Well, Fae!AU by @ghouljams got me out of my months long art block. Idk man I don’t make the rules, I see awful terrible nasty man obsessed with his love and I’m ✨invested✨
1fae1 au and oc belong to @ghouljams sorry for haunting your inbox btw
Price runs cold, it comes with being in the court of winter. He isn't corpse freezing, though he definitely can be if he so pleases. Rather, he feels cool. Cool like a gust of wind or soft rain under the power of the unforgiving sun, cool like a shower after a long day of work, washing away the tension in your muscles and the worry of your brow.
Like the bastard that he is, it never fails to amuse him when his cold hands make his little witch yelp and swat at him. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he drags his fingers over her skin, delighting in the goosebumps that are left in their wake. His hands slip under the fabric of whatever pretty dress she has on that day, and he chuckles low and deep when she shivers but makes no effort to push him away.
His witch runs hot. Everything she touches is warm, like a long embrace. Every potion she crafts goes down like the thickest liquor, every charm like a freshly dried blanket over your shoulders.
Everything except for him.
A chill sweeps through her little cottage when he breaks through the threshold, despite the warm lamps and candles and the fire raging under her cauldron that make her home feel like a furnace. She can always feel him coming. Like seeing dark clouds in the distance yet neglecting to find shelter before the storm comes.
He knows exactly why his witch burns like the sun, blood running with all the warmth of a summer fae. Even so, he marvels at how human she feels under his palms. Her every curve and dip so smooth and lush. She hums so sweetly when he drags his thumbs over her cheeks, dousing the blazing skin.
He can nearly feel the steam billowing into the air when his lips meet hers. Their bodies lay entangled in the thick sheets and covers of her bed, and he can feel the warmth buzzing just above his skin. He watches her, taking in the serenity of her expression. The tension in her muscles and the worry of her brow have long since washed away. He watches her and startles himself with the suffocating feeling in his chest. Like a dam breaking, her searing touch sinks into his bones and he takes a breath like his head has been under water for centuries.
Content Warnings - Smut, alcohol consumption, venomous x poisonous, Moss doesn't have a filter when horny sorry, biting, blood, no one made a good decision.
Oc Masterlist
Main Masterlist
A/N - The final part to Moss' spring saga. @ghouljams they finally fucked.
They looked around and locked eyes with someone at the end of the bar, Moss tilted her head to the side which made the person grin. It was probably a bad idea, there was something predatory in that smile but Moss loved the way it sent a chill down their spine. This one it is then.
They didn’t need each other's name. Asking for names was honestly rather taboo within the culture of this city thanks to the fae, such as Moss, that made it that way. Unimportant nicknames or whatever stood out about the person, “I’ve never seen you around here before Ginger.” The person in front of Moss said. Of course I would be dubbed ‘Ginger’ how original, Moss thought bitterly as they smiled at Whiskey.
“I don’t come here all that often.” I don’t come here at all was the hidden meaning and they both knew that’s what Moss meant, “What about you Whiskey?” Moss asked before they took a sip of their drink and leaned forward just a little. The way Whiskey looked at them made Moss feel like a prey and wasn’t that a delicious feeling?
Whiskey shrugged, “Sometimes.” Moss couldn’t help the chuckle that left them at that answer. How evasive. The time seemed to slide by with ease, probably with the help of the drink that Moss kept drinking that seemed to never really be empty. The music is playing and the bar is crowded, yet the entire world had seemed to narrow down to the two of them. Whiskey has their cheek rested against their fist with a nearly amused smile on their face as Moss rambled about something. “You like talking.” Whiskey stated and Moss shrugged, not ashamed of who they were. “Do you like talking when you’re under someone?” Whiskey purred and there it was, that scratch to relieve the itch that had been building up underneath Moss’ skin the entire night.
“Wanna find out?” Moss replied as they leaned against the table that separated them the entire night. Being tipsy might have made Moss a little stupid, a little more adventurous with their pick in who was going to warm their bed for the next few hours. Moss glanced to their hand with the golden bands of rings, the well loved leather jacket and suddenly they didn’t really care as the itch turned into an ache. “If you don’t fuck me I’m gonna lose it Whiskey.” Moss blurted out.
