piano-fingers

[piano-fingers]

Price, entering Johnny's room: "Why are you naked??"

Soap: "I-I don't have any clean clothes"

Price: *opens his closet*

Price: "What are you saying? You have shirts, pants, socks, hi Simon, more shirts, jackets-"

[piano-fingers]

From Scratch

Nutrition Info: Johnny/Reader; 4k; a meetcute launched by Reader's inability to cook reasonable portions, and Johnny's... well, just Johnny

No matter how long you live alone, you can’t get the hang of cooking for one person. Even when you try to make a single-serving meal instead of batch cooking, somehow it balloons out of control. Wasting food makes you feel awful, but you can only freeze so much.

One evening, desperate and utterly fed up, you go kick gently at a neighbor’s door, both hands full, trying to mimic a knock with your shoe. Jason, you think his name was? Striking blue eyes, big frame, a cute cropped mohawk, amazing brogue, and he’s always been cordial when you’ve run into him around the building. Friendly, but not too friendly.

He’s understandably confused by your request at first, but seems happy enough for the food, and takes it around your repeated apologies–for bothering him, for existing, for anything you can find, really.

Unfortunately, not even forcing yourself to go and do all of that manages to pierce your shite sense of volume. Your trips to his door do get less awkward over time, though. And Johnny, his name is, always has sparklingly clean dishes and containers to return in exchange for the full ones. 

Eventually he just starts showing up at your place instead and eats with you at your bar counter. He didn’t really ask, and you definitely didn’t, but there he is all the same, and… if you're honest? He’s just so easy to be around, it quickly feels natural having him there. He puts you off your guard, puts you at ease and makes you smile, like those are somehow the most natural things in the world.

From that first night, Johnny has insisted on helping with dishes. Starting the second, he’s always got groceries with him. Even manages to talk you out of your discomfort over accepting them, so well that on his fourth night, you’ve got a small shopping list ready. He’s cheeky, you don’t think he’ll mind. And he is right, after all: you're probably feeding him at least three or four nights out of the week, what with all the leftovers.

You start eating better, and trying new things you'd always planned on “getting around to,” now that you've got a reason to cook beyond not starving. Everything comes out fine the first time you make it, when you’re closely following a recipe, and Johnny has no qualms about trying anything you put in front of him. You’ve never met someone so genuinely un-fussy when it comes to food.

A couple months after he’s started eating at your place, he disappears for a while. “Work trip,” is all he'll say, and you don’t pry, even though you really want to. 

Once he’s back, he starts coming over weekend afternoons sometimes. You do brunch with beer or fancy drinks in champagne flutes, or occasional breakfast on the roof before other people are awake, him in a big hoodie or jumper, and you wearing a thick blanket like it's trying to digest you, looking like a half-drowned cat because no living being is meant to be awake at such an hour. 

You cut fruit into mangled flowers and vague geometric shapes for the brunches, usually while just spending time with him. He tries his hand at it once, with you pulling up videos, laughing the whole time you’re explaining how it’s supposed to work, and the utter bastard is better at it on his first go than you were after weeks. His hands are confoundingly steady, and his hand-eye coordination borders on the unnatural.

That’s probably the official start of his sous chef arc. And that’s what has him spending a night judging your knives and marveling, repeatedly and loudly, that you still have all your fingers.

You might put a piece of eggshell into his omelet that night in retaliation, and he might not even have the decency to react to it.

“...Johnny I can hear it crunching, oh my God would you spit it out!” You manage between laughter that’s got your face hurting.

That happens a lot around him. Smiling so much it hurts.

“Nah, i’s nice texture,” he says around the mouthful, then starts enunciating the longer words. “Very advanced technique. Shows a great awareness of the culinary experience–”

“You’re being such a prat. Why are you being such a prat!”

He talks over you as if he can’t hear you, as if he’s doing some mockingly posh review. “And honestly, the crunching–” he pauses and chomps down on the shell for effect, and how is it still intact, “it really engages the senses. Keeps me immersed in my dining experience.”

You regret loaning him your cooking books. Never again.

After that, though, he steals your knives, takes them home, and they come back so sharp you can cut windowpane slices of potato. He offers to teach you how to do it yourself–after stipulating with heart-clenching thoroughness that he’s happy to come over and do it for you any time.

Johnny gets weirdly into shopping farmer’s markets, walking around discovering new produce and varieties of things he’s never seen before. “Fuck would I know tomatoes come in this color? Look at this thing, it’s like a feckin’... it’s a wee lumpy sunset, isn’t it? And this! Like someone took the heart of a dragon,” his voice had gone terribly dramatic, and you definitely hadn’t covered your face, “and stuck it on a bush somewhere.”

“Baby how are you so huge, but so adorable?” You don't know when the pet names started, but you know he started them; sometimes it feels like you two grew up together. 

You like the challenge of the new and unexpected ingredients that come from his trips, and by this point, he’s keeping your kitchen pretty stocked with whatever oddball pantry items you ask for, so you're set up to deal with almost anything. But on rare occasions he’ll call you with a question, too. You’ve had each other’s numbers for a while, it just made coordinating easier. 

“Oi can you make sommat with uh… fiddlehead ferns?”

You always can, whatever he asks about. It just takes a quick internet search to find out if you can tackle it that same night, or if it needs to wait for another day. Sometimes it ends up disastrous, but like a shot, Johnny has you laughing or throwing something at him (usually-but-not-always also while laughing) before guilt or shame can get a proper foothold.

There was a night when he was too excited about something to wait for you to answer the door when he knocked, and since then, he just sort of comes in on his own after he announces himself—at least when you know to expect him. That feels right, too, just like having him at your counter had.

You’re feeding the both of you almost every night of the week by now, even if you’re still not cooking often. You like being around him so much, you can’t imagine doing it less, not even when cooking is the last thing you want to be doing. It’s like there’s a bubbly little sun in your chest when he’s around.

Johnny makes you so happy, in fact, and you’re so afraid of losing your time with him, it’s nearly six months before the first time you have to tap out of a dinner, too knackered to make yourself even casually presentable, nevermind cook so much as instant noodles.

He reacts like it’s no problem at all, which of course he’d do, because he’s wonderful, but you don’t manage to keep your heart from dropping that he’s not at least a little sad. That he doesn’t, maybe, look forward to the nights like you do. You know your arrangement is practical, and he’s never been over unless there was food involved, but… well… seeing him seems to have become rather… vital to you.

Which means it’s better to put it away, anyhow, right?

So when, an hour after you’d texted him and basically all he’d said was No problem, thinking takeout, any votes?, he’s coming through your front door with delivery bags and talking a mile a minute like it’s just another night, you're left with your mouth open and your hand on the knob, because… because he's here.

You're not cooking, but he's still here.

You just stand there gobsmacked as he sits on the couch, nattering away, half the food out before he even realizes you’re still playing doorstop. He asks if you’re having the time of your life or if you’re going to come sit down, those horrible (wonderful) crinkles at the sides of his eyes, brows pulled up in the middle.

He looks confused when you say you want to freshen up, like he can’t see that your hair might’ve lost a row with a feral rodent, or that you’re wearing clothes that shouldn’t even be outside of a bin, nevermind on a person. He just tells you the food will get cold, and that it’ll be no good that way.

So you run your hands through your hair and sit, subdued and uncertain like you haven’t been around him in ages, as he amiably fills the silence. You know he can tell you’re not right, but he’s just… acting like it’s ok that you aren’t.

Midway through the meal, he reaches forward to grab a container and put it in front of you, and it makes his knee come up against yours. 

It doesn’t move away when he sits back.

Then, as the night wears on and the very most jagged edges of your weariness have eased, he makes a joke and you bump your shoulder into him in retaliation. It pushes your legs flush… and neither of you do anything to separate them. He just keeps on being Johnny like nothing is different, like nothing strange is happening, like he can’t see how bloody flushed you must be, like the room hasn't turned to glass and burst, leaving the both of you toppling through the air.

You're not stupid, so you have to tell yourself repeatedly that he’s just trying to comfort you. He’s acting completely normal otherwise—for Johnny—and you look like a person in need of a friend tonight. And same as him, you’re at all your meal nights instead of off with friends or dates. At least for him, it’s because of his career. You haven’t even seen him bringing up a new fling in ages.

…You’re not stupid. Right?

After the food is finished, Johnny putters about cleaning up, working his way around your kitchen like he knows it exactly as well as he does. He puts all but one container of leftovers in your fridge. 

You hug your knees comfortably, just sort of watching him, too full of static to be paranoid about it, and he either doesn’t realize or isn’t bothered by it. Not being a complete creep, you don’t keep it up for too long, anyhow. You’ve got plenty to occupy your thoughts.

He surprises you on his way out by casually setting a mug in front of you. He’d made you something hot to drink while he was cleaning up, and you were so spaced you hadn’t realized. He just gives you a little smile, a gentle squeeze on the shoulder with a stroke of his thumb, says, “Wednesday, yeah?” (the night of your next normal get-together), and moves on toward the door. All normal. But there’s some metal in your chest painfully bending itself into unaccustomed shapes, jabbing places that aren’t used to the pressure, pushing into your windpipe until it’s hard to breathe, and you can’t stop yourself from telling him that you made up a new seasoning blend for popcorn, if he’d maybe like to watch a movie before he goes.

He stands there by the door looking at you just for a split second too long, opens his mouth, closes it, then settles right back onto the couch up next to you. He reaches out an arm and pulls you gently into his side, moving in a way that makes it an invitation and not a demand, while he’s talking about what to watch.

You fall asleep there. So does he.

Things turn a bit funny after that in a way you can’t quite put your finger on. At the surface, everything is the same. But nothing feels the same. Every time there’s a tease, casual touches, close quarters, you have to chant not stupid not stupid not stupid on repeat in your head. He’s just Johnny, that’s all. The guy you could have grown up with.

You keep up the dinners and the weekends, and eventually, finally realize that with him around to take all your extras, you can bake. It’s something you’ve wanted to try forever, but recipes don’t really make single servings, and you never had anyone to pawn off the other 22 muffins or ¾ of the cake onto, or the sheet of croissants, because you absolutely want to try the most fussy, difficult things. And it turns out, when at last he tells you what he does, that Johnny works at the local military base–which at least explains his size–so if he can’t polish something off, well, he knows some blokes.

You’re so excited after that, things almost seem to return to normal. He even comes over and hangs out while you’re baking sometimes. Just knocking about, licking the beaters and the spoons and the bowls, doing dishes as you go, fidgeting with this or that, all while knowing you’re equally as likely to produce something inedible as you are a treat.

Johnny tells you a little about his career one evening. He says that it means he’s in real danger often, there’s a lot of secrecy with people in his personal life, long absences and surprise ones, shit pay, and likely a brief expiration date. (You don’t really let that last one in). He’s got a bit of a funny look in his eyes when he shares about all of it. Quite focused on you, in a way? It makes your cheeks heat. It isn’t as if it’s on you to approve of his life.

But at least now you understand why he’s on his own. And you suppose you’re a bit small, because while you’re incredibly sad for him, part of you is thrilled that it means he’s not likely soon going to be swept away by someone else too soon.

You just gather yourself up, smile, and tell him that at least he’s spending the time he has as best he can, which is a hell of a lot more than a lot of people do–although you personally hope there’s a lot more of it. And that… at the end, you're glad for all the times you're involved.

Johnny’s leaning against the counter while you fold nuts and rum-soaked fruit into a thick batter, his normally busy hands jammed into his pockets, posture a bit off, and so close you almost keep elbowing him on accident, the two of you just bantering back and forth. 

You turn your head toward him to fire back, and–

–his mouth is just there, on yours.

He lingers, but doesn’t move otherwise. It’s… testing, you think. You feel his lips shake against yours, in fact, just once. 

Your shock dies fast and your eyes slip closed, and while it’s a brief kiss, when he pulls away, you don’t open them. You can’t. Because if you’re honest, you’ve probably been gone for him since the first time you gave him a friendly hug goodnight, and it’s only ever gotten worse. If you open your eyes, this won’t be real, or it won’t have happened, or it will shatter somehow.

After a pause, he runs the back of a finger down your temple, trailing the side of your face to your jaw. You still won’t open your eyes, so he just toys with your face until you do.

He’s got a soul-crushing smile at the corners of his eyes.

“Been wanting to do that for a long time,” he admits into the quiet.

“...Oh?” Your voice is embarrassingly, unhelpfully breathy. It’d probably be mortifying, if you had the mental capacity to fully register embarrassment at the moment.

He pauses, smile making its way to his lips, and curling them up at the corners, bit by bit. He cants his head, just a little, like he wants to see you from another angle. “Aye. …Might’ve been since the first time I saw you at the mailboxes.”

“Oh?” 

That had been one of the first times you remember ever seeing him. He never said a word to you other than, “Mornin’” or “Evenin’,” if he said anything at all.

