel rope after rope of cum just painting your back and you couldn’t stop smiling. You both laid there exhausted for a bit before he got up and cleaned you up.

“I’m guessing that’s what you wanted to achieve tonight” he said as he laid next to you on the bed again.

“Hmm… That’s what you get for coming here uninvited”

“If that’s your way of trying to keep me away from here, you’re doing a piss poor job at it, angel” he said and you both laughed.

You didn’t know why, but after that night things felt different. All lines had been crossed between you. Before it had felt like there was a separation between whatever was going on with you and Jeonghan and the rest of your life. But after that night everything felt intertwined. You didn’t know how to feel about it. So you decided maybe some time apart would be best for the two of you.

You didn’t want to tell him this. If there was one thing you had learned about Jeonghan in the time you spent together was that he could be quite sensitive and misinterpret your words. You didn’t want that to happen so you simply replied to him saying you were tired or busy and couldn’t meet up. He seemed to understand. You had successfully avoided him but you hadn’t sorted out your feelings yet. But it didn’t matter. Tonight was your team building monthly dinner and you were going to focus on them only.

You were running late and your team started texting you non-stop. You had to reassure them you were on your way. You were usually never late so you understood where their concerns were coming from.

Your Uber stopped in front of the restaurant and in the rush of getting out of it and joining your team, you ran into a couple getting into the restaurant. You apologized without even getting a proper look at them and start to go into the restaurant but a familiar voice calls you back.

“Y/N? What are you doing here?” Hana said excitedly.

You looked at her and the person next to her and you had to blink a few times to make sure you were actually seeing this. You didn’t say a word. Hana started looking between you and Jeonghan and cleared her throat. You finally looked back at her.

“We're having our team dinner here” you said dryly.

“We would join you but we are on a date! Have a great team dinner and say hi to everyone for us” she said excitedly and all you could do was nod.

The three of you silently walked into the restaurant and you spotted your team right away. You walked over to the table and tried your best to pretend whatever you just saw didn’t bother you. This wasn’t the time or the place. Whatever you felt had to be sorted much later on.

You weren’t at your best during this team dinner and your team could tell. They didn’t say anything because they knew you were trying your best. You still joined your team for bowling and tried having as much fun as possible.

You didn’t know what happened to Jeonghan and Hana. You couldn’t see their table from yours and you didn’t see them leave before you did. You were… Confused. You never established anything. You never said you were exclusive. You never said you were going to date other people but it somehow felt like he had lied to you. He always told you he wasn’t interested in Hana. Why did he lie? And how long had they been dating? Was he fucking you while dating her? You honestly didn’t know if you wanted to find out. You knew it was time to end whatever had been happening between the two of you. You were surprised Jeonghan hadn’t messaged you or tried to contact you at all. But maybe that was for the best.

You weren’t much of a believer in getting signs from the universe, but after not talking to Jeonghan at all for the past week about the restaurant incident, you got what would be considered by many, a sign.

Your boss called you into her office and made you an offer. The branch four hours away from yours had been struggling to find a good team lead and a good manager for their marketing department. While she explained to you, you couldn’t move up to department manager just yet, you would have the opportunity to do so in the future if you joined them now at the team lead level. You both knew your boss wasn’t going to go anywhere any time soon. She was the manager of the marketing department and she had just been promoted when you were. If you wanted to move up to manager soon, your best option would be to accept this offer. However, you wouldn’t accept it without speaking to your team first.

Long story short, your team was pissed. Hoshi yelled at you for the first time in his life and both Clara and Sunny cried. Seokmin seemed to be holding it together pretty well, surprisingly.

“I know this isn’t ideal… But it’s a great opportunity for me. And, it doesn’t mean I’m staying there permanently. I have to try though, you know that” you said as you tried to calm Hoshi down.

“You better not like your team over there more than us” Seokmin said with a sad smile.

“Never. We’re the dream team” you reassured him.

It took you a while but you were able to calm Hoshi down. You promised you would visit as much as possible and offered your place for them to stay when they visit you as well.

One thing you had asked your team and your boss was to not let anyone know you were leaving. You planned on telling everyone on your last day. You have always hated goodbyes. And this one was going to hurt. You met a lot of great people here and you had a lot of adventures and stories you will cherish for the rest of your life, but it was time to move on.

It had been two weeks since you accepted the offer and today was your last day at this branch. Your team had been moping around for these two weeks and everyone wanted to know why. It has been fun watching them make up lies to cover for you. It was your last team prank in a sense to this branch. In these two weeks, you and Jeonghan hadn’t spoken at all. No texts, no calls, no meeting up. He didn’t say anything and you didn’t ask.

At the end of the day, everyone gathered in the conference room at the request of your boss. No one knew why except you, your team and her. You knew a lot of them would be angry at you. You had gotten pretty close with Jeonghan’s team, particularly with Seungcheol and Joshua and they would probably never forgive you for not saying anything sooner. Especially Seungcheol.

“Hey everyone. I know it’s the end of the day and everyone wants to go home and relax but bare with me for a few moments” your boss told everyone and everyone went silent.

“I know most of you are wondering why this meeting was booked on your calendars two weeks ago and what this meeting is about. Apologies for the secrecy, but the subject of this meeting asked me and her team to stay quiet about it until today” she continued and looked over at you. At this point, everyone on your team had tears running down their face and you were holding back tears of your own.

“Unbeknownst to most of you, today was the last day working at this branch of one of our best employees and someone I can honestly call a cherished friend. I wish I could say more but I don’t want to start crying like the rest of your team so please, say a few words, Y/N” she said as she looked over at you. You heard a few gasps and confused looks as you got up to say goodbye to all your colleagues.

“Hi everyone. So, a couple of weeks ago I got offered an opportunity at a different branch. An opportunity that will open several different doors for me professionally and I chose to accept it” you said as you looked at your team. You couldn’t look at anyone else.

“I asked my team and my amazing boss to keep this between us because honestly, I hate goodbyes. I didn’t want to spend the two weeks I had left here with sad goodbyes. I know it was selfish of me so I humbly stand here asking for your forgiveness” you continued and your team laughed with you.

“I had an amazing time working at this branch. I’ve grown so much professionally and personally. I made enemies that later became… Not enemies. I thought I hated some of you but I never did. Let’s call it a strong dislike” you said and laughed.

“I’m thankful for each and every one of you, no matter what. To my team and to my boss, you guys know everything already so just want to say thank you again. Now get out of here and enjoy your night. I have a four hour drive to make, so don’t try and persuade me to go for drinks!” you finished your speech and your team got up to hug you.