Whiskey chuckled and wrapped their long fingers around the nape of Moss’ neck. “Good thing I’m going to.” Moss had never wanted to scramble across a bar table so badly before, to get a taste of what had been dangled in front of them all night. The kiss is searing and it only added fuel to the fire that eats Moss up. The faint taste of whiskey that fills their mouth when they swipe their tongue along Whiskey’s lips is maddening. Moss is sure Whiskey can taste the sweet margaritas that Moss had on their tongue and wondered if it drives them up the wall.
Whiskey bit down on Moss’ bottom lip and tugged as they finally broke the kiss. Moss doesn’t enjoy public sex, at least that is what they thought all this time. It was unappealing, it left them vulnerable and open in a way Moss refused to be. But Whiskey had been the exception all night, might be the only exception ever. Moss’ tight little skirt was hiked up around their hips and their legs wrapped around Whiskey’s waist. Moss couldn’t focus on anything else but the feeling of Whiskey’s cock rocked further into Moss’ fluttering cunt. Moss whined, high pitched and embarrassingly loud, when the cock dragged against the gummy spot within them. “O-oh.” Moss’ head tipped back as they struggled to breathe and clawed at Whiskey’s back. “Right there.” Moss choked out as Whiskey chuckled.
“Guess you shut up when you’re being fucked.” They murmured against Moss’ ear and Moss jolted when they felt teeth graze the sensitive skin of their neck.
“Don’t.” Moss warned, even fucked out of their mind they knew the dangers of any blood of theirs being split into anyones mouth. A one way ticket to deads-vill. But with another harsh thrust from Whiskey had any more words of warning smacked away as they let out a sharp moan. Moss shuddered as they clenched around Whiskey, back arched off the brick wall that had been digging into their soft skin.
They sucked in a harsh breath and hissed, their hand gripped onto Whiskey’s neck and scruffed them. They pulled Whiskey away with wide eyes and saw their own blood smeared on their mouth. Moss opened their mouth to reprimand them when Whiskey bit down on them again and rocked their cock into their g-spot again. The harsh mixture of pleasure and pain made Moss’ hips buck. Whatever, Moss vaguely thought, let them die. Not like I didn’t try to warn them.
Moss groaned when they opened their eyes and rolled over onto their stomach to bury their face in their pillow. Moss never regretted installing a sunroof in their bedroom, they needed every moment of sun they could get but days like this? Moss wished they had thought twice. Moss glanced at their arms after a moment of hiding in their pillow and pursed their lips. They sat up and stared at themselves in the mirror across the room. Bites. Bites fucking everywhere. Arms, thighs, neck and shoulders. The bites pulsed and radiated pain that only got worse when Moss fled into their bathroom, barely in time to throw up whatever they had eaten.
The walk to Witch’s cottage was unpleasant, they hadn’t even bothered to put on the charm necklace to help with their form, but once inside the threshold of her garden, they collapsed into the dirt. The fake human form disappeared and the warm, perpetual summer air graced their skin. Even with the pain that echoed through their body, Moss was able to recognize that there was no ache. No itch hidden within their bones and at that realization, they relaxed further into the dirt. They listened to the sound of the screen door open and slam shut and felt the shadow of her over their body. “What happened to you?”
“Think someone tried to eat me.” Moss muttered, “Could I just… lay here? Your garden is so nice.” Moss murmured as they tried to wiggle further into the cool dirt and let the coolness soothe their burning skin.
“Of course. Do you need some water?” Witch asked softly, in that tone of voice that really nailed home how shit Moss must look. What a fucking week, Moss thought as they nodded.
can i bare my soul real quick? can i be strange and off-putting? a little bit of monica in my life?
His smile is mocking, eyes colder than you've ever seen. There's mirth there, buried under the snow, some twisted enjoyment that makes your blood run cold.
"Humane?" He hums, "Fair?" He reaches a hand to scratch his face and his nail sluices through the pale skin, your breath catches in your throat. "You seem to 'ave forgotten love," he digs his fingers into his cheek, sloughing off skin like it's pudding, the discarded remnants of it dripping through his fingers to splatter on the floor, "you play by my rules, not the other way 'round."