His smile blooms until you can see his teeth. “You were wearing this little shirt. Green, thin. Bit worn, like it was a favorite. Showed a wee spot of skin at your back.” His fingers brush the spot, soft and testing, near the base of your spine, and it jolts you from scalp to toes. “Might’ve… lost some time, thinking about what it’d feel like if I slid my hand up there.” He toys with the hem of your shirt and steps in, voice going deeper and rougher around the edges. “Might’ve imagined pushing it up, getting a bit closer. Really might’ve imagined putting your back up to the slots, mo–”

You kiss him this time, before he can go on, and it’s anything but testing.

And just like everything else about him, this fits. 

His mouth fits against yours. His body fits against yours. And as if some band of control snaps, so abruptly you swear you feel it jolt through his skin, he's got you up on the counter, his thighs between yours, both of you already breathing hard.

His hands on you are perfect, calloused, slipping up under the back of your shirt, smoothing and gripping, making your chest and your thighs feel molten. It's ravenous, like he just has to touch your skin, has to get you closer. You arch toward him, fingers running up through his hair, legs curling around his and pulling him nearer.

His hips are carefully, stubbornly, infuriatingly back from you, but the kiss is so full of need, so close, that some of his breaths sound hollow against your mouth. It's like he can't decide whether inhaling or devouring you is more important, so he just doesn't choose.

When you're at the point of moaning unintentionally, of hungry little sounds forcing their way out of your chest, of your hips moving against the counter in desperation, when you're moments from outright begging, Johnny pulls back, and goes further when you try to chase his mouth.

His lips are red and full, his face dark--much worse when he catches sight of how completely drunk you must look--and he's panting. His fingers dig into your hips like he's trying to keep one or both of you from drowning. He squeezes his eyes shut.

You don't mean to, you really don't, but you look down, and lord help you but–

“That looks painful,” you tell him. Your voice sounds like it's been run over a washboard. He's tented against his denim, and his size is… proportional.

…You can't seem to remember how to make yourself look up.

“Really rather not talk about my cock just now, love,” he gravels, fingers clenching briefly against you. His head tips forward onto your shoulder, breaths panting out against your collar bone, leaving you to pick up every bit of heat he's trying to get out of himself.

You hum, teasing. “Shame, because I can't think of anything I'd rather talk ab—”

His big paw covers your mouth. “For the love of every Saint, I’m beggi—”

You cut him off right back. By licking his palm.

He recoils in horror, but the moment your eyes meet, you both burst into laughter, made worse every time he tries to tell you how disgusting that is, something about his sisters as kids, you don't know what else.

You're the first to sober, breathing almost back to normal, thoughts already whirring on fast-forward. You look down, pulling your knees together, hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Are we…. Will we be ok, after this?”

You peek up to see him looking at you like you're daft.

“‘S been the better part of a year,” he says softly, moving forward and running his thumbs over your knees. Asking your legs to make room again, to let him get close again. “Have you really not figured it out, all this time?” 

Your legs open hesitantly, and he steps in and, when you look up at him, kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other, slow and warm and so tender it feels like your chest is cracking right down the center.

Eyes closed, brows a little pinched, you murmur, “We can't all be SAS savants, Johnny.” Maybe you know. Maybe. But it has been all this time, so maybe you need to hear it, too.

He's still kissing, pace unhurried and savouring, making his way to your jaw and just beneath it. But it's calming now, somewhere between reverential and still trying to bring the both of you down. Himself especially, you think.

“Then let me spell it out for you. Gladly.” He noses up against the bottom of your ear and roughs, “You are fucking stuck with me. Glued. Bloody welded.” He huffs a laugh and leans back upright—but not all the way, not too far back. “This isnae a new thing for me. You know that, right? I just….” He shakes his head and abandons the thought, “Hell, my mates have already been asking when they can come over for dinner, the dobbers.”

Your brows shoot up. “You've talked about me at work?”

He looks down, and while his face is in half a scowl, you'd swear he does it to hide a slight flush, too. “Haven't shut up about you, more like. Should hear what my Lieutenant– Ach, nevermind that.”

You hurry to say that they're welcome any time, but it makes him scowl fully.

“Not exactly keen on the idea just yet.” He puts his arms around you, buries his face in your neck, and just stands there, breathing you in. He mutters into the crook of your shoulder, “Mind if I stay like this for a bit? Just while I, uh… calm down.”

His hips are still well back from you. You’re not sure you’ve ever adored and hated him so much at once.

“I’d really like that,” you tell him softly, arms going around his ribs, hands on his shoulders, chest to chest.

It's warm and resounding like this, so after a spell, without thinking, you bite his shoulder. Just sink your teeth in and leave them there. It’s not even entirely conscious, it's just so comfortable and comforting.

“All good, there, wee piranha?” he eventually asks, a smile in his voice.

You detach instantly. “Ah, sorry! I, uh, might have a tiny bit of an oral fixation.”

He groans. “Are ye trying to do me in?”

“I’m not the one who said we had to stop, Mr. Military Discipline.”

His eyes darken in a flash, but he tamps down on it just as quickly and gets that godawful cocky look on his face, instead. “Pardon me for not wanting to rush something that really matters.” His tone goes so soft at the end that you can’t even be mad at him--exactly as you know he intended, the great bastard.

“How did I not know what a sadist you are?”

And that look means he’s about to make you eat your words.

“Johnny I will happily kill you in your sleep.”

“I could handle that. Means you'd be in my bed, aye?”

He pulls your hands up from the death grip they've found on the edge of the counter and laces your fingers together. “I dinnae….” He clears his throat, frowns. “Just being away on deployment is shite now, and I love what I do. But I miss you while I'm gone, think about you back here all the bloody time, and we havnae even….”

When he doesn’t finish, you whisper, heart clenching with the realization, “You don't want to rush this.”

He laughs quietly like he wants to argue. But what he says is, “No. I don't. But while that's true….” He steps in, chin ducking, eyes darkening even as they shine, voice lowering. “What do you say we turn the oven off? I've a funny feeling you willnae be getting around to that bake today.”

Masterlist

[piano-fingers]

Bird Behind Bars

Credit to @enchanthings-a for dividers :)

Word Count: 935

TW: Violence, Blood, classy military life, depressive thoughts

She's just a soldier shown by the mud on her boots and the blood under her nails. There should've been an end to this, now? Peace is only an option the military won't choose.

The air was thick with metal & dirt, the wafting of copper through muddied soles of tearing boots and wrapped cloth & skin that barely held itself together and was torn unevenly. Stained in the elements of flesh. Steady, gloved fingers rested around the barrels underside of the rifle strapped against her hole-filled rig where the pocket of its left breast was torn off, threads plumming from the seams once met. Back sat against the interior of the bladed craft, currently surveying across the northern most plateau in its leisure travel toward the base, gleaming at its pilot through thickets of fog into the clearing surrounding its stood-tall fences. Wire woven through pinhole divots that allowed it to criss-cross in thick wire-covered metal. There was a slight, sudden bang as the wheels dispatched below the craft, the innards & unstrapped passengers alike being jostled as its wheels pressed down toward the landing pad.

Pressing a gloved hand against the bench, she quickly came to a stand in similar fashion alongside her fellows. All dutifully filing out from the craft with learned ease, raising their arm arm abruptly, hand pressed near their foreheads in salute. Legs pressed firmly into a straight line aligned with the straightness of their back.

Stood before them, a tanned man with fringes of orange visible below his strapped helmet as he adjusted the radio attached to the dirtied but otherwise uniform rig strapped around his torso & rolled up sleeves of his uniform.

“Good work, You’ll find your next assignments here.”

Only now visible, as a uniformed woman stepped from behind the otherwise taller man. She didn’t recognize the secretary, must’ve been new. Eyes met her staff sergeants, glancing towards her hands that held the assignments. A brief nod was given as he reached her own dirtied hands toward the clean one grasping the files. Tucking it into her rig carefully. He waved a hand up, dismissing the secretary as his eyes wandered toward the soldier stood before him.

“You look like a mess.”

Her eyes traveled down her outstretched hands, eyeing over the gathered & drying mud or blood, taking his rather astute observations as due process to clean up. Though she looked back toward him, in waiting. This caused him to cock his head to the side, staring back before simply speaking.

“You’re dismissed.”

Her boots pivoted against the concrete, saluting him before walking off.

It’d been some weeks, moving between otherwise ruined buildings in scouting, looking for strays who had managed to slip between the cracks. Their company almost thought any had already fled off & far away, away from all the war & bloodshed. It wasn’t until they’d caught sight of a head poked from the bush when they heard the shots ultimately directed toward them, even if they had all but missed.

A child, some young hybrid stood over a separated soldier baring the dead mans rifle. She was on the ground before she could blink. Disgusting of an act as it was, desperation brought forth the lowest, as far as to lend a child a weapon and condemn it to death for your own escape. She acted faster than she could process what had just happened. When she opened her eyes again, she was facing the shower head as water cascaded down her body, washing her of any physical filth. Like clockwork, shifting the handle reflecting her own scarred body een as the water held itself back in the creaking pipes until the streams were reduced to barren droplets.

She dropped her head a beat, staring into the drain as if it, too, would suck her into a dark eternity. Lifting her gaze until it looked toward the handle as she finally stepped from beneath the showerhead, drying and then dressing in similar attire to what she arrived in with less intricacies & lacking a helmet & rifle. Cleaner, polished, laced up boots that stepped in muted fashion toward her office. 

It was as her fingers wrapped around the cold brass of the handle, as her feet pushed through the door, that she found herself having to consciously remember to check her phone. An emptied thought after being sat at her desk with some several labeled folders staring back at her. An unmotivated, careful hand reached down & slipped the rectangular device from her pocket & placed it to the far side, slid against the otherwise polished wood allowing such filthy to rest & idle.

Black screen reflecting the fluorescent light beaming down at her until it lit up.

A rare, brief look of some interest before dismissing the system notification, shoulders deflating at her sides with solemn eyes. Thumbing briefly through the folder - reports, -forums - the assignment keenly sat near the bottom until it was slipped from the stack with some relative ease although discount as she flicked the folder open & reviewed its contents line by line with necessary care. Hands who were unknown to a delicacy tentatively flicking through page after page of information almost who wandered what delicate hands would attach themself to her body. Where would it come to find her? 

Finally, the assignment was no more until it could consume her whole and tuck her paper sliced head between the edges of its arms with willing comfort.

Like a phantom, all consuming in its ruthless & gloomed over path, something dark settled in the root of her stomach. Working like a dog, for what? She wished, hoped, to be taken away almost & uprooted because maybe & only then, would peace fully allude her once & for all until it dissipated and enticed like droplets underneath the impending ending that should face her with untimely demise. 

[piano-fingers]

(Poly 141 x medic reader, where you might as well be the sun to them)

The phrase started as a whisper.

It drifted through the base like smoke curling around corners, impossible to pin down but impossible to ignore.

“Here comes the sun.”

It bounced off walls, passing lips in hushed tones, slipping into conversations as a half-joke, half-omen. At first, the 141 didn’t pay it much attention. Soldiers had their quirks, their superstitions- rituals to keep them sane when missions dragged too long and they smelled more blood than earth. But this one stuck.

Price furrowed his brow the first time he heard it. Ghost only tilted his head slightly, filing it away. Gaz grimaced and muttered something about troops getting weird ideas. Soap, though- he took notice.

He’d caught it more than once before a mission, said like a prayer or maybe a warning. He’d asked around, but answers were vague. “You’ll know when you see it.” That’s all they’d tell him. It irritated him to no end.

Then the mission happened.

It was supposed to be a clean extraction. A quick in-and-out, but things went sideways fast. Soap had been covering the team’s six when the ambush hit. A sharp crack split the air, followed by the searing pain in his side. He hit the ground hard, blood soaking into the dirt, a familiar, burning ache travelling through his body.

“Soap’s hit!” Gaz’s voice barked through comms, panic threading through the static.

“Pull him out!” Price ordered.

But the line fizzled and died. Soap’s world narrowed- gunfire, shouts, and the taste of copper in his mouth. He couldn’t hear the others anymore. The ground felt colder than it should have. He pressed his hand against the wound, but it was bad. Really bad.

This is it, he thought. This is where I die.

The edges of his vision blurred. He barely noticed the figure sprinting toward him until a flash of bright red and orange, a blazing fire, pierced through the smoke and haze.

Like the sun.

You hit the ground beside him, all motion and precision, your gear unlike anything he’d ever seen. Bright red and orange covered your tactical vest and helmet- colors that didn’t belong in a war zone. Colors that should’ve made you a target, a dead woman walking.

But instead, you looked like salvation.

“Stay with me, Sargeant.” You said, voice sharp and steady. You weren’t panicked- not even a little. It was comforting.

Soap stared, wide-eyed, as your hands worked quickly to stop the bleeding. He should’ve been paying attention to the pain, to the gunfire, to anything else- but he couldn’t stop looking at you.

“What the hell are ya wearing?” he rasped, because that was apparently the only thought his brain could form.

You didn’t look up. “Bright colors make it easier to spot me. Medics don’t have the luxury of hiding- we have to be seen when it counts.”

“It’s bloody ridiculous.” he muttered- and then sucked in a sharp breath as you tightened the bandage.

“Maybe,” you said, finally glancing at him. “But it got me here, didn’t it?”