Everyone started to say goodbye to you and you found out you were right. Joshua and Seungcheol were angry at you to say the least. Especially Seungcheol. But you made them forgive you before you had to leave.

You never saw Jeonghan. You didn’t know if he hadn’t been in the meeting at all or if he had left once you were done with your speech. You were disappointed. You wanted to say goodbye at least. He had been a big part of your time here, more in the last few months but I guess he didn’t think the same if he wasn't even going to say a quick goodbye to you.

After your office was packed, you and your team went back to your place to help you load everything into your car for you to leave. You had a few boxes you were going to ship to you or wait for someone to visit to bring them to you but overall, you managed to successfully pack most of your favorite belongings and you were ready to leave.

You were going to miss this apartment. Other than your career, it had been your biggest achievement. You had been able to buy it and make it your own. You weren’t getting rid of it for now. Not unless you needed the money desperately. You were moving into your uncle’s apartment that was vacated recently so you wouldn't be paying rent at your new place and you could afford to keep your beloved apartment.

Hoshi loved that idea, it comforted him knowing you wanted to return to this apartment eventually and hopefully to the branch and your team.

As you were loading things into your car, you got a text from Jeonghan.

“I’m sorry. You deserve better. I hope one day you can forgive me and we can talk. About everything. I couldn’t say goodbye. Not to you. Drive safe and good luck on this new adventure, angel”

You didn’t know you had started crying until the tears hit the screen of your phone.

You didn’t hate Jeonghan. You never did. He made your life hell for a long time but he also managed to bring heaven to you in the last months you spent together. You didn’t blame him for the way things ended. You never talked about your relationship and whatever was going on between the two of you. You had both failed each other.

Maybe one day you would meet again and you would talk about everything. Maybe even have a happy ending together.

Or maybe you will never meet again and this was just another chapter in your life.

Either way, you were content. You weren’t sad or disappointed anymore.

You didn’t get permanent closure in a lot of things but you were ready for this new adventure and his text made you feel better about the decision you made.

You did this for you and your career, it was never about him. Your time together had simply ended at the same time this opportunity presented itself and you both knew that.

For now, you were just another girl that had been in his life for a while and that was moving away looking for a better career opportunity.

And he was just another guy that had been in your life for a while creating chaos in the worst and the best way and that was staying behind.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Hey guys! I hope you guys enjoy this one. It took me a while to finish it but I’m really proud of it 😇💕 I know it’s super long but I realized I might not ever be able to write short fics, specially when it comes to Hannie 😭 The request asked for a cliffhanger ending so I hope I stayed true to that. If you liked this fic and/or if you want a more permanent resolution to this couple, please let me know in the comments and such 💕 Thank you for supporting me! CHEERS 🥂

PS: You can find part 2 here

#jeonghan smut #yoon jeonghan smut #seventeen smut #jeonghan #yoon jeonghan #seventeen #jeonghan fic #seventeen fic #svt #svt fic #svt smut #jeonghan x reader #jeonghan x you #yoon jeonghan x reader #yoon jeonghan x you #svt x reader #svt x you #anon request #vee's writings

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yeyinde · 10 months ago

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

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

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

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

DEAD DOVE. SMUT. 18+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Ghost never really understood was the box.

Shove it into a box.

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

“Up here."

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

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

The implication is stark. Heavy.

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

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

His problem, specifically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he's not wrong.

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

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

The rumour mill in the barracks is insatiable.

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

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

Or, whatever's left of it, anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wants.

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

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

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

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

Cold-hearted, sure—

But he likes sweet things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He must think Ghost is some sort of psychopath—)

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

Then comes you.

And the forfeiture of his self-control.

You're trouble of a different kind.

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

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

But oh, do you pack a punch—

At first, you think he's homeless.

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

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

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

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

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

Well. Shit.

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

His teeth ache (so, so bad—).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wonders if you can, too.

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

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

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

nah. bury him out back—)

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

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

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

And then—

You fluster. “Sorry, I just thought—”

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

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

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

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

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

Well—

That's new.

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

Him.

Ah.

Sweet, sweet girl.

(So naïve.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A reward, huh?

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

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

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

The window brightens. Room number two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silly bird.

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

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

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

And ah—

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you—”

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

“Simon. Simon Riley.”

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

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

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

You must think him quite the gentleman. So trusting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A bludgeon to his self-control—

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

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

But he’s a good mutt. Good—

Until the text.

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

His sweet girl.

(you fuckin’ mutt—)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Odd considering he's dead—

“Sounds like you will be.”

“It's not like that—”

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

“I don’t—I wouldn't—”

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

“It is.”

“Oh? How's tha’?”

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

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

But that's later, and right now—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you relent.

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

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

Friend. Friends.

He'll have to do something about that.

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

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

Because the thing is—

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

It isn't just fantasy, either.

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

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

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

Same thing.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon loves it when you cry.

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

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

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

“Thank you, Simon—”

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

He thinks it's cute.

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

“Anytime, pet.”

And you're perfect, too.

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

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

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

It's said fondly. Full of love—

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

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

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

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

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

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

He clings to it.

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

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

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

Stupid fuckin’ mutt.

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

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

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

Hide it. Put it away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Tommy.

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

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

(he did, too—)

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

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

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

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

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

Communion.

Ghost cocks his head in consideration.

(your bird is too big for a cage—

—but maybe a collar would do.)

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

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

Not anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not if he eats you first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(sick, sick sick, wrong—)

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

Damnation built by his own hands.

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

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

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

And you—

An outlier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sad, but—

Not enough to stop himself.

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

And then he spits on your bare cunt.

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

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

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

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

You never are.

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

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

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

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

Yet—

come to Durham.

i’ll think about it.

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

Ah, well—

Lesson learned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Made for him, and—

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

—“A perfect fit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything narrows into a needlepoint.

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

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

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

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

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

“Simon—”

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

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

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

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

“So’ry, Simon—”

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

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

Not anymore. Not ever again.

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

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

It's for your own good.

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

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

The only purchase he finds is in your demise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants, wants—

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

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

Pity it’s not an option.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Simon, Simon—”

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

(belly full of dirt:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More.

And he gives it to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want this. His spoiled rotten bird.

So, he gives it to you.

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

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

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

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

(please)

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

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

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

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

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

Both, maybe. Everything. All of it.

Always—

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

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

Nirvana exists between your thighs.

Home, too.

(well—

not yet.)

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

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

(Bone nausea.

A death sentence.)

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

He wants it: this dream so tantalisingly close.