It's black behind his torn skin, a darkness that consumes light the same way chickens cannibalize eggs. Eye-less, toothless, half his face smiles, the muscles stretching too far across his cheek as he wipes the rest of his skin free and you stare into the void. There's a buzzing formlessness to the gaping emptiness of his former face that finds the TV static under your skin and plucks. Known, but not to you.
Your knees buckle as he cocks his head, unseen gaze pinning you to the spot even as you drop to the kitchen floor.
"Why are you doing this?" You whisper.
He crouches, movements fluid, animal. His back arches and you can imagine the prickling of hair down his spine. You try to commit it to memory, will yourself to establish this baseline even as one gnarled claw raises to find its point between your eyes.
"Because I love you," It drips like saliva from the hole in his head, "my stupid girl."
tw: gore, weird power dynamics, dehumanization, extremely dubious consent
Summary: Set as a prequel to the fae au. John Price pulls a corpse from the snow, a banshee, a wraith held together only by the magic its managed to steal for itself. He offers it a hand, a name, and all the lives it can devour. They make quite a pair, the devil and his Ghost.
a/n: I have been working on this for almost 2 years and finally figure out the ending! Yippee!!
The wild is dark, dusky. It's always dusky where snow covers the ground. Price stands over the body of a man, a child really, and feels disgust boil in his blood. Not for this new fae, birthed from blood and snow, barely alive except for the magic it managed to steal for itself, but for the men who made him. He crouches next to the fae, more animal than man, and tells the new wraith a joke:
"Look like a ghost, you sure you're alive?"
It growls at him.
It'll feel better after it eats. Price gives a sharp whistle, bad luck in the dim light of Winter, but not for him. The smoke from a nearby campfire falls to the ground, crawls with creeping claws in every direction. It reaches, digging into the snow to try and grab hold of anything still alive. Fortunately for the ghost, Price has decided to exclude him from that tally. He'll appreciate it later. For now Price's phantom claws dig into something warm and fleshy. With a swipe of his hand one of the men guarding the camp is dragged over. The new fae watches with dark eyes and dripping teeth as he's pulled through the snow, hooked like a pig by Price's smoke.
It doesn't need the coaxing to dig its own claws and teeth into the man, it's instinct. Ripping and tearing, searching for the best pieces, the cleanest cuts of meat. He's a messy eater, Price thinks, I can probably fix that.
-
Two men stalk through the snow, one older, one younger. It's dusk. It's always dusk. There's a fresh powder on the snow under their feet. The older man moves silently through the barren forest, the younger man does his best to follow his footsteps. The forest is quiet, save the older man's rumbling voice.
"Just step where you want to go and the wild will take you there." Price explains, tries to explain, so much that comes second nature to him is alien to his wraith, "Follow your nose if you get lost, can’t trust your eyes out here."
Ghost is smart, he's learned that much in the last few months. Smart but broken. Price can feel the smoke he's breathed into him holding the shadows together, filling in the cracks and ripped tethers. There was so little of him left when Price found him. If it weren’t for Price’s magic providing a skeleton the whole body might have collapsed. God the hell the poor kid must've been through. It takes a long time to make a fae like this, they must've been at it for a years.
Still, the magic that Ghost holds onto, the shadows that swirl around him, are useful. Stolen magic, siphoned off of the darkness around him, the hatred and malice that bled from his captor’s heart, before metastasizing in the loose dirt of the grave he crawled out of. Ghost had painstakingly repaired his own cracked skin with rage until it was enough to live beyond the human part’s lifespan.
He’s silent, still, watchful. Useful magic in a guard dog, if he can actually use it.
Price stops and hear the crunch of snow stop just a few paces behind. He turns to look at Ghost, there are dark circles under his eyes, his hair still death white, Price's dark clothes hang off his body like a child playing dress up. He's too thin. The best thing to do would be get some tethers in Ghost, but the man's been reluctant to do even the most basic fae things. Too bad. Plenty of ways to make a fae strong though.