Soap’s heart stumbled. Your eyes were sharp, focused- but there was something else there too, something warm. Something steady.

Here comes the sun.

It hit him all at once. That’s what the others meant. It wasn’t just the colors. It was you. The way you moved, the way your voice cut through the noise, the way you didn’t hesitate for a second.

“Stay awake, Sargeant.” You ordered, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t have a single smart remark.

Much later, he woke up in the med tent, groggy but alive, and immediately found himself staring at you again.

You were restocking supplies nearby, your bright gear an almost comical contrast to the sterile white walls. The moment you noticed him looking, you crossed the room.

“You’re awake,” you said, checking his vitals. Your voice was softer now, calm and patient. He felt like he could melt. “Good.”

“You’re real.” He blurted out before he could stop himself.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head. “What?”

“Thought I was hallucinating.” He gestured vaguely at your vest, a grin cracking on his lips. “I mean, look at ya.” Lovely. The sun has never looked better.

Your lips twitched, like you were holding back a smile. “I get that a lot.”

Before he could come up with anything else to say- anything remotely smooth- the tent flap opened.

Price, Ghost, and Gaz stepped in, their eyes immediately landing on you. And for once, Soap wasn’t the only one caught off guard.

Gaz blinked. “You’re… bright.”

“Easy to spot.” You said, beaming.

Ghost stared at you for a few seconds longer, peering, before he spoke. “…You’re the sun.”

Price studied you for a long moment as well, then nodded like something clicked into place with a sigh. “Makes sense.”

You, on the other hand, looked confused and unsure, tilting your head once more in the way kittens do.

Soap couldn’t stop staring. He barely even heard the others talking, answering your confusion. All he could think about was how you’d shown up when he thought he was done for- and how you’d looked like a fiery star in the vast expanse of a cold, dark sky.

You glanced at him again, eyes sharp and warm all at once, lips quirking in a delicate smile while Gaz talked with you.

Here comes the sun, he thought.

(… would it be possible to cradle the sun, such warmth, in his hands?)

[piano-fingers]

𝐀𝐱 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟔 - 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/Fem Reader Zombie apocalypse AU (all parts here)

CW: Death, gore.

Suddenly the injuries aren’t bites anymore. The rock in your hand falls uselessly to the ground, as your eyes trace over the body again, and you finally understand those straight cuts and deep gashes. They’re ax wounds. 

Oh, god. 

Oh, god.

Was this Nick? Was your intuition right after all? Maybe he followed you, and Rich just happened to discover him creeping in the woods. What if he was hacked to death defending you?

The killer could be anywhere at this point, and the woods are growing rapidly dark. You have to get back to camp, now. 

Quickly examining yourself for blood, you find only a little bit on your palms and quickly spit on them, scrubbing the red off on Rich’s pants. It’ll do for now, but you won’t be able to stay anywhere near here tonight. Biters are coming, murder or not. 

You take off running in the direction of camp, mind racing with every individual worry — that you’re currently being stalked, that you’ll have very little time to pack up camp before this turns into a red zone, and that Doran will somehow blame this on you, which is such a stupid situation for you to even have to consider. This was all Nick. He had the ax, he’s the creepy stalker guy, he—

He told you, ‘Sorry,’ when you left. 

You didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now you remember how the inflection on the word was strange. It wasn’t the sort of way people usually apologize, it was more like the way you’d say goodbye to someone. Why did he say it like that?

Why did he say it like that?

It felt wrong, but was it a, ‘see you later tonight,’ sort of goodbye, or an, ‘I’ll be over there in a minute to kill you,’ sort of goodbye? What if he’s chasing behind you right now, with a bloody ax and a fresh, ‘Sorry,’ as you die?

You haven’t been eating enough for all this running. Every so often you have to stop, lungs burning and chest heaving. You have to quiet your own breathing to listen for any other sound in the forest, but there’s no sign of anyone crashing through the leaves behind you. The muscles in your legs protest the lack of electrolytes with low grade cramps, but you push on because you have to. This can’t be all for nothing. You can’t have just spent months and months surviving the hoards, just to go out like—

Thump.

In the dim light, you don’t see the solid protrusion in the leaves. It catches on your boot and sends you flying face first to the ground, as you trip over something squishy and heavy. 

You already know it’s a body, even before you push yourself up off the ground with trembling arms. A childish, insane impulse screams at you to ignore it, to pretend you never saw it, like if you could just make it back to camp without stopping, the body wouldn’t exist. If only there was some way to rewind time and fix everything and make it not exist. 

Nausea and dread rise inside you, but you bravely get up on your knees and crawl to the second dead man you’ve found in less than an hour. He’s lying on his back, eyes staring unseeing towards the bare branches and the gray sky above. There’s blood crusted throughout his hair, but you know that silver-sprinkled beard even in this poor lighting.

It’s Doran. 

NO.

A strangled cry shreds itself out of you, grief and helplessness that you can’t possibly keep inside anymore. Doran’s dead. The one protector you found in this new, lawless world, and he’s lying here with a single arrow lodged in the middle of his chest. 

He’s dead forever.

You’ll never see his face again, never see him smile at you when he takes his first bite of the food you worked so hard to create. You’ll never hear his firm voice again, reminding everyone of the rules that keep you all alive. This one stability, this one constant that existed in your life, and it’s simply gone, maliciously stolen from you. 

A flutter of movement nearby has you jerking in fright, but it’s just a bird. A lone songbird fearlessly perches itself on a branch just a few feet from your face. It’s too dark to tell what kind it is, but you’d guess by the size that it’s some kind of finch, bobbing slowly up and down on the too-thin twig it’s found.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, hot, helpless tears spilling from your eyes. “You should be in bed."

The bird makes no move to find somewhere warmer for the night, twitching its head around and rustling its tail. 

‘Don’t you see?’ It seems to say, flitting to a thicker branch, just to observe you. ‘This is how it’s meant to be, in the wild. There are no friends, no inherent allies. We wake up, we eat, we die. You humans are a part of this, now.’

“What do I do?” you croak towards the dark smudge of the bird. 

As if shot from a canon, the songbird suddenly flaps away, into the branches overhead, and you’re left utterly alone.

You have no weapons, no fighting skills. All you have is this horrible arrow, which you can’t bring yourself to rip out of Doran’s still-warm flesh, and the rocks and sticks around you. 

There’s nothing left to do for these dead men. There’s only getting out, and getting away.

Getting to your feet, a wave of light-headedness washes over you, and you realize it’s been far too long since you had a full meal. You swipe your tears away, and maybe you’re simply going into shock, but you feel numbness closing in. It’s almost a trance that envelopes you, while you journey the last few paces to the camp. Twenty or so steps, and they feel like miles, dragging at your leaden feet. 

You barely register the high pitched ringing in your ears, as you break through the treeline, and finally understand the extent of what’s taken place. It’s almost too much to process, but you do your best. 

There are bodies everywhere.

Crumpled on the ground, slumped against trees, men lie dead and bloody all around you. A cold breeze cuts through the place, chilling you through your jacket and further plunging your heart into darkness and despair. You glance to your left and right as you walk, eyeing the arrows shot perfectly into heads and chests, never more than one.

Nick is a good shot, the clinical part of your brain decides, but not this good. There’s only one man in your group who could have accomplished this kind of slaughter in this small timeframe. 

Gaz.

Loud, irritating, idiot Gaz killed every single person here, and the only reason you’ve survived this long is because you were already hiding from imagined shadows. 

You don’t see Nick, but you can assume he’s lying somewhere in those woods, same as Rich, killed with his own ax. You’d feel a little guilty for suspecting him, if you could feel anything at all right now. You don’t even feel your feet as you numbly traverse the cold ground ahead, towards the cache of supplies. 

You’re completely depleted. You’ve poured out every bit of energy you possessed into surviving this new world, and it’s caught up to you. You don’t have a calorie or a brain cell to spare, and now you’re faced with your own certain death, and you can’t even come to terms with it. 

Will he kill you quickly, same as the men? Is there an arrow destined for your own chest, perhaps trained on you right now? How convenient you’ve made it for him, walking straight into the field of bodies as if you haven’t any sense of self preservation left. 

You find yourself at the supply tent without even realizing it, staring blankly down at the pile of food and gear that’s no longer needed, because you’ll be dead soon.

Wait.

Where are your fucking tampons?

For some reason, that snaps you out of the haze, because you know exactly where they were on the pile, and now you find that spot completely empty. What the FUCK? 

Incensed, you start plowing through the supplies with your hands, knocking things to the ground and unearthing the bottom stuff, just to verify that your tampons are indeed gone. Soon you’re surrounded by scattered cans and plastic packaging, and the sound of your own enraged huffs of air.

A frustrated scream bursts out of you, because why the fuck would Gaz steal your fucking tampons if not to destroy the last little bit of your hope? 

Your brain is back online, and suddenly you’re too angry to die easy.

Someday you’ll worry about becoming too predictable, but today isn’t that day. You know who’s not lying dead in the woods right now? You. You know why not? Trees. 

From the branches of a friendly maple, you keep a determined vigil over the supplies. How exactly you know he's coming back, you're not sure. It might be thanks to your observant nature that’s convinced you he hasn’t taken any food with him, or maybe it’s because you know that’s his camp roll and backpack down there, because you checked. 

He’s been too busy hunting you to gather his things, so he must be coming back. 

You’d like to say you’ll be ready with some sort of weapon, or plan, or at least an idea of what he’ll do next, but that would be a lie. You’ve got nothing. You’re scared and alone, and you’re doing what you’ve always done to survive, because it’s worked before – you’re watching. 

You don’t have to wait long. It’s not even a half hour later that you hear leaves being crushed under boots, and see movement at the treeline. 

It’s not a biter, you can smell that much. The figure slows at the edge of the clearing, nearly at the exact same spot that you stood and realized your life was over. It’s Gaz, you can just tell. Even in the dark, even from this distance, you know that hateful posture. 

He seems fatigued, or maybe injured. You’ve never seen him drag his feet like that, almost stumbling forward as he traverses the clearing. He probably can’t see the bodies where they lay in darkness, but you hope he can feel them. You hope every life he stole weighs heavy on his shoulders, now and forever. 

Thunk.

Gaz stops only to bury his ax in the trunk of a fallen tree, as if retiring it for the night. You’re not sure where the bow went, so he must have been hunting you with the ax this last hour, as if craving your violent death by his own hand. Grimly, you hope he’s disappointed. 

You expect him to pack up, or eat something, or keep looking for you. What you don’t expect is for him to collapse at his bed roll, stretching himself out on the grass and apparently using the pack as a pillow. 

Is he… going to bed?

Surely not. Surely he understands the danger he’s brought upon you both, dousing the area in blood. He can’t be that stupid. Come on, Gaz. Show your hand.

He doesn’t.

That fucker lays there, and doesn’t stir again. 

And that is a position you never expected to find yourself in. There’s no lead to follow. No plan. Just one horrible, very stupid man, fallen asleep in the middle of a bloodbath, near an undeniable weapon. 

It takes you a few minutes to decide, just to make sure it’s not a trap. It might be a trap. You’re too full of hatred, and too desperate at this point to care. 

Slowly you descend the branches of the tree, taking care not to make unnecessary noise or lose your footing. Where you were numb before, now pure insanity has its claws in you. There’s no more haze, just narrow minded focus, and an absolute lack of doubt. 

Gaz deserves to die. It’s him or you, he’s made that part as clear as can be. You’re not sure if he’s some kind of serial killer, or maybe driven insane by the world he’s been thrust into, but at this point it doesn’t matter. He needs to die, and you’re finally prepared to kill. It’s not even murder anymore, it’s a righteous execution in the absence of law and order. It’s practically self defense. 

Your feet are swift and silent, as you approach the sleeping form of your enemy. The first droplets of rain hit your cheeks, just as you reach down to work the head of the ax out of the log. You’re patient with it, slow. Your eyes stay locked on the figure a few paces away, verifying his stillness, and bit by bit you’re able to work the blade free. 

The handle is damp, but not sticky with blood. You wonder if he found a creek to wash it off, maybe washed himself as well. After all that killing, you can’t imagine his clothes were salvageable. He seems to have thought this whole thing through, from the weapon upgrades to the cleanup afterwards. But he wore himself out doing it, and he also didn’t factor in that you’re a little faster on your feet than the others.

You think about that bird, as you silently approach his unconscious form. This is nature’s course. It’s about as personal as a herd of buffalo stomping a mountain lion to death. Sometimes things just need to happen, and the natural order allows it. 

You come to a stop just a few inches from his body. The ax dangles loosely in your grasp, and you carefully tighten your hold. His neck is the obvious choice, it’s the way Rich died. One committed chop is all it will take, and then you can finally worry about tomorrow. 

One chop, and you’ve got to mean it.

It happens so fast, you’re momentarily stunned. You’ve just planted your feet, just started to lift your weapon, when your leg collapses in a flash of pain. 

You cry out in shock, toppling to one knee, and barely keeping hold of your weapon as you bash your knuckles in the fall. 