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

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

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

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

(mine, mine, mine—)

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

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

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

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

It’s his apotheosis. His end.

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

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

(silly girl—

His pretty little perigee.)

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ hell—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Las’ night.”

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

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

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

He almost purrs.

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

“Bit rowdy.”

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

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

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

“Did you use a—?”

He dips his chin. “I might ‘ave.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But—

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

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

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

Case in point:

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

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

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

You don't even notice.

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

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

(stupid fuckin’ mutt—)

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

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

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

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

And it’s all so sweet.

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

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

But only just.

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

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

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

(Too much, maybe? Or too soon—?

if only you knew—)

He finds it charming, really.

Still—

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

Fuckin' Christ—

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

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

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

Maybe not in the way you'd want.

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

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

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

So—

Home it is.

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

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

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

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

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

But Simon is nothing if not devoted, and so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This little glass jar domicile.

A billet in the mountains.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His budding rose.

He coos. “You alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But oh. How you try—

His sweet, sweet girl.

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

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

So close he catch the embers in his hand.

“Simon… We should—talk. I, uh—”

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

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

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

but:

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

“Yes, Simon—”

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

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

He leans down, and whispers in your crown—

“Good girl—”

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

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

Click.

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

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

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

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innerfare · 3 months ago

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Random Ace Headcanons

Summary: A collection of random Ace headcanons

Genre: Fluff

CW: None // SFW

———

Really enjoys spicy food. Has such a high tolerance for it that he’s not allowed to cook for the crew if the chef is out because he always ends up knocking everyone on his feet. The sort of guy to carry a bottle of hot sauce on him.

If he had a tail, it would be wagging nonstop. Seriously, nobody would ever be intimidated by him ever again because even when he was mad, that tail would be going a mile an hour. He started to grow out of his tsundere-ness as an adult, but he still had his moments, and the tail would totally ruin it.

Is dyslexic, but had never even heard that word before he met Marco. He didn’t exactly receive a quality education from Dadan and the mountain bandits (no hate, Dadan is mom of the year). He can barely read but plays it off out of pride, always thought the words were supposed to look like that and the ease with which others could read was fuel to the fire that is his low self esteem. Marco diagnosed him but hasn’t made much progress in treatment because Ace can’t sit still long enough.

Is far more intelligent than people give him credit for. A lot of the time, when he seems dumb, it’s because he’s not confident enough to say the answer out loud. His intelligence really shows in strategy games. Thatch thought Ace always winning at go was a fluke at first, but he quickly realized he never should have doubted the young new recruit.

Is very much aware he can get away with things if he flashes a cute smile. The rest of the crew is very much aware of it, too, to the point they have assigned him a new, designated position: fixer. Whenever someone gets into trouble, they send the Second Division Commander in to rizz up the offended party (or take them out, if his cute smile doesn’t work). He's a sweet talker, too.

Always gets free stuff from markets, bakeries, etc. Literally can’t go into a bakery without the cute girl behind the counter insisting he take one of the warm cookies she just pulled out of the oven. It drives Marco insane, especially since he knows he himself is not immune to that cute freckled face and boyish smile.

Loves having his hair played with so much that he can’t get through a haircut without blushing. Doesn’t get a haircut on deck of the Moby Dick like some of the other guys because he’s so embarrassed about it, just cuts it himself with a knife like he started doing when he was just a little kid, won’t let anyone (except perhaps a lover) touch it.

Makino used to give him haircuts sometimes, and it was definitely one of those adolescent awakening moments for him. Still embarrassed at the thought. Sometimes wonders if Makino would be impressed by him now or if she still would view him as a cute little boy. Isn’t even sure which one he would prefer.

Is actually a really good dancer, can move like he was made for it. Nobody ever taught him formally, but he’s really good at picking up steps. It’s his go-to when there’s someone he likes, and he’s so good at it, it actually drives the crew a little insane.

Has a collection of animal teeth taken from the beasts he’s taken down, going back to when he was just a little kid, even before he met Luffy or Sabo. He remembers each and every one and can recount the story of taking them down. He also has a tiger pelt that he keeps in his cabin; it was supposed to be a blanket but he runs too hot so now he keeps it as a rug.

Sends money back to Dadan every month. He keeps the angry letters she sends him telling him to stop as tokens of gratitude. Initially, he told himself it was to pay her back for taking care of Luffy on her own after he left, but once Luffy turned seventeen, he kept doing it because he got such a kick out of the angry letters (and it eases his guilt for growing up there since he feels he was a complete imposition).

Tears down his wanted posters when he sees them. Everyone thinks it’s because of some gripe with the World Government, but it’s actually because he once came across one of his father’s old wanted posters as a child, and when he saw his own, was struck by the similarity in their features. Hates his appearance in general for this reason, lies to people and tells them he got his mother’s looks (doesn’t even know what his mother looked like).

Shed a tear (in private, of course) after he ate his devil fruit because he missed swimming so much- the feeling of running around the woods, hunting dinner, and then diving into a cool stream to cool down while the meat cooks was one of his favorite feelings in the world. Would give anything to dive into a mountain stream with Luffy and Sabo again.

Speaking of Sabo, he always pours one out for his brother. The same can be said especially for food. He’ll set aside a portion of meat for his brother. He sets some aside for Luffy, too, knowing how much his baby brother would enjoy the meal if he were there.

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

#one piece #one piece headcanons #one piece fluff #ace #fire fist ace #portgas d ace #ace headcanons #portgas d ace headcanons #whitebeard pirates #spade pirates #sabo #luffy

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novella-november · 2 months ago

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See, here's the thing about generative AI:

I will always, always prefer to read the beginner works of a young writer that could use some editing advice, over anything a predictive text generator can spit out no matter how high of a "quality" it spits out.

I will always be more interested in reading a fanfiction or original story written by a kid who doesn't know you're meant to separate different dialogues into their own paragraphs, over anything a generative ai creates.

I will happily read a story where dialogue isn't always capitalized and has some grammar mistakes that was written by a person over anything a computer compiles.

Why?

Because *why should I care about something someone didn't even care enough to write themselves?*

Humans have been storytellers since the dawn of humankind, and while it presents itself in different ways, almost everyone has stories they want to tell, and it takes effort and care and a desire to create to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard or speech to text to actually start writing that story out, let alone share it for others to read!

If a kid writes a story where all the dialogue is crammed in the same paragraph and missing some punctuation, it's because they're still learning the ropes and are eager to share their imagination with the world even if its not perfect.