"Alright head back, nothing out here for us." Price tells him. Ghost stares at him for a moment, before turning on his heel and stalking back into the dark woods. He follows orders well, at least, and this is a decent exercise in magic. Price lets him get a few paces out before he has the wild bring him back. No sense getting lost between the trees.
Ghost gives him an unamused look when he circles back. Price smiles at him, the man may not speak but he wears the shreds of a heart on his sleeve. "Must want to stay with me." He jokes. There’s an undercurrent to Ghost’s clouded eyes, one that makes him wonder how close to the mark he is, one that makes him wonder if he’ll always be able to hold this leash. If he can't, will his dog still listen to him?
Price wraps his hand behind Ghost’s head, pulling him close. The brush of lips is a familiar chill, like kissing a corpse, not entirely unpleasant but Price has never been quite so romantic as to expect it would be. He exhales, tips his head to let the smoke trace over Ghost’s lips as the corpse inhales heavily. Greedy for magic, Ghost’s pupils spread wide as the smoke swirls through him. It isn’t just his body that’s still starving.
Fine then, Price just needs to make sure the leash stays short.
-
There's something about Ghost, how quickly he takes to being fae once the scent of dirt is washed off, how neatly he packs on weight and builds muscle, how his teeth drip with blood,
how he hates the snow.
Price lights a cigar watching his guard collect shadows around himself. Inky darkness like slithering snakes from the trees winds its way over the snow, writhing as if even Ghost’s magic doesn’t know what to make of him. On any other fae Price might find is repulsive, but this monster is his, and he'd be remiss not to find some satisfaction in the grotesquity. Ghost's form shifts and roils, the shadows still unsure how to shape the changes to his body. Wisps of inky smoke swirl around him, lift off his skin and dissipate in the soft evening light. Shadows that can’t keep their shade without their host break in Winter’s dusk. Another shiver through Ghost’s form, a wave over his body as he eats.
Crimson stains the snow around him, pooling only to freeze in pocked discs. It streaks over the crooked angle of Ghost's nose, arterial spray staining his black clothes. Ghost tips his head to look back at him, breathes deep, in and out, expelling Price's smoke like a haunting. He needs it less and less these days, building his own magic on the foundation Price laid for him. It's better this way. Besides, Price knows how his shadows work, can combat them if he goes rogue. Not that he would.
Price doubts Ghost even spares a thought to leaving him.
Not when Price keeps him so well fed, so well entertained. It’s been a good stretch since Price took him under his wing. Time is a fickle thing in the wild, months maybe, could be years. Months of silence from his dog, months of building trust, months of hunting down the men that made Ghost into what he is.
Ghost’s claws dig into the mangled viscera that once closed tightly as a ribcage, now ripped apart at the spine it sits open. A trap, or a warning to anyone that stumbles across it. Ghost pulls the heart free and inspects it. He’s a picky eater when he wants to be. Fae like him always are. It’s the control of it, being able to pick and choose the best parts for himself without worrying someone might take them. Hearts seem to be his preference, he always eats those first.
Price blows his smoke over the shadows, watching them bend and twist to accommodate him. Picky eaters… Ghost’s teeth tear into the muscle, head tipping back so the blood won’t drip down his chin. At least he isn’t messy with it.
His dark eyes flit to Price when he blinks, before moving back to his meal on the next close of his eyes. Still as dead as when Price found him. If it isn’t fighting or feeding Ghost doesn’t seem to have much mind for anything else. Still healing, Price supposes, still finding pieces of himself.
Ghost drags his tongue along the drops of blood trailing down his claws as he swallows the last morsel of muscle. The corpse flinches as he fishes the liver out of it.
Price makes his way closer, crouches beside the head. He pulls his cigar from between his lips and blows smoke into the unlucky soul’s face. If there was any hope of saving them he might say their color wasn’t good.
“Shame you let it get this far,” He tells the fae, watching Ghost dig his claws through the open chest cavity. Price tugs at one of the heavy red threads tying Ghost’s victim to him, the rapid expansion of the corpse’s lungs makes him hum. “Damn commendable though,” Price stands, and settles his cigar between his lips again, taking a steady inhale before speaking again, “consider the debt paid.”