Your brain catches up to events in a delayed second, realizing that it was Gaz’s fist that slammed into the back of your knee, and registering with icy horror that his hand is now clamped firmly around yours atop the ax. 

“Clever girl.”

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

Big thank you to Gorsime for being Ax's #1 fan and sending me art and music for its creation. The fur that he is wearing is the fur that he prefers.

[piano-fingers]

𝐀𝐱 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟓 - 𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/Fem Reader Zombie apocalypse AU (all parts here)

CW: Death, gore

You’re so shocked by the sudden contact on your lips that all you can do is jerk away at first, stumbling back a step and trying to process the fact that he just kissed you. 

Gaz makes no move to pursue. He meets the stunned outrage on your face with that icy, dark gaze of his, and then ignores you entirely to tuck a cigarette between his lips.

“Don’t ever do that again,” you threaten in a low whisper. There’s a mortifying burn lingering on your skin where his mouth touched you. 

He’s just finished coaxing a flame out of the lighter, and regards you over the first red embers of his cigarette. “You haven’t got your supplies sorted, have you?”

“I’ve—“ you square your shoulders, irritated that he’s somehow sensed your failure. “I’m almost done.”

“You’d better hurry…” smoke curls around his face as he softly breathes it out, raising his eyebrow at you and adding, “…wife.”

A sizzle of rage gets added to the churning hatred deep inside you, but you don’t dare make a move to knock that stupid thing out of his mouth like you want to. You have to be smart, because you do need your supplies. You need to be able to leave and never see him, ever again. 

“Goodbye, Gaz,” you tell him for the last time, securing your backpack onto both shoulders.

The smug bastard has no idea what you mean, or course. For all he knows, you’ll be hanging around like an idiot, today, tomorrow, and every day after. 

With a jerk of his chin towards the door, Gaz dismisses you with an exasperated, “Fuck off.”

So you do. 

You turn your back on that miserable prick, and get to work on what matters. 

You’re grateful for that chance encounter. It spurns you on, makes you remember the reason you’re here in the first place, and it’s not to sit around and be nostalgic about your past life. Today, it’s your job to escape the control of men once and for all. 

You get lucky, soon after. Someone who lived at the next house must have been a planner, because you find four unopened boxes of tampons tucked away in the back of a cabinet. Normally you’d be gleeful at the find, but all you feel now is righteous determination. This is your day. You just need some food, a lighter, and some warm clothes, and you can leave these weasel men to their weasley ways. 

It’s going to work out. 

��Consolidate supplies here,” Doran orders, setting a small jug of gasoline on the grass. You’re not really sure why he has it, but you don’t dare ask and draw unwanted attention to yourself at the moment.

It was just plain bad luck that allowed Tim to catch up with you right before you could sneak away. The jacket you found isn’t as thick as you hoped, but you did get some new boots that fit well, and thick socks. Maybe you’ll come across another town before too long, but for now, you just need to survive until nighttime, when you escape. 

Regretfully, you unload all your beautiful food onto the pile — tinned fish, bean soup — things you were looking forward to eating as your first freedom meal. You’ll have to raid the food before you leave. Damn you, Tim. 

You step back to give the others room to unload, so lost in your own planning that it takes Doran’s booming voice to shock you back to reality.

“You’ve still got a full pack.”

Confused, you look up to find that, yes, his eyes are locked on you. He’s talking to you, for some reason. 

“I— uh, it’s just menstrual stuff.”

Before you can process the strange way everyone seems to be staring at you, Doran tips his head towards the pile. “Communal supplies.”

What? 

You blink in confusion for a second, before Doran reaches over and rips your backpack out of your hands, dumping out your tampon boxes and a few fire starting tools.

“S-sir!” you protest, sputtering in your indignation. “I’m the only one with a vagina!”

“Communal supplies,” he repeats evenly, thrusting your bag back into your arms without any further explanation. Doran holds your eyes in his steely gaze, daring you to question his authority in front of everyone. All of them are his men, apart from maybe one, and that one is not your friend.

An infuriating chuckle sounds from somewhere nearby.

In your absolute disbelief, you glance around the group for a second, trying to figure out if this is some tasteless prank. You’ve never had to fork over any hygiene products before. They’ve never even been mentioned, except to verify that you’ve got enough. 

Gaz doesn’t even bother to meet your eyes, instead taking a large bite of some chocolate bar with a hideously bright wrapper, as if your human rights were the least of his concerns at the moment. 

He did this. Gaz was the one who made you an outsider here, who changed all the rules and drove a wedge between you and your carefully-wooed leader. You can’t even stand to look at him now. 

Disgusted, you zip up your empty backpack and retreat to the edge of the group. It’s dizzying how easily your earlier plans slipped right through your fingers. If Doran is mistrustful enough to confiscate your tampons, what else does he have in store for you? How many more trees will you have to sleep in before you can fucking leave? 

You can’t leave, when you have no tampons. Your period starts in two days, and now you can’t even leave. 

There is another option, you realize, helping to set up the temporary camp an hour later. The distance from the town is still pretty small, you could spend the night ransacking houses again in the dark, and just hope you can find everything you need all over again. It’s your only feasible option at this point, because you will not let yourself become some kind of slave, with more and more of your autonomy being stripped away every day. 

So you bide your time. You chew on your stash of jerky as you help erect a tent over the supplies, because it looks like it’ll rain overnight. You don’t work diligently or quickly, because fuck them.

“Hey,” calls Nick’s voice from somewhere behind you, and you feel a lock of your hair getting playfully tugged. 

Warily you turn to face him. “What?”

“Want to help me with firewood?”

His eyes are lazy and lidded, dropping to your mouth and staying there, with the camp ax dangling in his hand. Always a casual hold on the ax, but that can change so quickly. 

On the other hand, you could really use an ally. If you can convince Nick to help you escape, maybe even run off with you, things could go twice as smooth tonight, and every night. Do you trust your own ability to manipulate him? 

“Okay,” you agree, and then scowl when he steals a piece of jerky out of your hand and pops it in his mouth. 

“Great,” he says through the mouthful, hand on your lower back to lead you towards the woods.

“Nick,” calls Doran’s hateful, horrible voice, making you grind your teeth in frustration. 

“Yeah, boss?”

“She’s going hunting with Rich. We won’t need much wood, get going like I told you.”

Grumbling to himself about busybodies, Nick hooks his arm around your neck to give your cheek a solid kiss. “Sorry,” he whispers, before pulling away. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper back. Maybe he would have conspired with you, but Doran is determined to keep you apart. 

At least he’s paired you with Rich, and not Gaz. Rich isn’t exactly your friend, but he’s always been a safe option. Quiet, keeps to himself, and doesn’t leer. You scale your plans back to what they were five minutes ago, and mentally kick yourself for getting your hopes up over nothing. 

Rich meets you between two trees, with a large knife on his hip and the compound bow slung around his shoulder. This is a new location, so there’s a decent chance he’ll take down something edible, even if it’s just a squirrel or two. Canned food is always a last resort these days.

“How’s it going?” you prompt, trailing behind him as he starts to move through the trees.

“Fine. Ready to be headed south.”

“I think we all are,” you murmur. Winter is coming whether you’re prepared or not. It’s your first winter in the elements, and memories of every survival show you’ve ever watched have been flipping through your mind, flashes of frostbite and starvation. 

The last time you had a period, Rich was the one who would go into the woods with you, keeping a look out while you changed and buried your tampon. In fact, he’s been a pretty constant, safe resource for you, for a while. You start cursing yourself internally for overlooking that obvious alliance, in favor of Nick’s aggressive flirtation. 

You stare at the back of Rich’s ponytail as you walk, calculating the trust you have for him. He’s doing his usual hunting routine, stepping carefully and scanning slowly each direction, bow in hand as he goes. You’ve been completely oblivious to any foraging opportunities, but that’s alright because you need to save your brainpower for scheming. 

“I think we should split up,” he finally says, glancing back at you for just a second before looking away. “You’re making too much noise.”

“Okay,” you say automatically, coming to a stop as well, in the thick layer of fallen leaves. 

“Okay.”

He seems to vanish into the trees in an uncharacteristic rush, and you’re just left standing there, wracking your brain for any other time he’s ever asked to separate on a hunting trip.

Never. Not once.

Goddamn it.

That familiar feeling prickles across your skin, the same warning of danger that you’ve felt since the first day that Gaz arrived. The trees are suddenly too still, the birds suddenly too quiet. Something is wrong. 

You take a few quick steps in the opposite direction of the way Rich went, and again, dread sinks low in your belly, when you realize you’re running away. You’re running from a man with arrows. 

God damn it. 

For the second time that week, you sprint for your life. Half feeling like an idiot, and half feeling like prey, you take off as fast as you can, farther away from camp and deeper into the woods. You duck under branches and weave around trees for several minutes, looking around frantically for what you need—

There. An evergreen with branches low enough to get a foothold, if you take a running leap. Your foot sinks into a space between rocks while you plan your trajectory, but thankfully you’re not hurt. Mentally cursing yourself, you do a better job of mapping out your path, and then your legs pump as you fly over the leaves, and launch yourself at your safety tree. 

You make it on the first try. Scrambling up the branches, you don’t stop climbing until you’re sufficiently hidden away behind the pine needles, and then you hug the sticky, papery trunk, and catch your breath as quietly as you can.

And then you wait. You wait a long time. It probably feels like longer than it is, but the sun is setting, and the forest remains artificially silent, and you’re still so afraid. 

You oscillate between convincing yourself that you’ve made up an enormous pile of nothing in your own mind, and no one is actually out to get you. It’s normal to have delusions when everyone in the world turns into walking corpses, and you're left wandering the wilderness for months. You probably can’t even rely on your own perceptions anymore, with how paranoid you’ve grown. 

Tampons. Splitting up. Gaz. You’re not delusional, surely. You haven’t been hallucinating these things, right?

A faint animal cry rings out, the creepy kind that owls make at night, but it’s not quite right. It cuts off just when you think you recognize it, and then the woods are blanketed with tight silence again. 

The sun is setting, and you’re still stuck in this damn tree. 

There’s been no sign of Rich, so when you land on the ground with a heavy thump, you prepare yourself to pretend you’ve just been lost all this time. If he hasn’t gone looking for you, it probably means he killed something decent for dinner, and he’s busy burying the blood. 

You’re basically being the worst hunting-helper imaginable, so you decide that you’ve been exaggerating things in your own mind, and start walking in the general direction of the new camp. 

Maybe you can’t trust your intuition every time. Maybe the wind has been playing tricks on you, making your skin prickle and your nerves stand on end. Maybe you’re just not used to being in the wilderness this time of year, and it’s making you imagine sensations that aren’t there. 

The dreadful silence continues as you walk, trying to plan your next steps, but for some reason unable to think about anything but the danger. The arrows. The ax. They circle your mind like vultures, as if waiting for the singular moment when you drop your guard. 

The sky is just light enough that you make out a larger sort of lump, a few minutes later. At first you think it’s an unusual boulder sticking out of the leaves, but soon your heart sinks as you recognize a human arm, bent at an odd angle. And then you see a familiar ponytail.

Shit. 

Cursing aloud, you stumble to the form of your fallen companion, horrified the closer you get and the more blood you see. It’s definitely Rich, and he’s been viciously torn up. 

How could you have missed the rotten smell of the biters? You whip your head around, sniffing and trying to discern any movement through the scattering of trees. Nothing. 

Fuck, Rich. You can’t let him turn.

You find a serviceable rock about the size of your fist, and heave the corpse of your dead campmate over, to get a better angle at his skull. 

Only to find it already spectacularly crushed in, with what appears to have been efficient, targeted blows. 

A shudder of repulsion wracks your body as you finally glance around the leaves, and realize the horrible truth. There’s no knife on his body. No bow or arrows anywhere to be seen. 

Rich was murdered. 

And he was supposed to be with you.

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

[piano-fingers]

𝐀𝐱 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟒 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐧

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/Fem Reader Zombie apocalypse AU (all parts here)

Something is wrong.

Your nervous system has known it for weeks, ever since Gaz appeared out of nowhere to ruin your life. But now the constant hum of danger has escalated into a tangible vibration, as night falls on the camp, and you feel the invisible attention of every man shift to you. 

Something is wrong, something is wrong, SOMETHING IS WRONG. 

It doesn’t seem to matter that you absolutely - and loudly - denied Gaz’s claim. Nick hasn’t stopped glaring at you like you stole his ice cream cone. At you! Not Gaz, who’s the dirty rotten liar, but you, who did absolutely nothing wrong. In fact, you were the one who begged not to be left alone with Gaz, so what right do they have to be upset?

Not that Gaz got off scott free. Doran dragged him into the woods for a talking-to as soon as you returned, which you fear was more about sexual misconduct than about his ridiculous vendetta. 

That’s the part that hurts the most, not that he betrayed you, but that you weren’t expecting it. He was being so reasonable that for one measly afternoon, you almost started to like him. What a fool you were. A hopeful, unsuspecting fool.

Sitting beside the campfire, you try to ignore the charge in the air, and methodically work your hairbrush through the last of the half-dried tangles. You smell and feel clean now, but at what cost? 