If someone gets generative AI to make an entire novel for them, copying and pasting chunks of text into a document as it generates them, then markets that "novel" as being written by a real human person and recruits a bunch of people to leave fake good reviews on the work praising the quality of the book to trick real humans into thinking they're getting a legitimate novel.... Tell me, why on earth would anyone actually want to read that "novel" outside of morbid curiosity?

There's a few people you'll see in the anti-ai tags complaining about "people being dangerously close to saying art is a unique characteristic of the divine human soul" and like...

... Super dramatic wording there to make people sound ridiculous, but yeah, actually, people enjoy art made by humans because humans who make art are sharing their passion with others.

People enjoy art made by animals because it is fascinating and fun to find patterns in the paint left by paw prints or the movements of an elephants trunk.

Before Generative AI became the officially sanctioned "Plagiarism Machine for Billionaires to Avoid Paying Artists while Literally Stealing all those artists works" people enjoyed random computer-generated art because, like animals, it is fascinating and fun to see something so different and alien create something that we can find meaning in.

But now, when Generative AI spits out a work that at first appears to be a veritable masterpiece of art depicting a winged Valkyrie plunging from the skies with a spear held aloft, you know that anything you find beautiful or agreeable in this visual media has been copied from an actual human artist who did not consent or doesn't even know that their art has been fed into the Plagiarism Machine.

Now, when Generative AI spits out a written work featuring fandom-made tropes and concepts like Alpha Beta Omega dyanamics, you know that you favorite fanfiction website(s) have probably all been scraped and that the unpaid labours of passion by millions of people, including minors, have been scraped by the Plagiarism Machine and can now be used to make money for anyone with the time and patience to sit and have the Plagarism Machine generate stories a chunk at a time and then go on to sell those stories to anyone unfortunate enough to fall for the scam,

all while you have no way to remove your works from the existing training data and no way to stop any future works you post be put in, either.

Generative AI wouldn't be a problem if it was exclusively trained on Public Domain works for each country and if it was freely available to anyone in that country (since different countries have different copyright laws)

But its not.

Because Generative AI is made by billionaires who are going around saying "if you posted it on the Internet at any point, it is fair game for us to take and profit off," and anyone looking to make a quick buck can start churning out stolen slop and marketing it online on trusted retailers, including generating extremely dangerous books like foraging guides or how to combine cleaning chemicals for a spotless home, etc.

Generative AI is nothing but the works of actual humans stolen by giant corporations looking for profit, even works that the original creators can't even make money off of themselves, like fanfiction or fanart.

And I will always, always prefer to read "fanfiction written by a 13 year old" over "stolen and mashed together works from Predictive Text with a scifi name slapped on it", because at least the fanfiction by a kid actually has *passion and drive* behind its creation.

#anti ai #not writing #well it is kinda #anti generative ai #long post

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eveninglakehomeworld · 22 days ago

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hi friends and lovers, I've gathered a small collection of dialogues from Zevran in DA:O regarding Antiva & the Crows.

I got this together mostly for myself, but thought I'd share in case anyone who is maybe looking to flesh out their new Crow OC, write fanfic involving Crow characters, or is looking for a refresher on early Crow lore would like something to reference. I trimmed down dialogues a bit, so mostly just information relevant to the Crows, Antiva in general, and Zevran's own attitudes about being an assassin are present.

this post has dialogues from Zev's recruitment event and a couple of early game camp conversations. because it's only a handful of dialogues, this is, ostensibly, part 1 of several. I plan to post more as I progress through my replay of origins. enjoy! <3

Recruitment

Warden: "What are the Antivan Crows?"

Leliana: I can tell you that. They are an order of assassins out of Antiva. Very powerful, and renowned for always getting the job done... so to speak. Someone went to great expense to hire this man.

Zevran: Quite right. I'm surprised you haven't heard much of the Crows out here. Back where I come from, we're rather infamous.

Warden: "You came all the way from Antiva?"

Zevran: Not precisely. I was in the neighborhood when the offer came. The Crows get around, you see.

[After being asked if he's loyal to Loghain]

Zevran: Beyond that, no, I'm not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service.

Warden: "And now that you've failed that service?"

Zevran: Well, that's between Loghain and the Crows. And between the Crows and myself.

Warden: "When were you to see him next?"

Zevran: I wasn't. If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results... if he didn't already know. If I had failed, I would be dead. Or I should be, at least, as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then.

Warden: "How much were you paid?"

Zevran: I wasn't paid anything. The Crows, however, were paid quite handsomely. Or so I understand. Which does make me about as poor as a chantry mouse, come to think of it. Being an Antivan Crow isn't for the ambitious, to be perfectly honest.

Warden: "Then why are you one?"

Zevran: Well, aside from a distinct lack of ambition, I suppose it's because I wasn't give much of a choice. The Crows bought me young. I was a bargain, too, or so I'm led to believe. But don't let my sad story influence you. The Crows aren't so bad. They keep one well supplied: Wine, women, men. Whatever you happen to fancy. Though, the whole severance package is garbage, let me tell you. If you were considering joining, I'd really think twice about it.

Warden: "Aren't you at least loyal to your employers?"

Zevran: Loyalty is an interesting concept. If you wish, and you're done interrogating me, we can discuss it further.

Warden: "I'm listening. Make it quick."

Zevran: Well, here's the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So let me serve you, instead.

Warden: "And what's to stop you from finishing the job later?"

Zevran: To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice regarding joining the Crows. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child. I think I've paid my worth back to them, plus tenfold. The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can't touch. Even if I did kill you now, they might kill me just on the principle of failing the first time. Honestly, I'd rather take my chances with you.

Warden: "Won't they come after you?"

Zevran: Possibly. I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself, as well as you. Not that you seem to need much help. And if not, well, it's not as if I had many alternatives to start with, is it?

Warden: "Why would I want your service?"

Zevran: Why? Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth and picking locks. I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more... sophisticated... now that my attempts have failed.

A few early game camp conversations

Conversation 1 Warden: "What does it take to become an assassin?"

Zevran: Well, the Crows would have you believe that it is an involved process that takes years of training, the sort that tests both your resolve and your endurance. Survive that process and maybe, just maybe, you're good enough to start being considered one of them. But quite frankly the truth is that all it requires is a desire to kill people for a living. It's surprising how well one can do in such a field.

Warden: "It doesn't take any special skill?"

Zevran: I don't know about that. It's simply a slightly different skill set from your average killer, as I see it. An assassin simply specializes in striking from stealth... and in maximizing that first attack to be as lethal as possible. Debilitating your foe, either by poison or by crippling their limbs, makes any follow-up combat you need to engage in that much simpler.