-
There's something about Price too. Something Ghost can't put his finger on. Power drips from his fingertips, eases itself into the corners of every room. Ghost doesn't doubt that the wild bends to his will. He's charming. That's a good word for it, a calculated charm. It makes people trust him. He's a good liar, for a man that can't lie, yet Ghost never doubts he's telling him the truth. There's something heavy between them, something Ghost doesn't have a word for but feels important.
He's warm.
Despite being from Winter he's warm. It's like finding a campfire burning in the woods. Reasonably you know someone must have built it, that there must be people nearby, maybe even dangerous people, but you're so tired that for a moment it shines like a beacon of hope against the darkness. Ghost only hopes he's one of the dangers lurking in the dark, and not one of the hapless moths drawn to Price's flame. His teeth itch.
Sitting against the pillows that line Price's bed his teeth itch.
Price hardly moves an inch when Ghost crawls over to him, his arm slung across his eyes, his other hand resting on his stomach comfortably. The house is warm and inviting, Price is inviting, Ghost wonders what his blood tastes like. If it would be smokey on his tongue, if it would fill him the way Price's magic does.
Ghost opens his mouth and Price's hand moves to grip his throat.
It's a split second of movement, barely enough time for the thought to fully form before Ghost’s stopped dead. There’s a coldness in Price’s eyes, the ice taking over any warmth that might have been tempting him. A switch flipped to snuff out the flames of what he truly is, cut against the service of dusk. His fingers hold his throat tight, exhaustion gone from Price’s body as if it had never existed in the first place. Every line of him is hard, sharp in a way that teeters at the edge of control. Angry.
“Good dogs don’t bite their masters.” Price tells him, the words mark the air, a new law to carve itself into Ghost’s body, “Or do I need to muzzle you?”
There’s a pull in Ghost’s chest, a weight that drags itself against his ribs. It knocks against bone, rattles it like a cup dragged along the bars of a cage. It’s too heavy a hook to pull out, too big a debt to cash in, a short leash fixed to an iron collar.
Ghost shakes his head, his eyes trained on Price’s until the older man’s eyes dart down. His fingers squeeze Ghost’s neck, applying a pressure that makes his head spin. Thick and controlled. A slow descent into some superior space which had remained unoccupied. His eyes tremble against the stimulation, muscles contracting in unfamiliar instinct. All his blood rushes south, he's fuzzy under Price’s grip, pulled by the debt he owes him.
It’s a new old feeling. A spark long abandoned for survival given new life against Price’s flinty guidance. Fighting, feeding-
“If you want something,” Price’s leg bends, his knee pressing tight against the front of Ghost’s trousers, “you have to ask.”
Months of silence, mute in a way only death knows, Price doesn’t expect an answer. Words have no meaning for dogs or dead men, but still Ghost ruts his hard cock against Price’s knee and lets his first word drip like ichor from his lips. The sound of it so low he almost wouldn’t hear it if he wasn’t listening.
“Please.”
The word hangs heavy between them, Ghost’s head hung low as he waits for an answer. He’s so still Price might have mistaken him for dead a second time.
Price drops his hand from the man’s throat, and wraps his fingers instead around the heavy corded tether between them. He twists his wrist, wrapping the line around his hand and down his arm. He pulls it tight, watches the way the shadows drift like whisps off of Ghost, cracks in his form letting the magic holding him together shudder through.
“Better get to it then,” Price tells him.
It’s a service, a favor, another debt to wrap around the cord. Ghost’s hips jerk forward before stuttering back. The hard press of Price’s knee isn’t pleasant, but it’s better than nothing. It’s more than Ghost can afford on his own. He knows, feels it wrap around his neck like a noose with each shuddering rock of his hips. The ache of having his cock crushed against his hip, the sweet bite of cotton as it rolls against the skin of his cock, the burning friction, it all tingles up his spine.
Sadism. Masochism. It's all the same. The chase of a pain that can't hurt him. Controlled. Everything about Price is controlled.
Even him.