“We’re not supposed to touch her.”

Again, Nick’s words weave through your thoughts, and you can’t quite put your finger on the reason they disturb you so much. You should be grateful that Doran set up some kind of protection. It’s undoubtedly why you’ve felt comfortable with them for as long as you have – the understanding that you’ll have safe passage, in more ways than one. 

But there was no mistaking the resentment in Nick’s eyes, while you scrambled to throw your clothes back on beside the creek. “We’re not supposed to touch her.”

Why can’t Gaz just leave you alone? You were fending for yourself perfectly fine with only his casual disdain, but now it seems he won’t be satisfied until you’re left abandoned on the side of the road, like that horrible, mass suicide Rich found a month ago. Every day, Gaz does everything he can to alienate you from the group, and every day you get closer to your period.

You hope he doesn’t come back from that talk. An arrow in the chest could remove a really big problem in your life, and it’s not like the blood would matter all that much. You only have two and a half days left, so you’ll be on the move again whether you like it or not.

All you want to do is eat til you’re full, sleep til you’re rested, and trust someone enough to turn your back on them. But at this point, you’re fairly sure you’re never going to get any one of those luxuries ever again. 

The first thing that really sets your nerves on edge isn’t what happens, it’s what doesn’t happen – Doran doesn’t announce anything at dinner. You know you’re going to the town tomorrow, he’s said as much, but there’s no delegation of tasks for the morning. There’s just that electricity in the air, the unusually quiet dinner, and Gaz sitting as far away from you as possible, glowering at the flames. 

Despite his betrayal, you’re distinctly aware of his insinuation from earlier, that your rights were being discussed among the others. You’re obviously anxious about the outcome of that discussion, and especially nervous that Gaz’s stunt at the creek may have tipped things out of your favor. 

Don’t worry, you tell yourself. There’s no point in driving yourself crazy, when you need to be smart, and present in the moment. You need a plan.

When Doran pulls you aside after dinner, you’ve got your innocent face on. You’re just a cute, helpful thing, and surely it’s more trouble than it’s worth to get rid of you.

“Tim will take your watch tonight,” Doran tells you bluntly. 

Your face crumples in disbelief. “What? Why?”

He frowns. “You want watch?”

”Yes, of course. We all have to share the load.”

Doran eyes you speculatively. That’s something you’ve always liked about him, that he doesn’t weasel his way out of anything. He’ll look you in the eye and tell you the painful truth, which is essential for survival these days.

”You’ll need your sleep, for when you have to travel on your period. Take the night off.”

Reasonable, right? Logical, and unusually accommodating. But as you frown up at his face, you observe his eyes flick uncomfortably towards the trees for a moment, and a stone of dread sinks in your belly.

”Thank you, sir,” you tell him, innocent and unsuspecting. 

A grunt is his only reply, turning back towards a group of the others near the edge of the woods. 

Gaz is not in that group. 

There are three reasons why you’ve survived this long, without any family or friends to protect you after the collapse of civilization. One, you’re uncommonly good at reading people. Two, you’re uncommonly good at mirroring, and figuring out how to fit yourself into whatever you need to be. And three, you always listen to your body’s intuition.

That night, you’ve barely rested your head on your lumpy, spruce needle pillow, when your skin pinches in a tight layer of goosebumps, and a warning radiates up your spine.

You subtly look around at first, trying to understand what it is your subconscious has picked up on, but nothing appears out of the ordinary. There’s just you, and your campmates, and Gaz. All stretched along the trampled grass as usual, but there’s something very wrong. 

You’ve got nothing now, not even a knife for defense. If Gaz decides to off you in your sleep tonight, you’re confident he could take you out before you could so much as scream for help. 

But you’ve also begun to suspect that Nick was the one who followed you into the woods last night. That his presence was the oppressive danger you felt, and subsequently ran from. What if he has something horrible in mind? What if Gaz’s claim to your body unintentionally painted an even worse target on your back?

You don’t dare go to sleep like this, you wouldn’t manage it even if you tried. Tim is on watch on the other side of the camp, and there are clouds covering the moon, so he doesn’t see you army crawl your way towards the woods. It takes quite some time to do it slowly and silently, but eventually you’re safe in the tree line. You brought your fleece jacket with you — you’ll need something warmer very soon, and maybe the town will yield a winter coat — but the night air is still uncomfortably cool against your cheeks. 

What now? You can’t just stand here all night, losing sleep and making yourself vulnerable to the woods at your back. If someone found your bed empty, it’s a good bet they’d come looking over here anyway, so it’s not exactly a safe zone. 

There’s an oak tree just a few meters farther into the woods, a big one. It’s not the easiest thing to climb, but after the months you’ve had to practice, you manage to haul yourself up into the branches without breaking any. You climb carefully, high enough up the trunk that you wouldn’t be spotted from the ground unless they had a flashlight. To your relief, you realize you now have a clear view of your camp roll below.

You can’t see much more than the blurry lump of it on the ground, but it gives you a measure of comfort, knowing that your paranoid delusions will be proven wrong over the course of the night. There’s certainly no prickle on your neck now, as you ease your body into the snug V of two solid branches. It’s not comfortable enough that you’d quickly fall asleep, but it’ll be relatively safe from a fall if you do.  

The leaves rustle around you in the autumn breeze, and you rest your cheek against rough, crinkly bark. Like many other nights, you find yourself fantasizing about your past life — the bed you had, the food, the locked doors that kept you safe. You remember how it was to have friends, and never have to wonder if they were just leveraging you as a means of their own survival. 

Sleep comes surprisingly fast, in the safety of the oak tree. When you realize you’re beginning to doze, you hook your arms around each branch, and let your legs hang loose to act as a counterweight to your upper body. And then you fade. 

When you come back to awareness, you’re confused about how long you were asleep. The night is still the same shade of black, but the wind has stopped, and there’s an eerie silence blanketing the area. Your only solace is that the camp takes watch duty seriously, and if there were biters in the area, you’d know from the smell. 

You’ve just begun to close your eyes again, when the task of checking on your camp roll comes back into focus, and you squint down at—

Shit, something’s moving. There’s some kind of grey blob slinking slowly towards your bed, apparently unable to tell that you’ve abandoned it already. Even this far away, you find yourself holding your breath in fear, doing your best to gather back your mental capabilities and figure out what this means. 

The outline goes motionless when it reaches into your blanket and finds it cold and empty. It freezes there for a few seconds, and you smile grimly to yourself at the disbelief you imagine on the face of your would-be attacker. What? Silly forager girl is smarter than she looks? How inconvenient.

The shadow straightens up, leaning forward as if peering into the woods. No, you’re not coming back. You’re going to stay in this tree, and watch whoever-it-is go back to their own bedroll. You know, one of the ones you’ve marked in your head, aware of exactly the spot where each person sleeps at night. They’ve shown their hand tonight, and you’ll finally be a step ahead of this threat. 

With the same wary slowness, the man slinks over to the other side of the clearing, and crawls back into Doran’s bed.

The next day, it takes an entire morning to travel all the way to the town. 

Sitting in your tree that night with adrenaline pounding through you, you’d seriously considered abandoning the group right then. It was tempting to make your way in the opposite direction all on your own, without a moment to spare. But all of your supplies were still down at the camp, and you’d have to be a fool to leave with no water filtration, no means to make a fire, and no tampons. 

So you’d crawled back into bed right before dawn, and when everyone else woke up, you pretended you’d been there the whole night. You were smiley, you were helpful, and you didn’t cast a single suspicious glance at the man who tried to sneak up on you in your sleep. 

Let him wonder. Let him doubt. If you’re sure about one thing, it’s that you won’t be spending another night anywhere near these men. 

You hike most of the day next to Rich, because he’s never seemed to care about you one way or the other. You don’t look at Gaz, and he doesn’t look at you.

It’s fate you’re relying on now. You’re desperately hoping that the town will have the survival supplies you need, maybe some lightweight food options, and a winter coat. If somehow the stars align on your scavenging, you can separate immediately from the others, hide somewhere in an empty building until they give up looking for you. You’ll make your own way at night fall, abandoning the only safety you’ve known in all these months, and hoping some other stroke of luck will befall you.  

The others will probably thank their lucky stars to be rid of you. 

You spend the journey scheming, and then mourning. It’ll be you against the world in just a few short hours, and you’re so close to your period. The timing couldn’t have been worse for Gaz to come out of nowhere to disrupt your life and your wellbeing. You’d probably be angrier about it, if you were a little less tired.

It’s strange, seeing the straight lines of rooftops again, when you get closer to the small town. Man made construction, now abandoned and haunted with the lives that will never be. You can practically see the cars cruising up and down the street, the mothers carrying in groceries. 

Life, and purpose, and women. 

Gaz goes on ahead, to take out the couple of biters wandering the outskirts. Two well-placed arrows in the head gives your group a clear path through the overgrown lawns, and you all leave your supplies near the treeline, for a faster escape if necessary. 

The arrows have already been picked out of the motionless dead when you pass by, black rot oozing out of one of the eye sockets that was pierced. They’re both female, as biters often are. 

“Look for any houses that are still locked,” Doran orders the group at large. ”Check basements and garages.”

Funny, you were under the impression that menstrual products were a priority. 

Fuck, stop. You’ll have time to murder him in your mind later, when you have some comfortable miles of separation. 

You head for the houses farther in, hoping that most scavengers would stick closer to the woods for an escape route. Still, nearly all of them have been broken into, or unlocked. 

This was not a wealthy town, and the first home you walk into reminds you uncomfortably of your house growing up. Quickly scanning the disarray inside, you notice that something weird was done to the kitchen. Appliances were unplugged and moved around — a mixer here, a blender there — as if someone meant to take it with them, and then thought better of it. You open the oven on a whim, and shake your head at the electronics stowed in there, as if someone were afraid they’d be stolen in their absence. It’s difficult to see the value in a Nintendo Switch these days. 

The house is colder than the air outside, so you hurry to the bathroom and check the water cistern on the toilet. You’re delighted to find it full, and you take your first comfortable piss in a long time, flushing it down with the months-old water.

Unfortunately, whoever lived here only used pads. You grab a half empty bottle of ibuprofen from the cabinet, foregoing the crusty tube of toothpaste, and try the bathroom connected to the main bedroom. 

That investigation yields more pads and a fucking menstrual cup, so you cut your losses and head to the next house. And then the next. Half an hour later, and you’ve got a whopping seven tampons, a new bar of soap, and some Vaseline that looks nearly fresh out the package. You don’t dare carry anything containing water these days, as much as you may longingly eye the conditioners and lotions. Water has weight, and every gram counts when you’re backpacking for weeks. 

The sudden noise of a door latching disturbs you. You distinctly remember locking everything behind yourself with each house you’ve entered, so whoever-it-is must have found another way in. 

Silently closing the bathroom cabinet, you grab the pair of grooming scissors sitting on the counter, and fit them snug into your palm in a way that keeps them concealed, but available for stabbing.

Entering the hall, the floorboard creaks under your weight, and you freeze to listen. There are only small, scuffing sounds coming from the living area, but no other clues to your intruder’s identity. Biters can’t close doors, right?

Sticking to the extreme edge of the hall near the wall, you keep your feet in a straight line to walk on the sturdier parts of wood, and make your way slowly to the corner, peeking one eye around the drywall. 

It’s Gaz. Of course it’s Gaz. He doesn’t appear to see you, even though he’s facing in your general direction. He’s found a cigarette somewhere, and he’s currently taking drag after drag of it, shoulders slumped with fatigue, and eyes half-lidded like he’s gone somewhere else mentally.  

He has no idea the impact of his actions. He’s a stupid, stupid man, who does petty things because he has no other joy in life. Adjusting your grip on the scissors, you seriously consider for a moment, just attacking him. He doesn’t seem to know you’re here, and you might get a few good blows in before he could react.

But those are inside thoughts. Realistically you can’t afford to be covered in blood right now, even if you did manage to gravely injure him. There are tampons to look for, and not enough wiggle room in your schedule for murder. 

But that doesn’t mean you have to walk away.

”Hello, Gaz.”

To your immense satisfaction, his entire body jolts in surprise, and his mostly-smoked cigarette drops to the carpet. 

“Fucking hell,” he grumbles, snubbing it out with his boot and then frowning over at you. “This is not a good time.”

You adjust your backpack a little higher on your shoulder and peel away from the wall. “Oh, yeah. It must be so inconvenient to have women always coming on to you, when you’re just minding your own business.”

He blinks tiredly at you, shaking his head a little. “Don’t do this.” 

You take another step forward, screwing your face up in mock confusion. “Don’t do what? Because according to you, I’ve already done it.” 

Gaz merely reaches into his pocket and procures another cigarette, releasing a long, frustrated breath. 

“Is that what you wish would happen?” you purr, stepping up to the edge of his personal space. “Is that what you think about, Gaz?”

Tucking the unlit cigarette back into his pocket, he finally turns his attention on you with a steely look. “No.”

“You know what I think?”

“Reckon you’re too busy being Doran’s little wife to do any of that.”