Warden: "That sounds like it could be useful."

Zevran: See? Getting paid for the act is beside the point. An assassin is more a tactical choice than a lifestyle. Of course, the Crows like to pretend that their abilities are trade secrets, shrouded in shadows and wrapped in a blanket of mystery. So let's just keep this between you and me, shall we, hmm?

Conversation 2 Warden: "Why did you want to leave the Crows, exactly?"

Zevran: Well, now, I imagine that's a very fair question. Being an assassin, after all, is a living, at least as far as such things go. I was simply never given the opportunity to choose another way. So if that choice presents itself, why should I not seize upon it?

Warden: "You didn't choose the Crows?"

Zevran: Mm? To be truthful, I didn't even know the Crows existed when I joined them. I was but a boy of seven when I was purchased. For three sovereigns, I'm told. Which is a good price, considering I was all ribs and bone and didn't know the pommel of a dagger from the pointy end. The Crows buy all their assassins that way. Buy them young, raise them to know nothing else but murder. And if you do poorly in your training, you die.

Warden: "That sounds awful."

Zevran: "Oh, I don't know about that. The Crows who are actually good enough to survive come to enjoy some of the benefits. In Antiva, being a Crow gets you respect. It gets you wealth. It gets you women... and men, or whatever it is you might fancy. But that does mean doing what is expected of you, always. And it means being expendable. It's a cage, if a gilded cage. Pretty, but confining. [note: I transcribed the first line of the last section as it was written in the subtitles because it seemed to make more sense in context, but when Zevran speaks it aloud he actually says "That does not mean doing what is expected of you." presumably an editing error, but can't be 100% positive which is the intended message.]

[After being asked what he thinks his future might hold]

Zevran: As for what I'll do in the future... presuming that there is one... I truly can't imagine. It might be interesting to go into business for myself, for a change. Far away from Antiva, of course. For now, naturally, I go where you go.

Warden: "Won't the Crows eventually find you?"

Zevran: [laughs] Eventually can be a very, very long time if one plays one's cards right. Come, now. Enough chit-chat. Talking about the Crows summons them, you know. Any Antivan fishwife could tell you so.

Conversation 3 Warden: "Do you actually enjoy being an assassin?"

Zevran: And why not? There are many things to enjoy about being a Crow in Antiva. You are respected. You are feared. The authorities go out of their way to overlook your trespasses. Even the rewards are nothing to turn your nose up at. As for the killing part, well... some people simply need assassinating. Or do you disagree?

Warden: "You've never killed an innocent?"

Zevran: Now there's an interesting word, "innocent." How many men do you know who can claim to truly be innocent? But if you're talking generalities, such as children and relatives and bystanders and such... never on purpose, but it happens. It's unfortunate, but death comes to us all. If not me, then some wasting disease. Or a fall down the stairs. Or at the hands of a darkspawn. It's all relative in the end.

Warden: "I suppose that's true."

Zevran: "Death happens," as we like to say. And when I get paid for it, death happens more often. As far as enjoying the act of killing itself, why not? There is a certain artistry to the deed, the pleasure of sinking your blade into their flesh and knowing that their life is in your hands.

Warden: "I know what you mean."

Zevran: There are many things I did not enjoy about being a Crow, of course. Having no choice, being treated as an expendable commodity, the rules... oh, so many rules! But, simply being an assassin? I like it just fine. I will continue to do it, if I can, even if I am not a Crow. Honestly, could you picture me doing something else?

Conversation 4 [note: I trimmed this one down a lot bc it's just one of the ones where he tells you about a job and there's not a lot to be gleaned about Antiva, how the Crows operate, etc] [In response to being asked, "The Crows were willing to anger the Circle of Magi?"]

Zevran: In Antiva, nobody is too important to escape the reach of the Crows. They have killed kings and queens. That's simply how it is.

[After elaborating on how he fumbled an assassination attempt and the mark died accidentally, instead of by his hand]

Zevran: Then I found out she had told the driver to take her to Genellan instead. She has planned to lose me in the provinces. I would have looked very foolish to the Crows. As it was, my master was very impressed that I had done such a fine job of making it look like an accident. The Circle of Magi was unaware of foul play, and everyone was happier all around.

Conversation 5 Warden: "Tell me a little about Antiva."

Zevran: Oh? You wish to know about Antiva, do you? The only way to truly appreciate it would be to go there. It is a warm place, not cold and harsh like this Ferelden. In Antiva it rains often, but the flowers are always in bloom... or so the saying goes.

Warden: "Don't you want to go back?"

Zevran: [sighs] It is not really a matter of wanting to go back. I cannot go. At least not yet. I hail from the glorious Antiva City, home to the royal palace. It is a glittering gem amidst the sand, my Antiva City. Do you come from someplace comparable?

Warden: "I'm not from any glittering gem, no."

Zevran: No? That is too bad. If you were, then surely you would spend as much time boasting about it as I do! Hmm. You know what is most odd? We speak of my homeland, and for all its wine and its dark-haired beauties and the lillo flutes of the minstrels... I miss the leather the most.

Warden: "Is that some kind of euphemism?"

Zevran: [laughs] It may as well be! But not this once, no. I mean the smell. For years I lived in a tiny apartment near Antiva City's leather-making district, in a building where the Crows stored their youngest recruits. Packed in like crates. I grew accustomed to the stench, even though the humans complained of it constantly. To this day the smell of fresh leather is what reminds me most of home more than anything else.

Warden: "That's a little bizarre. There's leather everywhere."

Zevran: Ah, but it's not Antivan leather, is it? I do not know what the Antivan tanners do that is different, but ther is no leather more supple nor more fragrant.

Warden: "You sound like you've been away from home forever."

Zevran: Oh, not so long, I know. It is my first time away from Antiva, however, and the thought of never returning makes me think of it constantly. Before I left, I was tempted to spend what little coin I possessed on leather boots I spotted in a store window. Finest Antivan leather, perfect craftsmanship—ah, but I was a fool to leave them. I thought, "Ah, Zevran, you can buy them when you return as a reward from a job well done." More the fool I, no?

Warden: "Your home is still there, Zevran."

Zevran: True, and it's a comforting thought. One simply never knows what is to come next.

Now, if it is all the same to you, I would prefer not to speak more of Antiva. It makes me wistful and hungry for a proper meal.

Bonus banter snippet because I found it amusing:

Morrigan: You assassin types have a death wish, I see.

Zevran: [laughs] Only the really good ones.