Price watches the way Ghost ruts against his leg. It’s measured. Nothing frantic in the motions, just a steady back and forth that speaks to Ghost’s patience more than anything. Biding his time until he can bargain for something bigger, Price thinks. Ghost is a smart man, he knows what he can get with what little he has.
Ghost tips his head, his eyes are like coals, malice and hatred burning clear as he meets Price’s gaze.
Maybe a muzzle for this one.
-
"Hungry."
It's the first word Ghost has spoken to him since- Price looks up from his ledger, eyes his shadow. The shadows swirl around him like smoke, his new mask already collecting in all its gorey glory. He's bigger again, building muscle on top of muscle, sharpening his claws as well as his wits. He's really grown into the role of guard dog well. The tethers are still an issue though. Price's are the only ones that string from him, their weight like lead, constantly reinforced.
"For what?" Price asks, he knows Ghost's preferences as well as his own, but it's so rare to hear his voice. It makes him want to prod. The deep tone, rough with disuse, rumbles pleasantly in the space.
"Meat."
So he feels like talking today. That's good, a good sign. Who knows how long it will last. Price makes a quick note on the page and closes his ledger. He presses his hands to the table and stands. There's no debt that needs collecting today, but he can always move someone to the front of the line.
Maybe a trip to the city is in order. There are a few things that need checking on, and nowhere better to check up on them. He fixes his eyes on Ghost, watches the man watching him.
He's waiting. Waiting for the next command that Price utters with the respect of a soldier. He’s well trained, trusting, Price is careful not to break that trust, but that doesn’t mean he can’t push it.
“City’ll have easy hunting.” Price tells him and the shadows tense. The darkness wriggles and wriths with upset and unease at the idea, though Ghost himself stands still and commanding as ever. “Can have your pick.” Price offers, throwing the dog a bone to raise the tuck of its tail.
Price tugs a cigar from the nearby case and lights it with a match struck against his fingernail. Ghost’s silence is as much an answer as anything. It’s not a ‘no’ which is as good as a yes as far as Price is concerned.
Price grabs his coat, and Ghost falls in line behind him.
It’s bad in the city. Two women dead, their hearts thudding in Ghost’s stomach, their slick still dripping down his chin.
A leash only works when the dog stays on it.
-
“Come on love,” Ghost’s voice stops dead on the cobblestone, “Say something pretty for me.” It's been years and Price still can't get used to the sound of it.
The woman in his grasp, gasps and whines. Price sniffs at the autumn air, keeps his eyes glued on the passers-by. Nobody pays any attention to the dark spots in the city. To the soft slap of skin against skin or the dulcet whimpers that tug at Price’s own cock.
“Feels good,” The woman moans, Ghost’s body pressing her tight against the alley wall, his hands digging greedily into the fat of her hips.
“That oll?” The walls seem to watch, eyes in the shadows, greeting hands squeezing and groping at anything darkness wraps itself around. Price waits for the sink of Ghost’s teeth. His picky eater.
Price turns and stalks towards the pair, he raises his cigar from his lips and presses the burning embers against the woman’s forehead, digging his magic in between her eyes. She screams in pain before her body goes limp.
“Tell ‘im what ‘e wants ta hear sweet’eart.” Price orders with a nod.
“Love you,” The woman slurs, and Ghost’s shadows explode from his body. Spines bristle, teeth sharpen, roiling excitement, uncontrolled, uncontained. Unease slips down Price's spine as he steps out of the way; only just avoiding the splatter of blood that rips across the stone walls. There's something on the wind, something tempting dusk to midnight. Unpredictable. Price doesn't like it.
“Sweeter,” Ghost explains once he’s licked the blood from his fingertips, his hunger sated, “heart’s sweeter when it feels for ya.”
Price hums. He’s never been one for hearts. Too messy.
“Should taste witch,” Price tells him absently, “blood’s thick with magic, goes down like liquor.”
"Wonder 'ow long I could keep one of these." He isn't listening. He's been doing that more, never disobeying, but- Independent. Price doesn't like that either. "Found the old man's place, piece of shite, but could fix it up."
Price's eyes creep with the flow of his displeasure towards him. "You know where home is." He reminds him.