You ignore the insult to smile innocently at him, and take that last step into his body. Brazenly you place your palm right over the middle of his chest, atop the heart that’s pounding a rapid, frantic rhythm against your hand. Liar.

“Mmm.” You let your hip settle against his, curving your body seductively into his warmth. “I think you get so hard when you’re around me. I think you lie and cheat and ruin my life, because you can’t stand how bad you want me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he mutters, his heart picking up even faster. The scent of that stupid deodorant somehow pokes through the smell of tobacco, and you screw up your nose at it.

“You smell like a girl.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, slightly adjusting the angle of his body. 

And then you feel his fingers finding your hand, and the scissors get skillfully removed from your possession, as his eyes stay locked on yours. 

A thick, hot wash of rage floods through your chest, as you stare back at him and imagine smashing his nose into his brain. Your face is carefully neutral, but if he were to find your pulse right now, it would rival his. 

Impulsively you bring your face even closer, nearly brushing your mouth to his ear as you tip your chin up and slowly, distinctly whisper, “I hate you.”

He’s so still. He doesn’t even seem to breathe at all, which gives you a ball of sick satisfaction in your chest, that you finally managed to offend him. 

And then just when you’re about to pull away, he turns his head and presses his scruffy mouth to the corner of your lips.

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

[piano-fingers]

𝐀𝐱 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑 - 𝐃𝐨𝐯𝐞

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/Fem Reader Zombie Apocalypse AU (all parts here)

CW: nudity

You already knew creek bathing wouldn’t be sexy. 

You’ve done it enough since the outbreak that you’re prepared for the icy chill, the gritty texture of silt in the water, and the effort it takes to keep your footing on the slimy rocks. 

But up until now you’ve had at least a little bit of privacy to make it work. This time it’s just you and Gaz, standing close enough to pass the bar of soap back and forth while you both expressly don’t look at each other’s bodies. 

Most of the time you can sit in the knee-high water to hide your lower half, but when it comes time to wash your hair, you nearly expose your unmentionables in an effort to turn away from him while your eyes are closed. 

That is not happening today. You are not bending over naked in front of Gaz. 

So you end up feeling absolutely ridiculous, dunking half your face in every time you have to get your hair wet. The whole thing sucks ass, partly because you don’t have any conditioner, and partly because this soap is turning out to be the worst thing you’ve ever put on your hair. The first wash feels alright, but it ends up loosening all the hair you’ve shed since you last shampooed, and it all gets matted halfway down the shaft.  

Whatever. You huff through your second shampoo anyway, relaxing a little when you finally hear Gaz slosh his way out of the cold water. Your eyes are still closed, but you’re aware enough to angle your body away from the bank so at least he can’t stare at your chest.

And that’s when you remember one vital step of wilderness bathing that you somehow overlooked until now — you have to drip dry before you can put your clothes back on. 

In the summer you could get away with getting dressed while still a little damp, but with the October breeze, and night fall in a couple of hours, you’ll need to get as dry as possible. 

Gaz seems to have the same idea, you note when you peek at him over your shoulder. He’s already stretched out atop the one patch of grass on the bank, face tipped up into the sunshine. 

Squeezing water out of your worrisome ball of hair, you consider your options. You can walk through the woods bare ass naked until you find another drying-off spot, or you can stand around naked and awkward… or you can share that patch of grass. It’s just big enough to allow you to lay next to him without touching, as long as he can manage to respect your space. You certainly have no interest in crossing into his. 

Feeling cautious but wonderfully clean, you stand up in the chilly breeze and make your way up the bank. Gaz has been pretty nice to you today. Maybe he’s finally decided you’re worth some basic decency, and this is a sign of things improving. He certainly seems to be choosing the high ground for once, giving you privacy by draping his forearm over his eyes as you approach. 

“Don’t look,” he warns, just as your eyes lower thoughtlessly, down to—

To his fucking erection.

“Told you not to look,” he mutters when you come to a stumbling halt. 

“That’s… p— c-completely inappropriate!” you sputter.

“Mhmm.”

He keeps his arm over his eyes as if your outrage doesn’t phase him at all. As if having a raging hard-on in nature is just part of his daily routine, and he’s bored by you witnessing it. 

Whatever. 

You know what? Whatever. If he wants to have zero shame and pretend it’s not there, then so will you. At this point you just want to be done with him as fast as possible, so you plop your ass down as far away as the patch of grass will allow. He doesn’t move at all while you squeegee water off your body with your hands and irritatedly flick some at him. 

And of course you accidentally look, again. 

Still hard. 

“I can turn around if you have things you need to take care of,” you snark, starting to detangle your ratty hair with your fingers. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Wh— f—- NO,” you squeal, mortified to see him actually smiling to himself in the shadow of his forearm. 

Horrible… No good… Piece of shit… MAN. He definitely saw you watching him last night, and now he’s making you out to be the pervert when he’s the one getting turned on over nothing. 

You’re still glaring at him as you work out the hair shed, so you see him take a peek at you around his elbow.

“Don’t look at me,” you hiss. 

He sighs, shifting his face back to its hiding place from before. “Pity. You’re a looker.”

Oddly, your breath catches for a moment before you command your lungs to keep pumping. You turn your face away, refusing to dignify that with a response. You don’t give a shit if he thinks you’re pretty or not. You can’t think of anything that could possibly matter less, when he’s the absolute last person in this camp you trust. 

You’re halfway through your hair when you decide to give up. The building frustration makes you want to rip and break the tangles apart, and you know you’ll regret it later, so instead you just lay down and sulk. 

“We need to be heading back,” you comment flatly, even though you’re still shivery and wet. 

“Nah. Give them another hour, I’m sure they need to finish their little meeting.”

“What meeting?”

Gaz finally lowers his arm to sling you a know-it-all look. “Come on. You think it’s a coincidence they got us both out of camp for the afternoon?”

A bolt of dread skitters down your spine, but you ignore it. “You’re full of shit.”

He blows out a long breath. “If you say so.”

He’s trying to get in your head, make you doubt the other guys for his own sick entertainment. If you were in a more comfortable position you might just ignore him, but you don’t have that privilege today. 

“Okay, wise one. What is it you think they’re having a secret meeting about?”

That pain in your ass looks up at the clear sky for a moment, considering. He makes you wait so long that you’re about to tell him to forget about it, when he says thoughtfully, “You’re bleeding in a few days.”

He doesn’t offer any more explanation than that, but it’s enough. That’s all you need to understand with horrifying clarity exactly what he’s suggesting, because it’s already your ever-present fear. They’re meeting to decide whether you’re worth the inconvenience of the next week. If they should even bother dragging you along another month, or just leave you here to fend for yourself. Having to look for food and water while on the run would slow you down significantly, and you wouldn’t last three days before a biter tracked you down. 

Apparently you’ve taken too long to answer, because Gaz rotates his whole stupid face to look at you, as if he sees every panicked thought crossing your mind. You quickly dart your eyes away so he won’t have the satisfaction.

“You don’t give a shit about me,” you mutter.

In your peripheral vision, you watch him roll over onto his stomach and casually rest his head on his arms. “You’re right. But you don’t see me in that meeting now, do you?”

What’s that supposed to mean? That he decided not to be a part of the debate to keep you alive, or that they didn’t want him there? One seems too bizarre to imagine, but the other paints him as a person you’d empathize with, and that makes you uncomfortable. 

“I wish I brought my deodorant today,” you grumble, changing the subject. 

“Got some in my bag. Help yourself.”

He must have planned to bathe on this trip, if he’s so equipped with toiletries. The creek was no spur of the moment decision, and now that you think of it, he was sort of the one leading you here as you walked. 

Cursing yourself for your gullibility, you get up and rifle through his backpack that’s hanging from a tree. Surprise surprise, he’s allowed to carry a knife. There’s a toothbrush, a little black notebook, pencils and matches. And at the bottom—

“You wear women’s deodorant?” you scoff, holding the tube of Dove in the air. 

“Not exactly choosy these days, love. Smells good, anyhow.”

You roll your eyes at the sarcastic endearment, popping the cap off to apply it, and reminiscing as you always do of times when you had easy access to a razor. 

“Give us turn,” he prompts, sitting up when you go to put it back in the bag. He snatches it effortlessly out of the air when you toss it at him, like a total jerk. 

Your back is still wet, so when you return to your spot on the grass, you stretch out on your stomach and try to pretend you’re alone out here. There’s no group of self-serving men deciding your fate, no hoards of monsters stalking your every step. The world is civilized and orderly, and you’re… on vacation, or something. Going camping on a pretty autumn day, and you went skinny dipping just for fun. 

The ghost of a breeze runs through your hair, but you keep your eyes closed and focus on the dry patches of your skin that feel warm. They’re probably not actually warm, but enough of you is cold that the contrast tricks your brain. It’s a shame that Gaz is such a dick, because you’d totally snuggle up against someone right now if you could. It would block a little of the wind, and give you a solid wall of heated skin to soak into yours. 

It’s the PMS hormones talking, has to be. That’s the only reason you’re picturing it in your mind, scooting that last little bit over to the muscled heater next to you, letting him spoon you and wrap his arm around your front to press you in tighter. You wouldn’t be able to see his face, which would be nice because then he can’t give you that look that always pisses you off. Yeah, you could objectify Gaz as a space heater quite easily. 

You must be more comfortable than you realize, because amid those absurd fantasies, you start to doze. You shouldn’t let your guard down like that with Gaz, and definitely not while naked, but for some reason that usual pit of dread has mostly gone away. It feels strangely safe to let your muscles go loose and slip into unconsciousness next to him, this one afternoon where you shared deodorant. 

Even in your half-dreams, you’re processing it – doubting your own memories, wondering if all this time you just imagined Gaz singling you out as his target. You try to always trust your intuition, but the way he’s acting today is so different from his usual rudeness that you’re baffled as to what brought on the change. 

It’s nice, though, letting your mask slip. Being rude right back at him is a relief you didn’t know you needed so badly. Something in your chest has decompressed, and maybe that’s what makes you drift off, even more than the rare moment of relaxation. You’re tired of performing. 

What wakes you is intangible, a shift in energy. At first you assume Gaz has spotted a biter, with the way he’s frozen into place beside you, reaching slowly for the bow. You blink around in confusion until you hear a twig snap, and glimpse Nick stepping out from behind a tree, taking in the scene he’s found with a horrified expression.

“We’re not supposed to touch her,” he snaps at Gaz, uselessly kicking some leaves in his direction. 

Pissed, you’re just opening your mouth to tell him that you can do what you damn well want with your own body, but Gaz beats you to it, in an infuriating drawl. 

“She came on to me, mate.”

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

[piano-fingers]

Considering posting all the random write off work I do 😊

I don’t really post… so formatting and making this look good will be a CHALLENGE! But it’ll otherwise be mostly unedited… probably……. Maybe…

[piano-fingers]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 20 / epilogue)

masterlist

-

Black trees against a yellow sky at evening time. 

It’s late when you finally reach home. Dark enough to almost be night—a full day longer to return than it took to leave, but then you hadn’t ridden as hard coming back, too sore and sleep-deprived to manage the same pace. Even the meager sleep you got on the road was hardly sufficient.

Then the shape of your house appears on the horizon and you nearly break down in tears. The sight of it fills you with such relief that you nearly lose your balance, your head slumping forward. Too long. Days that felt like weeks, your body and mind weary from the long trek home. Against the gold of the horizon light, it appears like a boat arriving at port. 

You throw yourself off your horse and to the ground before John has even had a chance himself to dismount and come help you down. He stomps over when your foot nearly catches in the stirrup, nostrils flared and mustache twitching with his scowl. 

“Don’t go breaking your leg before I’ve even gotten you home,” he growls when he reaches you, fitting his hand around the nape of your neck and giving it a squeeze. You’d shiver, but your body is too exhausted for your libido to manage more than a half-hearted twitch. Instead you nod, head bobbing like a baby doll. 

John takes the horses to the stables while you clamber up the stairs on wobbly legs, headed straight for your bedroom, passing out the second your head touches the pillow. Your growling stomach will have to be addressed in the morning.

You aren’t conscious for when John comes up to join you, but you swear even in sleep you can sense his presence in the room. Certainly when he curls himself around you, the wall of warmth at your back briefly making your eyes flicker open before sleep claims you again and they slide shut. 

In the morning, you eat a big breakfast before letting John rub a liniment onto your inner thighs and bandage the cuts on your hands and face. The doctor he takes you to see after breakfast for the shoulder that Graves dislocated prescribes bed rest and light stretching for recovery and laudanum for any lingering pain. 

“What did you tell him?” you ask when the two of you head out for a light lunch in town before heading back home. 

“Told him you fell off a horse.” He shrugs. “Not that uncommon around here.”

All you can do is roll your eyes. 

Still, it’s as good an excuse as any. No one questions your story when you tell it to them over the following days, when your shoulder is still too tender for you to move it too vigorously. Only Kate lifts a brow knowingly, all but cornering you for the real story when you finally get a moment alone. 

“That sonuvabitch,” she hisses when you finally break and tell her what happened. 