#dragon age #zevran #zevran arainai #antivan crows #hopefully someone besdides myself finds this useful and im not just clogging up tags!!#yapping #daoblogging

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johnbrand · 3 months ago

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Catch! (βΓΦ)

Have you ever taken a moment to consider how fraternities are still alive these days? We have seen them featured in movies, television, and more recently across social media, but what do they even stand for? Originally, they were built around the concept of brotherhood among younger men entering adulthood, inspiring “fraternal” bonds that could remain strong throughout their lifetimes. Now however, they seem to be constantly embroiled in controversy. Whether it pertains issues of hazing, rapid partying, or the classic sexual harassment, fraternities should be on their way out.

But somehow, they are still sticking around. And worse yet, they appear to be stronger than ever. Young men from around the country are flocking to these institutions–and with no common reason either. Everyone wants to find parties, but you can do that anywhere on a college campus. Everyone wants to make new adult friends, so why not join an extracurricular? Or hit up a peer in your class? There seems to be no valid excuse for all these students to be flocking towards an organized brotherhood. So that raises the question again, how are fraternities still around?

One may guess it is in the marketing. The rampant partying, the buff shirtless men, the fraternal bonds; all of these are enticing to the viewer. And to be granted all three in a package together is even more appealing. But it is much simpler than that. Thanks to modern technology–and fraternities' centuries-old bank accounts–brothers are able to recruit faster and easier than ever. Even if the public is hankering down on initiation rites, fraternities have grown past the point of lengthy periods. Their new members can join in under a minute.

Let us draw out an example. A few of fraternities sponsor a trip out to a private beach. They provide drinks, snacks, and entertainment. It is a common event, showcasing to new students some of the best aspects of being a brother. One of the fraternal brothers, Clay, is holding a football and searching for his next recipient.

A member of Beta Gamma Phi (βΓΦ), Clay is tall, buff, and hairy, a perfect image of masculinity. From his chiseled jaw and strong stance, one can tell he has it all (like every fraternal brother does). Eventually, he spots his target: a junior specializing in mathematics.

“Catch!”

It is a simple command, and quickly the football is flying through the air. The pigskin itself appears rather ordinary, but as was mentioned before, technological and hefty financial advancements have made it anything but. Once activated by a brother’s touch, the leather absorbs the genetic print, the internal system downloading an almost identical copy. Of course, that copy cannot be completely accurate, otherwise fraternities would be running around with a bunch of clones (although some argue they already do). The imprint is just a base code, enough to replace the recipient’s genetic mainframe. The fine details are then adjusted accordingly by utilizing and recycling the remaining DNA.

Anyway, returning back to the scene, the enhanced initiation object flies toward the lonely junior. Christopher had only come here because his friend had begged him too, stating there was no reason not to partake in the festivities. A smaller-than-average lad lacking a strong will, he could often be a pushover, both in physical and social regards. So when he heard the strapping brother’s command, he did not think twice about turning around. And to his own shock, Christopher was able to catch the football, surprising himself as the leather made contact with his skin.

Once the contact is made, the fate is sealed: Beta Gamma Phi has secured its next brother. Clay’s genetic code is then rapidly installed into Christopher’s mainframe, his biological firewalls useless against the technology. Over the span of seconds, Clay is able to watch as his program is rescripted for Christopher’s body. The junior’s height soars up, easily passing the pseudo-mandatory "six feet and over" rule that all brothers silently abide by. Once that is secure, the muscles begin to inflate.

Firm pectorals, sculpted abdominals, arms that appeared engraved into stone. Christopher’s hands bloat around the football as his bare feet bloat out into the sand. Thick calves, beefy thighs, a plumper pouch and plumper rear. As Clay gets closer, he can visibly examine the flurries of hair that arise across Christopher’s previously-naked skin. Wider neck to support a deeper register, wider jaw to support a more masculine facial structure. Even Christopher’s hair, although a blonder brown compared to Clay’s almost-black, gels up into Clay’s signature hairstyle (although it was often hidden beneath a backwards baseball cap, as it was currently).

By the time Clay approaches βΓΦ’s newest brother, his genetic print had successfully completed installation. Christopher, or Chris as he would now insist to go by, held a near-identical copy of Clay’s mainframe. He displayed Clay’s musculature and masculinity, just in his own genetic font. And his mindset, values, and goals now mimicked the fraternal brother’s too. Chris would find his new purpose relishing in sports, sex, bonding with his brothers, and continuing this pattern through a career in exercise sciences.

With a broad, pearly white smile and the football still in his right hand, Chris would then accept Clay’s invitation to join Beta Gamma Phi. Thanks to the technology, Chris would never know that he had had not once dreamed of becoming a fraternal brother, that his whole life had not been dedicated to upholding traditional masculinity. And eventually, it would be Chris and his fellow brothers’ turn to keep the fraternities alive by financing any options that would help them gain new members.

#male tf #male transformation #dumbification #jock tf #fratification

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lairofsentinel · 2 months ago

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Since this user's posts seem to have been deleted in previous opportunities I copy-paste their words here because they express exactly what I feel about this game. Dragon Age has died, unfortunately.

I'm a big time Dragon Age lover and have enjoyed every game in the series. Personally, I think Inquisition is the best in the series. And I was excited for Veilguard right up until I actually began playing it. Now, I want to clear things up at the start as to what I look for and believe makes a good Dragon Age game. To start, I DON'T CARE ABOUT COMBAT. I. Do. Not. Care.

You can make it Origins tactical. DA2 fast tactical. DAI hybrid. God of War action, I don't care. Dragon Age has always had combat that was...fine. A nice distraction and breakup in between the bits I actually care about: narrative ROLEPLAYING, story, characters, and exploration. I don't give a crap how great the combat is if the narrative roleplaying and writing are poor, I'm not playing BioWare titles for amazing gameplay. I am here for the story, the characters, and the roleplaying. Truth is, for a time I considered DATV's combat to be the best in the series.

And this is why I feel the game is a terrible Dragon Age, because it lacks or fails to respect those elements concerned with narrative roleplaying, story, characters, and exploration. Now, in many reviews and online videos you'll hear some reference often to the drop in writing quality. And a lot of time people will incorrectly say that the writing with the characters is to "modern" or "Marvel quippy" or not "dark" enough. I think these people are wrong, they recognize there is a drop in writing quality from previous games but aren't able to articulate why that is.