Ghost's eyes burn where he meets them, frostbite creeping over the inky graveyard dirt. For now, they seem to say, for now.
Hi ghoul!! Your OC post about Nikolai wanting Witch made me reread your Fae!Nikolai post and wonder… does he ever revisit that reader?? I’d love to chew on more of fae!Nik please if you would be so kind 🙏🏻🙏🏻
You'd gone to the club specifically so you wouldn't have to deal with any lingering attachments. One and done, a surefire way to lose your virginity without having to deal with anything messy or personal afterwards. It isn't working out the way you wanted it to.
You can't forget the man that fucked you. The thick fingers that stretched you open, that stroked your walls until you were tight and shaking. The clever tongue that lapped at your cunt, that licked and twitched against your clit until you'd moaned and begged for him to stop. The heavy, hairy stomach that had pressed against you as his cock slid into you, tight as a vice. It had burned, the stretch just at the painful side of pleasure until it had made you melt, your body relaxing into a hold that whispered in your ear how good you were for him, how you took him beautifully. A hold that didn't treat you like a virgin, didn't try to coddle you, didn't try to impress upon you the weight of your choices. A hold that fucked you until you came, and then let you walk away.
You got everything you wanted, thought you needed, from the experience, but it still nags at you. Some unfinished desire, some short-fused flame, some strand tying you to a man you don't know and aren't sure you want to. You can't put your finger on it, but it keeps you up at night, your fingers stroking desperately between your thighs, an unknown name on your lips, and a flat tongue carding its way through the wrinkles of your brain.
You're sure he's forgotten about you, that he moved onto his next client like you move to the next video on your phone, an endless scroll, mindless behavior, mundane in its stunning mediocrity.
You're sure that you are nothing more than a number of zeroes in his bank account.
The same way you're sure you would know if your boss suddenly changed, you'd notice it beyond the firm pressure behind your eyes, you'd know that something was wrong, that you'd never heard that accent on your boss' tongue, never seen that twinkle in his eye, never met the man that stops by your desk and tells you "good morning" with a knowing weight to it that nearly crushes you. You would know. You would notice.
But there is something so familiar about that voice, those eyes, that tongue, that you let it pass, sweeping over you like a gentle rain, washing away the man who used to occupy that spot so that you smile at him and tell him,
"Good morning, Nikolai." with that same sweet voice he missed waking up to so many mornings ago.
wip Sunday since yall have no idea what I've been up to
Two months later.
The walls around you are concrete. There's a mirror to one side, stretching across length of the wall without keeping any of the width. The flash of the overhead light off of it cuts your vision, more distracting than the back pain you're getting. When they'd walked you in here, past the scattered desks and the dead chatter, you'd thought- well, you don't know what you'd thought. Your brain feels a bit like it's been stuffed, your thoughts are cottony and everything feels muted. Colors, sounds, it's all… deadened.
Except for this fucking chair.
You squirm, trying to find a comfortable position. The wooden chair's back is just slightly too high to be comfortable, and there's no slouch or perfect posture you can take to make it stop digging into your spine. The officer in front of you narrows their eyes at you, lips curled at one corner with contempt. You're annoying them, you know. Each heavy scratch of their pen against notebook paper as they take your statement has been shorter and more terse than the last. To be fair to them, it wasn't like you didn't want to answer their questions, you just didn't know anything.
"I'm gonna ask you again-" the officer tries, voice flat but jaded with irritation, "-what do you remember?"
"I remember leaving the pub, then-" you chew your lip, wracking your brain for something to tell, something to explain how you ended up on your own doorstep so out of sorts that your neighbor had to call 999 to stop you from bloodying your hands on their door. You stare down at your lap, dig your thumb nail against the beginnings of a scab on your knuckle.
"Then?" You keep going through this dance, the question that prompts your silence, the irate follow up that leads nowhere.
"Then I'm on my doorstep," you press your nail harder against the scab, "and-" you can feel the spike of anxiety that had seized your chest, your nailpolish is grown out and chipped, but your nails are clipped short, where were you? "-and something is wrong, I don't have my keys, or my phone, and there's something-"