“It’s fine,” you insist, shushing her. “John… Well, John handled it.”

She nods approvingly, then looks like she might say more before thinking the better of it. Silence falls between the two of you. 

“He—” you pause in the middle of your sentence, unsure of how exactly to say it. “It wasn’t so bad. Telling him, I mean.”

Kate must catch the slight inflection in your voice because she stares at you expectantly, waiting for you to say more. “…I’m happy to hear that.”

You inhale as if gathering your breath to say more, but nothing comes out. You know what it is you want to say, but it’s getting it out that’s the tricky bit. What you want to tell her is that your trust wasn’t misplaced in the end; all of your fears that the truth would shatter the affection and trust that had finally been shown to you after a lifetime of nothing were unfounded, proven ultimately wrong. 

“Was there something else you wanted to add?”

You chew your lower lip. 

“No. Nothing else,” you say in the end. There’ll be a time someday to tell her that her trust wouldn’t be misplaced with John or Kyle either; perhaps that day will come sooner than you expect, but for now it remains on the distant horizon. It’s not your place to lecture or admonish; your place in her life is to offer the same feeling of security and companionship as she’s offered you.  

Today, you loop your arm through hers and join her for lunch. 

In town, people greet you like you never left. Only one person asks you about the man you were walking with the previous day, and Kate covers for you when you stumble over your answer, throat constricting in your panic. There’s no suspicion in the question, but still you anticipate it because life has conditioned you to expect pain as a response to any action or inaction. 

You are surprised when pain doesn’t come this time. But still, you are wary.

When you get home, John fills the tub with hot water for you and lets you wash up on your own while he tends to the horses, the third now unofficially his. You lean your arms over the side of the tub and drift in and out of your daydreams, ears attuned only to the sound of his voice and the owls calling from the trees just beyond the house. Eyes fluttering shut until slipping deeper into the water kicks you back into wakefulness. 

“You falling asleep in there?” he asks when he stomps back inside, the door slamming shut behind him and nearly giving you a heart attack. 

“No,” you deny, discreetly wiping the rheum from the inner corners of your eyes. “Just resting my eyes.”

“Of course,” he snorts. Amused as ever by seemingly anything that comes out of your mouth.

A telegram comes in to the sheriff's office some weeks later asking about a missing bounty hunter, and though you pitch forward in your chair when John tells you this, he’s quick to remind you that as far as anyone else knows, Graves moved on after his first visit a month or so back. 

It takes time to reassure you, but slowly your hands unclench from the edge of your seat. 

Still, you make yourself scarce for a week after that. It takes some time for you to feel safe again. You spend those first few days after hearing about the telegram constantly looking over your shoulder, plagued by the worry that you’ll be found out. Sharing your worries with John doesn’t go a long way towards alleviating them because his confidence never wavers. It’s almost infuriating. 

“Would it kill you to just pretend?” you huff, cracking an egg into the skillet. 

“Nobody’s gonna come looking for him here. ‘Far as anyone knows, he made his way west a long time ago,” he says, dismissing your concerns while clipping his fingernails at the kitchen table. You scrunch up your nose when you glance over your shoulder.

“You better not think I’m sweeping those up.”

He barks out a laugh at that, shaking his head at the same time. 

True to his word, the front door stays shut. No one comes knocking looking for an errant bounty hunter. Perhaps that is a lesson that you can take away from all of this—that there is no reward for isolating oneself. Your safety has only ever been assured in community, in putting your trust in others and safeguarding their secrets in turn. Only love has ever held out its arms for you to fall into. 

And now the days pass like clouds in the sky. 

Tranquility hovers on the periphery of your life with every intention of calling out your name. It’s waiting for you with open arms. 

In the evenings, John takes you upstairs to the bedroom and pries you open enough to fit himself in. His mouth blazes a trail across your body, sucking your nipples until they’re beaded, wetting his beard with the essence of your pleasure, and bringing you to the brink of completion time and again before pushing you over. 

After a while, he leaves a piece of himself behind. 

Weeks pass and the seasons change. The changes you notice in your body are physical as well as emotional. At some point since coming home, you must have started to unwind. Shoulders loosening up, knots melting down your back. Is it just you, or does the air smell fresher too? 

You pin the laundry up on the clothesline and wait for your husband to come home. The sun sets earlier these days with autumn just around the corner. Already the leaves have begun to redden and brown, some breaking off from the branches altogether and floating to the ground where you know eventually they’ll rot and dissolve into the earth, starting the cycle of death and rebirth all over again. 

Winter is fast approaching and you know this one will be tough with a little one on the way. You’ve already started preparing for the winter months—canning and storing corn and potatoes and other root vegetables harvested from your garden, making preserves from the fruits of autumn—apples and pears sealed in jars of thick syrup—and filling the cellar with barrels of salted and cured meats. In town, you visit the seamstress for clothes of thicker material and leave with an armful of wool flannel petticoats, fur-trimmed bonnets, and corsets of a heavier cotton coutil. 

You rest a hand on your belly as you stare off into the distant mountains. Even the sky darkens earlier these days. When all of the laundry is pinned on the line, you pick up the wicker basket resting by your feet and bring it back inside, shuffling into the kitchen to get started on supper. 

There’s still much that needs to be done before winter arrives. Firewood to be chopped, furs and blankets to be hung on the walls, the fireplace to be swept, and more. Enough to keep you busy and your mind occupied when you aren’t bent over a book because that’s also your reality these days. The librarian in town now knows you by name and knows to set aside a few books a week for you to pick up when you pass by with Kate. 

You don’t think much of the knock at the door at first, absent-mindedly thinking that it must be a neighbor come to visit. Only when you open the door to an unfamiliar face do you pause. 

It’s a woman, not too dissimilar in looks from you. A bit taller, but otherwise if someone were to describe you from looks alone, they might be tempted to use the same words for either of you. She stands on your porch with a suitcase held by her side, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead from the short trip from town. She dabs her forehead lightly with a handkerchief before pocketing it again.

“Hello there,” she greets, a bright smile on her face. “I’m looking for John Price. I was told he lives here?”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at her nonplussed, not understanding why a strange woman might be at your door asking for your husband in such a familiar way. It takes a moment for it to sink in. Then the light goes on and your confusion shifts to disbelief with a twinge of rage. 

“We’re engaged to be married,” the other woman hurries to explain, taking a step closer, foot wedged in the door almost as if intending to barge right in. 

Her gall nearly makes you lose your temper. Months ago, you might’ve welcomed her arrival, eager to prove to John that you weren’t the woman that he mistook you for so that you could be on your merry way. But that time has long since passed. There isn’t anywhere else in the world you’d rather be than here. You’ve put roots down, entrenched yourself in every way.

Your lips pull into a hard line, face set in stone. “You must be mistaken. He’s already married.”

She blinks, uncomprehending. “That’s…—are you sure? We’ve been corresponding. I know I’m a few months late, but I was held up back in—”

You cut her off by sticking out your hand, topaz ring shining bright on your third finger. “I’m sure. But thank you for stopping by; I’ll let John know you send your apologies.”

And with that, you shove her foot out with yours and shut the door on her face. On another day, you’ll allow yourself to feel guilty for your rudeness; for now, this is your happy ending to enjoy. 

And savor it, you will.

[piano-fingers]

[piano-fingers]

I’m actually almost done with this book and have thoroughly enjoyed it :)

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WHAT IT’S ABOUT

All Reyna and Kianthe want is to open a bookshop that serves tea. Worn wooden floors, plants on every table, firelight drifting between the rafters…all complemented by love and good company. Thing is, Reyna works as one of the Queen’s private guards, and Kianthe is the most powerful mage in existence. Leaving their lives isn’t so easy.

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[piano-fingers]

an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k)

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…”  You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…”  You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived? 

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays. 

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

[piano-fingers]

dubcon, objectification, forced (?) threesome, f!reader

they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

ghost finds you ten months after your divorce, nursing a drink in a shithole of a pub. he doesn’t consider himself a good man, licking the tears on your cheeks when he fucks you for the first time, ignoring your whines of how “it’s been a while” and you’re “too tight.” he doesn’t like to keep birds around longer than a night, but something about how you wrap your leg around him in the morning makes him stay a little longer.

he lets you call him simon after you whine that you “can’t fuck him without knowing his name.” it takes a bit, but you get used to sleeping with someone who isn’t your ex-husband. he calls you bird instead of sweetheart, love instead of darling and after a while, the word honey loses its significance. when simon tells you he’s military, you try to leave his bed, only for him to pull you by the thigh, apologizing with his tongue in your cunt. simon doesn’t date and you aren’t ready for it, content to stay in your respective apartments, living for his occasional half-smiles and usual gruff admonishments. its a bit new to simon - he’s used his camera app more in the past weeks than he has in years. always pictures of you: his cum on your tits, the bruises he leaves on your hips, a rare photo of you sleeping. he even lets you corral him into taking a cheesy mirror picture, his arms dwarfing your waist with his face tucked into your neck, your jawline exposed as you turn to kiss his cheek.

it’s two months later when you promise to cook him a meal for the first time, a sunday roast he hasn’t tasted in years. “better not take too long, bird, ‘m starvin’.” simon murmurs in your ear, hands squeezing your stomach and waist as you fumble with your keys. “i’ve had it slow cooking before i left for yours last night. it’ll put us in a food coma.” you finally put the key in the lock, turning it with force before simon decides to fuck you against the door. he dips to bite your neck, sending you into your apartment giggling, swatting him off you. the weight of your divorce is finally off your shoulders, happy butterflies fluttering in your stomach formed by simon’s continuous presence.

the butterflies die when you see a familiar pair of boots at your door.

“stay here.” you order simon, a change from your usual dynamic. you can’t focus on his reaction, set on edge by the sounds of pots clanging in your kitchen. there’s no point in creeping - he knows you’re here. you turn the corner and there he is - your ex husband. “you’re just in time, sweetheart. nice ‘f you to make a roast.”

john’s standing there like he owns the place, like he knows this kitchen he’s never been in. he’s boiling potatoes on the stove, keeping an eye on the slow cooker timer. he’s even poured himself a fucking drink, a scotch he had to have brought since all you have is wine and simon’s whiskey. all smug and entitled in his civvies, commanding the room like he pays your rent. he's still as handsome as ever, darker eye bags the only indication he's been losing sleep.

“what the fuck are you doing here, john?” john doesn’t answer immediately, instead using a fork to test the potatoes. satisfied, he takes them off the burner and turns to the sink, dumping them out in a prepared strainer. “‘s our anniversary, sweetheart. thought that’s why you made the food.” you can sense simon still in the doorway, his presence unknown to your ex. it gives you strength, a guard dog at your back, and comfort that he’s letting you run this on your own. “our anniversary ended when we signed the papers. i don’t know how you got in here, but you need to leave.” he frowns at you and it almost tugs at your heart strings. your brain conjures images of his coldness and constant distance, and you shut that down real fast. unfortunately, he doesn’t get the memo. john takes a step closer, hands up like he’s approaching a wild animal. “honey, i-“ and that’s when ghost steps out of the darkness.

there’s a long pause. it boosts your ego a bit, showing john you’ve moved on, until the silence is so long that you start to worry. you chance a look at simon’s face and find it confused, not at all the guard dog you thought he was. a glance at john’s reveals the same. you’re about to ask your question when they answer it for you. “captain.” “lieutenant.” “what?”

the transformation happens in an instant. both men straighten to their full heights, wiping any emotion off their faces. their brows furrow as they flex their hands to control their instincts. how could you not see it before? simon only mentioned he was military, but the stamp of the SAS is clear as day. it was in the harsh lines he carried, a companionship with death, not unlike the one john had.

john started first, of course, always having to take control of the situation. “you fuckin’ my lieutenant, sweetheart? miss me that much?” you rolled your eyes at his cruel words, inching closer to simon. “whatever we do doesn’t concern you.” you emphasized the “you”, spitting it out with venom. john hums low, making you nervous. you turn to simon, but he's quiet and calculating, communicating silently with his captain.

"didn't know you had a wife, sir." you answer before john can. "we divorced a year ago." john chimes in. "to the day, actually. she served me on our anniversary." simon looks down at you, the man you thought you knew now gone. his eyes are black pits, targeting you like you're prey. "that's cruel, bird." you sputter, backing into the kitchen cabinets. you walk until your back hits the sink, each man on either side of you. john has his arms crossed and head cocked to the side, like you're about to get chewed out by the school principal. simon looks...no longer human. unrestrained. whatever spark you two had has gone out, replaced by sheer loyalty to his captain. "show the captain what he's been missin', love. y've been starvin' him." he moves at lightning speed, picking you up and dropping you on the island counter, sunday roast long forgotten.