Dragon Age has never adopted any sort of faux medieval speech and vocabulary (though we'll get into this more later). This is a series that used "epic fail" as a thing someone uttered in the very first game. It's always had anachronistic dialogue and banter. So why is it such a drop then? Why is it considered poor? Simple. This is a game that does not believe in the world it has setup for over a decade. It does not believe in or engage properly with its own world and lore. I mean, look no further than the title "The Veilguard" a phrase that is never uttered by anyone in our group, and further proof it was a last minute marketing change. Compare to Inquisition where the title is apparent from the start in the game and has actual meaning.

You see, characters in DATV do not feel or react to events the way they should based on the lore. Why is no one constantly asking what the hell the Inquisitor is doing? The Inquisitor is kind of a BIG DEAL when it comes to Solas and Elven Gods, my Inquisitor drank from the WELL OF SORROWS! So why are we sitting around thinking at the start, "hmm lemme think who I can contact who might know more." The Herald of Andraste! They know more Rook, the guy that is technically your boss. The Inquisitor! Who else have you been working for this entire time? Who do you think told Varric to recruit you?!

But even removing the Inquisitor, the Elven Gods being real and also near synonymous with the old Tevinter Gods is kind of a BIG DEAL. It was only a theory fans crafted long ago that slowly revealed itself to be true. And it completely upends known religious dogma on all sides. Yet, why aren't people we meet going through a massive existential crisis? For instance, the Veil Jumpers we initially meet were presumably told off-screen about Fen'Harel, and are seemingly cool with this massive knowledge alone. But then we talk about those two other Gods being released and they're like, "well, shit those two aren't good." As if they have any clue if the fables about those Gods are real when we previously just upended everything they thought about the Dreadwolf! Why are you acting like this is another Tuesday?! Your entire religion is wrong. In that same conversation, Strife notes "Solas might be a bastard, but compared to the Evunaris? Let's just say they weren't know for being kind rulers."

My brother in Anduril, what are you talking about! Elven religion teaches that Elgar'nan was so beloved by the Earth that it "the land brought forth great birds and beasts of sky and forest, and all manner of wonderful green things." And that he fought the jealous Sun that tried to burn the land and all beasts away. Custom says that he and Mythal, "created the world as we know it" after defeating the Sun. He is literally described as one of the "good" Gods. WHY ARE YOU ASSUMING HE IS EVIL! It's like finding out Satan is real, but not as evil as have come to believe and then being told Jesus Christ is back and a devout Christian going, "well shit, that can't be good." WHAT?!

The same goes for Andraste and the Chant of Light, it took me 30 hours of playing before ONE character mentioned Andraste and the implications with the Chant and it was never brought up again. Our entire party is seemingly made up of unphased atheists. Now compare to something like Inquisition which explored this aspect HARD and was amazing for it. You'd get into great debates with religious figures and party members about the implications of Corypheus actually being a Tevinter Magister of old. And you'd talk about what it means towards the religious dogma preached and how much is true. And these intense political and religious discussions are present in every previous game, and not confined to a single conversation with one party member where it is seemingly resolved.

These conversations do not happen in DATV because there is no depth to the writing or engagement with the world. The Elven Gods are evil and need to be stopped. That's it. We don't need to think about the implications this has on Dalish customs and religion. Fuck it, all the Dalish are going to still wear their Vallaslin slave brand tattoos. Let's forget about Trespasser implying Solas was removing them from followers coming to join him. Let's even forget they were likely all told at this point that they are slave brands, nope still going to wear them yet speak blasphemy with every sentence against our Gods. No one cares about Andraste or The Maker or the Chant. Big deal if these Elven Gods contradict the overwhelming majority religion in Thedas. Not a single party member has religious or cultural objections to killing the Elven Gods; not a problem. Not one single elf wants to join Solas in tearing down The Veil and getting immortality again?

Again, let's forget about Trespasser setting up Solas gathering MANY Elven followers from Dalish clans who would be super inclined to join him after experiencing CENTURIES of discrimination and slavery by humans. The better question is what Elves wouldn't join Solas at the start? And what Elves wouldn't look at the other two Gods and go, "meh, maybe we should give them a try. They can't be worse than humans, right?" In DA2 you had elves joining The Qun to escape the discrimination of humans, but not ONE ELF wants to join Solas or Elgar'nan? Those Ancient Elves in the Temple of Mythal? I guess they all died, right?

This extends to EVERY single element of Dragon Age that previously had depth to it, it now has been completely removed. Those murdering Antivan Crows? Oh, they're just good Italian Mob Family that protect their city. Tevinter? Yes, it has poor people, but we're trying to do better. Oh, slavery? No, no we don't show that here. The Qun? The what now? No, they are all Antaam now, and so that means they are all generic evil warlords. No, they don't even attempt to follow their own hardcore view of The Qun like when Templars split from the Chantry, they're just warlords now that like plunder. Dwarves and their rigid Caste society? We don't do that here. Elves and racism across Thedas? Elves used to experience racism? News to me, what's a Shemlen? Never heard of that term, we like all humans. Pirates? That is insensitive, we are Lords of Fortune and we are sure to return any cultural artifacts found to their rightful owners; it belongs in a museum after all. The fucking Fade and spirits? Wait, you mean its different than generic fantasy spirit world? I'm sorry, that's too complicated here.

This either intentional disregard of the lore or plain ignorance also extends to environmental design. The asset reuse from Inquisition is particularly hilarious and must speak to the developers not having time after the switch from MP. Why are the same statues found in Val Royeaux in DAI also in Tevinter and Antiva? Why are those stupid Fen'Harel Wolf statues EVERYWHERE? Even in the catacombs of other Elven Gods! There are no statues of Elgar'nan or Ghilan'nain. Nothing for June or Anduril. Dirthamen. Falon'Din. Nothing. No, the only Gods that seem to get statues are coincidentally the ones who already had assets created for DAI or past titles that could be reused. Hmmm.

This continues into character designs too, why do the Veiljumpers and Shadow Dragons all dress richly? They are supposed to be poor as fuck. There's a codex entry about Veiljumpers finding a lost cache of old ancient elven armor and weapons and so boom they all get to dress like High Elven Lords and not the dirty, poor, wandering Dalish clans they are supposed to come from. Why do this? There isn't even an attempt to explaining why the Shadow Dragons, an organization supposed to be secretive, has branded clothing in bright rich colors and fabrics for all members. Naturally, it must be incredibly difficult for Tevinter authorities to not identify them.