"simon?" he doesn't answer, scarred hands squeezing up and down your body as john watches from behind him, arms crossed and eyes searching. your mind is telling you one thing but your body wants another. some twisted part of your brain reminds you that john came to visit on your anniversary, even though you threw him out a year ago. simon's no better, coaxing your sweater off your torso, leaving you exposed in a lacy bra. your nipples harden and john sees, making a clicking noise with his tongue. "warm 'er up, lieutenant." simon obeys instantly, pulling down the cup of your bra to suck on your nipple. he's ravenous, no sunday roast in sight, and he's decided you're his meal instead. he sucks hard, a calloused hand reaching up to pull your other tit out so you're fully exposed to your two men. he squeezes it with reverence, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucks hard on the other one, not minding his own teeth.

it's dirty - watching john watch you. you hadn't fucked in the last months before the divorce. he was always too busy, on base or deployed, and you were so angry you couldn't let him near you. now, your ex-husband moves closer, taking in the sight of his lieutenant feasting. "miss me, sweetheart?" you shake your head on instinct. he sighs at your attitude. you're seated on the corner of the island, perfect for john to come up on your side, one large paw making its way towards your jaw, turning you towards him. "say it." you shake your head again. john sticks a thumb into your mouth, pushing against your teeth. you try to force him out, but simon bites your tit, making you gasp and let john in anyways. you suck his thumb defiantly, gazing at him with all the emotions you can't convey.

you look so pretty like this, john decides. laid out for his lieutenant, taking his orders as well as your emotions will allow. he decides to forgive you for your indiscretions with ghost - at least it was with one of his own men. they're practically an extension of himself. john hooks his thumb into the gap between your tongue and teeth and pulls, forcing you right into his space. "i reckon your cunt's nice an' wet, though. should i check? know she's missed me even if you won't admit it." your eyes go wide, giving him an answer he already knew. simon follows orders well, manhandling you into position by yanking off your jeans. there's a wet spot on the light fabric of your underwear. john can practically see your cunt clinging to it, begging for him to say hello.

"want ya to take 'em off y'self, bird." simon's finally speaking, the glaze in his eyes fading. he looks at you, then his captain, and it makes sense. how you're used to being led but refuse it all the same. how you're desperate for affection but won't date him because he's military. you're scarred from the chains of your marriage, so it only makes sense that he's the one you seek out - the opposite of husband material. more dog than human on his worst days. simon stares at you until you follow his command, meekly lifting up your hips as you take off your underwear. your cunt is sopping, in a way it only does when you’re ovulating, practically begging for it. your ex-husband whistles through his teeth like he’s praising a recruit. “knew she’d be happy to see me. hullo, darling.” you can’t find it in you to cringe. john starts running his fingers through your folds, inspecting, and all you can do is stare. stare at the veins in his forearm. stare at simon behind him, eyes trained on his captain’s movements. stare at the counter where your juices start to gather and wonder how the hell you got into this situation.

“pinch ‘er tit an’ watch ‘er flutter.” simon’s callous with his instructions but john follows them anyway, his unoccupied hand reaching up to pinch your nipple. you can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way your cunt flutters around john’s fingers. he hums thoughtfully. john decides you’ve been good, if not a bit quiet, and presses his thumb against your clit as a reward. he starts rubbing in that pattern that would get you off without fail during your marriage. he fits one finger into you easily as you grip the counter hard, the sudden sensation overwhelming. simon peers over his shoulder like a fucking scientist. “‘f she gets bratty, i pull back the hood til she screams.” like your cunt’s a machine and they have the two pieces of its manual. john’s movements are making you desperate, hips starting to buck against his fingers. he chuckles and adds another, not hiding a smile when you sigh in relief. simon’s hands come to your waist, helping you fuck yourself on price’s fingers. it feels so wrong, having them barely listen to your pleas, and yet being under their watch is the most right you’ve ever felt in your life. that’s what brings your orgasm - not john’s thick fingers on your cunt, his rough thumb in your clit - but two sets of hungry eyes on you, like you’re their last meal. john fucks you through your orgasm, simon not letting you out of his grasp until tears start to form, the embarrassment of your own wetness coming to the front of your mind. john slowly removes his fingers and brings them to simon’s mouth to taste, not satisfied until his lieutenant hums in agreement. the two men turn to you, naked save for your disheveled bra around your waist, somehow making the scene more depraved.

“‘ow ‘bout that roast, love?” simon murmurs gruffly.

good thing john never signed the divorce papers.

[piano-fingers]

Simon hated the tapping out ceremony. Ever since he first had to partake in one, he despised it. With no family and very few friends, he was usually the last on the field, waiting until one of his superiors would tap him out. But he couldn’t skip them either.

So there he was. The sun was beating down on the hundreds of soldiers lined up in neat little rows, standing at attention while they waited for their loved ones. And they came quickly. One soldier after the other was tapped out by their parents, siblings, spouse, and sometimes even children. But he stayed still, watching the happy reunions out of the corner of his eyes. Watching the tears and hugs and kisses. He envied the others; he was jealous of what they had, and he didn’t. But Simon had always been good at following orders, so he didn’t move, barely even blinked as he was surrounded by happiness, while he drowned in his own sorrow.

After an hour, there was only one other soldier left. Simon had barely interacted with him, but he knew his face. And just when Simon thought he wouldn’t be the only one without someone to tap him out this time, a crowd of eight people moved toward the soldier. At the front was an older-looking woman, her brown hair streaked with grey and lines on her face, indicating her age. Around her were people of all ages and genders.

“My son!” The woman let out a sob as she finally threw her arms around the soldier’s neck, causing the man to chuckle, as he hugged her back. “I missed you too, mama.”

One by one, he talked to the people surrounding him, hugged them, and kissed them. Simon couldn’t help but watch, bile rising in his throat as jealousy threatened to overtake him. And as he watched, he couldn’t help but imagine himself in the soldier’s stead. Surrounded by a happy, loud, and loving family. People who were happy to see him. Nowadays, the only people he could call family were the guys from the 141, and they were away on a mission. Still, in his mind, the scene played out. His mother, smiling, rushing toward him. Followed by his brother and his wife, carrying his nephew.

The daydream was interrupted by someone walking toward him. He expected it to be his superior, there to finally release him from the nightmare. But it wasn’t.

A young woman took timid steps in his direction. Her eyes, bright but filled with sadness. Not her own sadness, though, it was sadness she felt for him. He didn’t react, didn’t move, didn’t blink. She came to a stop in front of him, gazing up with a frown.

“Is someone coming?” Simon hesitated before giving an almost invisible shake of his head. She gasped, it was quiet and he barely heard it, but he felt it. In every bone, he felt her sadness and the sorrow she carried for him. Slowly, as if not to startle him, she lifted her hand, until it was inches away from his chest. “Is…is this okay?” When he gave a slight nod, she gently pressed her hand against his chest, finally tapping him out.

A breath he didn’t realize he had been holding escaped him as he finally turned to properly look at the woman. She was still gazing up at him, a soft smile now replacing the frown on her face.

“Thank you.” She nodded in response before glancing back at her family. When she looked back at Simon, she looked determined. “We’re going out to eat dinner if you’d like to join us?” Simon was about to decline when someone called out to him.

“Oi! Ghost!” He looked up and saw the soldier, now facing him, an arm wrapped around his mother’s shoulder. “Let’s go; my mom says dinner’s on us!” Without waiting for a response, he turned around and started walking toward the car park, his entire family in tow. Simon kept looking after him until a soft, small hand slipped into his own. He glanced down and found the woman smiling up at him.

“Come, my mom doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” And with those words, the woman gently led him to follow her family.

Part 2

A/N: This will be a two-parter. I hope you liked it!

[piano-fingers]

psychic!Reader being relentlessly stalked and terrorised by dead!Ghost.

He's not sure how he died, but considering the aura he has wrapped around him, it was vicious and violent. And while you're no stranger to helping the dead cross over when they need it, but he can't. Or won't. Everything you try doesn't work, and he soon decides that he's fine with that.

Prefers, instead, to follow you around. And at first, it's fine. He explores the world around him—intangible, untouchable—and asks snarky questions about why you're the only the one who can see him. How this came to be. But then he grows bored. Restless. Shifts into bad jokes. Taunts.

Finds the most amusement, though, in muttering in your ear about all the filthy things he'd do to you if he had his body back—in broad daylight, no less. All explicit, ugly things about testing your flexibility. Bending your knees to your ears. Getting that pretty little mouth on his cock—

Watches you shower. Drawls about having you put on a show for him. Slides into the bed with you when he can manipulate and solidify his form better. Icycold hands against your breasts. Squeezing your ass.

Most ghosts continue with their routine. Go on with their lives. Cogs in the machine. But he spends his time messing with you.

The problem, however, is that ghosts can only do much to interact with the physical world. Knocking things over. Stomping their feet down the halls. Saying a word. A name. A whisper. Cold air. Static. A slamming door.

But Simon's pinches hurt. His hand sometimes feels warm when he cups your beasts, or curls his palm over the nape of your neck, pulling you toward his groin only to huff when your face slips through it.

"not there yet, are we?" he drawls, but holds you there anyway just because he can.

Sometimes you have to remind yourself he's a ghost. A spectre. He can't really hurt you.

But when he nuzzles his face into your neck, and bites down so hard it burns, you find yourself unable to explain the raw, bloodied imprint of his teeth there the next morning. Or how warm, how solid, his body feels when he pulls you against his chest, hands groping at you as he stares at the mark he left with something primal twisting across his once pellucid face. Darkening with malintent. Desire.

Maybe you should have taken his threats a little more seriously after all.

[piano-fingers]

extremely dubious consent. power/class imbalance. implied breeding. manipulation.

but regency era John Price paying off your chaperone to get you alone in a carriage for few hours and the whole time, your guardians think you're being properly supervised during this unorthodox courtship.

And sure, he's so much older than you, a widower with specks of grey along his temples and peppered in his beard, and more established in class and life compared to you, the poor thing that only just entered society and already got snatched up by the surly, gruff Duke. But it's John Price. Despite his temperament, he's such a respectable man, isn't he? They can trust him to protect you, of course.

And he does.

Your virtue, however? Not so much.

He does away with that little problem on the second outing he takes you on, smothering the protests that draw up, shaky and uncertain on your lips when the chaperone your guardians paid to watch over you walks away, swallowing it down with a searing kiss. Shushes you through it as he slips his thick fingers over the seam of you, arm buried beneath a dense layer of fabric, snuffing out those little gasps.

Don't worry about it, he rasps into the burning apple of your cheek. "s'how it's supposed to be, mm?" and when that doesn't quell the quiver in your brow, he adds:

"s'what I want, love. Jus' a little taste, mm?"

And the problem with gently reared girls is that they turn into such obliging women. Your eyes flicker downward—soft in your acquiescence even though your shoulders draw up cutely towards your ears. Pretty little thing. He couldn't possibly resist.

So he doesn't.

Taking such a lovely creature on the dirty floor of the carriage with your prim, proper skirts trussed up over your hips, shift in utter disarray from the scorching attention he lavished your breasts earlier is nothing short of euphoric. Aided by the adorable little whines you make when he finally notches his cock against your soft flesh. Worry flashing over your brow because he's just too big, too thick, for you to take, and maybe we shouldn't, Mr Price—

But you swallow him just as sweetly as he imagined you would when he pushes inside of you. Pussy fluttering around him in a panic at the blunt, thick intrusion, unused to such brutal treatment. And it's heaven, of course. Nirvana between the split of your pretty thighs. Pussy just made to take his cock. Loving it so tenderly like this

"Taking me so well, aren't you?"

Tears on your lashline. Nose scrunched up. He's sure it's a trial for you, but this is just a prelude. Ripping the bandaid off.

A necessary evil.

And if the altruistic facade falters under the blunt weight of his desire, his greed, then at least he has a failsafe to keep you in his pocket should your guardians decide he—in his age, his callousness—is not a good fit for their daughter. They are the doting type, after all. Romantics. Idealists.

It doesn't take him much at all to reach the apex of his pleasure, not when your hands press tight to chest as he bears his weight down, grinding his throbbing cock into the deepest part of you. Your moans, delicious little keens ringing so sweetly in his ears. Letting him ride you hard against the dirty floor, chasing his pleasure even as your knees dig into his sides, brows pinced but nodding along when he rasps in your ear about how good you feel and how it'll only get better, and next time—since you're bein' so bloody sweet f'im—he'll show you how to suck his cock between those damnably soft lips, keep his fingers buried inside of you while you fold yourself over the bench on your knees, mouth swallowing him down deep—

(If they can't come to reason and see why he's a good match, then the swell of your belly in a few months time will surely sway them—)

The thought breaks across his spine, molten heat puddling in his loins. Fuck—

Despite the viciousness of thrusts at the idea, you take his desire so goddamn well.

It sends him over the edge with a grunt. A belly deep groan. And just in time, too.

After he puts your clothes in order and slides you back into the seat, groaning when you squeeze your thighs tight together, keeping his cum from spilling out, your chaperone arrives with a nervous smile and a glint of guilt that's easily diminished with another slip of cash between palms. You stare, dazed and flushed, out the window, and barely even flinch when he lays his hand on your thigh, hold possessive. Proprietary.

"Time to go home, mm?"

And if he brings you back to your guardians flustered, limping, and a little dazed—well. The roads were just terrible, weren't they, sweetheart? Quite the rough ride, mm? He's sure next time will be better.