This lack of depth and verisimilitude, naturally, affects all the characters. Because in this game you cannot roleplay and you cannot ask questions. In Dragon Age Inquisition, once you started the game, you could immediately interrogate Varric about what happened to every DA2 character despite the Inquisitor never meeting them, you know because it respects its players. You could speak to shop keepers, blacksmiths, your horse master. You could interrogate every single person to learn more about them and the world. The same goes for your player character in DA2 and Origins. You show in Denermin and find yourself knee deep in a quest to help Wade the Blacksmith craft the perfect armor. Here you can't actually speak to a single shopkeeper to ask questions and get some lore bits. You can't ask party members questions about their background, religious beliefs, upbringing, their factions, etc. You can't ask any returning characters any questions either about what they've been doing. Enter a brand new area? Great, you're not asking anyone questions about this never before seen place.

How does a lost Dwarven thaig survive every single blight? How are their immortal lichs in Neverra? How long has that been a thing? Why haven't they told anyone about the Elven gods or any other knowledge they've accumulated in an immortal lifespan? If immortality is so "easy" why can't Solas just do that to restore the Elves? Why are the Venatori, Tevinter Supremacists, following Elven Gods? Wouldn't that be a major identity crisis? Why would Antaam, who still preach the Qun, follow an Elven God that speaks blasphemy with ever breadth? Sshhhh, no questions. You get what is directly told to you and that's it, no follow-up questions.

Party members do not conflict with each other or interrogate each other's beliefs which is why their banter feels inconsequential and meaningless. Lucanis is a assassin, he kills people for money. The same organization that marked Zevran for death for failing a contract. The same one that took him as a kid and trained him to murder, often brutally, for coin. And yet no one really seems to care. He's just a nice Italian assassin from a nice assassin organization. Who cares. Let's instead talk about cooking, at length. Harding, a devout follower of Andraste, has no qualms with Elven Gods wreaking havoc on known religion. We get one conversation you can tell her to believe what she wants, and that's the end of that debate. Bellara also gets about two whole conversations about the conflict concerning her Gods wreaking havoc, both easily resolved. We don't need to think about any larger implications or doubt her loyalty when the Elven pantheon are seeking to restore her people that have been discriminated against since forever. Emmerich, a necromancer of Neverra, apparently has no religious belief. A codex entry even states that those of the Mourn Watch don't know where the soul goes after death. They don't like to think about it. Buddy, Mortalitasi belief is literally that our souls return to the Void alongside The Maker, but to keep balance a exchange must be wrought with The Fade to allow a spirit to house the now empty vessel. How do you not know the religion and customs of your own faction and land? This man has a whole quest line about funerary rights, yet not ONCE mentions religion and what he believes happens after death?! Sshhhh, no questions. No thinking.

Hey, remember The Fade? Remember how mages go to dream there every night. Remember how The Black City is always visible there? No? Well, we don't either. You won't see The Black City in The Fade. You might see it in The Crossroads in a closed off section, even though it is NOT The Fade. Oh, we're going to have you physically enter The Fade in multiple quest lines and no one will think it's a big deal. No, you still can't see The Black City. Now, The Fade is reduced to nothing more than your generic fantasy spirit world. It has none of the previous rules and lore that bound it before. Demons can bind to non-mages and we won't attempt to explain it. Solas fucks with The Veil and not a single mage notices a change in their dreams when they sleep at night. No biggie.

Lastly, let's return at last to the actual minutiae of writing. I stated at the start the writing isn't bad because of Marvel quippiness, which the series has always had. I was partly lying. Yes, the series has always had anachronistic dialogue. It has had meme language in its own previous titles. But, it was just that, a small joke here and there. For the most part the series actually tried to use it's own sort of "older" speech patterns. I think a perfect example has to do with Taash, she eventually finds her own identity and declares she is proudly "non-binary." Literally stating, "so, I'm non-binary." I have no issue with this sort of inclusivity in Dragon Age, it's what the series is known for. Yet, why does that sound wrong? Simple, it's far too anachronistic. It doesn't belong in Dragon Age. In Inquisition, Dorian let's us know he's gay. But he doesn't say, "I'm gay!" or "I'm a homosexual" those terms would not exist in his world. Instead he says, "I prefer the company of men."

And it's these little subtle changes in writing that makes it feel all the more different. We went from "I once ventured in to The Fade to serve the Old Gods of Tevinter in person. I found there only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. Now I shall return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world gone wrong. Pray that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the Gods. And it was empty."

To: "Well, shit. That can't be good."

So, what do we have when all is said and done? Well, we have a decent generic fantasy action game. An intentional attempt by the developers to remove every edge from the world of Dragon Age in place of a very simple, easy to understand world with not much depth beyond what you see. You don't need to think, just play and have fun. This is beyond turning a MP game into a SP game, which so blatantly obvious in this game. DA2 was developed in 16 months, but is carried strong by its writing. You see, nothing prevented them from just acknowledging their own world they created. It costs very little to write around what already exists. Even if you can't make no assets or redesign the world. Writing is cheap and having characters voice these elements is not as costly as a redesign. No, they chose to remove the edge in every element because this was design intentionally for the masses with easy to understand world and zero depth.

But I wanted to play Dragon Age. I wanted to get into intense religious debates with party members as known lore is completely upended. I wanted to debate Elvish clans deciding to join Solas or the other Gods due to their treatment by human society. I wanted to debate the ethics of necromancy with the Mortalitasi of Neverra's Crypts. I wanted to engage in intense debating with Solas on the ethics of his goal. I wanted to see Tevinter react to a real push for anti-slavery and actually see the slavery in the slave capital of the world. I wanted to butt heads with the Antivan Crows and call them out for the murderers they are. I wanted to see the Black Divine and debate the Chant of Light with them. I wanted to speak to the Archon of Tevinter and see how he felt about the Venatori's past efforts in Inquisition. Hey, what happened to Meredith Reborn in Kirkwall and her idol and Red Templar worshipers? Forget about it.

We got none of this. I got a game that is pretty much disrespectful of its own world. I waited 10 years for this? Why even bother if this is the result? They may as well have just killed every previous character we ever knew, including Solas, offscreen and started anew with this game. Because as a Dragon Age game and sequel, it's terrible and no returning character is how they should be.

And when we get to the ending, that's pretty much what they did. Everything you did in all the past games? Well, that was pointless. Everyone is probably dead. King Alistair. Gaspard. Celene. King Bhelen. The Arl of Redcliffe. The Divine. The Circle of Magi. The Templars. The Seekers. Everything, everyone, and every organization that existed in the South is likely dead and destroyed. And now Dragon Age can become what they wanted, a generic fantasy IP.

But I just wanted to play Dragon Age.

#dragon age #dragon age critical #dragon age spoilers #I finished this game... and now just mourn the end of a fantasy world that was so much and now is nothing

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