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yeyinde · 9 months ago

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

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

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

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

DEAD DOVE. SMUT. 18+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Ghost never really understood was the box.

Shove it into a box.

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

“Up here."

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

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

The implication is stark. Heavy.

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

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

His problem, specifically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he's not wrong.

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

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

The rumour mill in the barracks is insatiable.

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

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

Or, whatever's left of it, anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wants.

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

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

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

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

Cold-hearted, sure—

But he likes sweet things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He must think Ghost is some sort of psychopath—)

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

Then comes you.

And the forfeiture of his self-control.

You're trouble of a different kind.

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

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

But oh, do you pack a punch—

At first, you think he's homeless.

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

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

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

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

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

Well. Shit.

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

His teeth ache (so, so bad—).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wonders if you can, too.

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

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

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

nah. bury him out back—)

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

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

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

And then—

You fluster. “Sorry, I just thought—”

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

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

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

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

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

Well—

That's new.

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

Him.

Ah.

Sweet, sweet girl.

(So naïve.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A reward, huh?

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

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

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

The window brightens. Room number two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silly bird.

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

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

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

And ah—

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you—”

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

“Simon. Simon Riley.”

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

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

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

You must think him quite the gentleman. So trusting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A bludgeon to his self-control—

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

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

But he’s a good mutt. Good—

Until the text.

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

His sweet girl.

(you fuckin’ mutt—)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Odd considering he's dead—

“Sounds like you will be.”

“It's not like that—”

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

“I don’t—I wouldn't—”

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

“It is.”

“Oh? How's tha’?”

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

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

But that's later, and right now—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you relent.

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

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

Friend. Friends.

He'll have to do something about that.

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

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

Because the thing is—

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

It isn't just fantasy, either.

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

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

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

Same thing.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon loves it when you cry.

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

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

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

“Thank you, Simon—”

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

He thinks it's cute.

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

“Anytime, pet.”

And you're perfect, too.

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

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

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

It's said fondly. Full of love—

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

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

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

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

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

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

He clings to it.

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

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

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

Stupid fuckin’ mutt.

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

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

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

Hide it. Put it away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Tommy.

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

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

(he did, too—)

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

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

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

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

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

Communion.

Ghost cocks his head in consideration.

(your bird is too big for a cage—

—but maybe a collar would do.)

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

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

Not anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not if he eats you first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(sick, sick sick, wrong—)

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

Damnation built by his own hands.

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

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

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

And you—

An outlier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sad, but—

Not enough to stop himself.

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

And then he spits on your bare cunt.

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

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

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

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

You never are.

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

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

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

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

Yet—

come to Durham.

i’ll think about it.

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

Ah, well—

Lesson learned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Made for him, and—

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

—“A perfect fit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything narrows into a needlepoint.

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

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

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

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

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

“Simon—”

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

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

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

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

“So’ry, Simon—”

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

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

Not anymore. Not ever again.

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

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

It's for your own good.

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

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

The only purchase he finds is in your demise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants, wants—

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

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

Pity it’s not an option.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Simon, Simon—”

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

(belly full of dirt:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More.

And he gives it to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want this. His spoiled rotten bird.

So, he gives it to you.

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

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

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

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

(please)

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

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

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

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

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

Both, maybe. Everything. All of it.

Always—

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

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

Nirvana exists between your thighs.

Home, too.

(well—

not yet.)

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

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

(Bone nausea.

A death sentence.)

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

He wants it: this dream so tantalisingly close.

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

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

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

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

(mine, mine, mine—)

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

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

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

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

It’s his apotheosis. His end.

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

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

(silly girl—

His pretty little perigee.)

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ hell—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Las’ night.”

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

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

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

He almost purrs.

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

“Bit rowdy.”

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

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

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

“Did you use a—?”

He dips his chin. “I might ‘ave.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But—

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

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

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

Case in point:

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

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

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

You don't even notice.

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

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

(stupid fuckin’ mutt—)

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

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

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

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

And it’s all so sweet.

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

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

But only just.

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

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

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

(Too much, maybe? Or too soon—?

if only you knew—)

He finds it charming, really.

Still—

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

Fuckin' Christ—

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

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

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

Maybe not in the way you'd want.

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

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

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

So—

Home it is.

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

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

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

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

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

But Simon is nothing if not devoted, and so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This little glass jar domicile.

A billet in the mountains.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His budding rose.

He coos. “You alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But oh. How you try—

His sweet, sweet girl.

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

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

So close he catch the embers in his hand.

“Simon… We should—talk. I, uh—”

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

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

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

but:

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

“Yes, Simon—”

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

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

He leans down, and whispers in your crown—

“Good girl—”

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

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

Click.

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

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

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

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hoe4sports · 3 months ago

Text

The little ragdoll

Alessia Russo x Leah Williamson x child

A note from the author: Once again, another fic based off my life. This is a part of a potential series called “Musli”. Enjoy!

Warning: Fostercare, anxiety, long fic

Summary: You are moved into yet another foster home, and you spend your first 12 hours with Alessia and Leah. Oh, and their little companion.

You sit in the social worker’s car while she talks about your new home. She says that this home is a good home, but she said that too about the Johnson family and the Sussex family. You shrug your shoulders as a respons before gripping the ear of your plush cat tighter. The kitty is white, or he used to be white until your last foster father spilled his coffee all over him. You tried to rinse him in the sink, but your foster sister got upset with you. He is patchy brown now, and he smells of coffee. You don’t even like coffee. But he is the last piece of home you have left; your parents had no family. No grandparents and no siblings or cousins. Just you.

The houses are passing by your window, and you see the car moving from lower class areas to middle class areas to upper class areas and back to lower class areas. All your bad experiences are sadly linked with lower class families. The families where money is tight is statistically speaking where abuse is more likely to happen. The big raindrops rolls down the windows and you watch two raindrops to see who is faster. The answer is none of them; because a big truck splashes the window and vanishes the raindrops.

“The new family is excited to welcome you. They don’t have any kids, but they do have a friend for you”

“A friend? Like a chicken?”

You feel excited. You like chickens, they are friendly and they don’t bite.

“No silly, a kitty!”

Your eyes widen at the thought of living in the same house as a cat. You used to have a cat, back in your real home and the memory of him makes you miss him every day. You loved your cat. You love your plush cat. It sparks a tiny excitement in you, but then again you worry if you are allowed to touch the cat. Sometimes, foster kids aren’t allowed to touch certain toys, animals or even parts of the house. Tears forms in your eyes of the thought of him, and you clutch your hand tighter around the plastic bag of personal items that you own. It’s weird, you decide. You used to have puzzles that mommy would puzzle with you, and books that daddy would read to you. You used to have Barbie and dolls. And mommy would buy you so many dresses. You don’t have any dresses anymore. No puzzles. No books. No Barbie and no dolls. It’s only you, your teddy and a few pairs of pants and shirts. It used to make you feel sad, but you are just thankful for getting out of the last foster home.

The car suddenly comes to a stop in front of a big white house. It is a fancy house made out of wood and you can see what looks like handrails on the top of the house. There seems to be a garden, and there is a nice front porch with flowers on it. You blink as you look towards the door. It has a cat door. It resembles your real home. Where your mom planted flowers in the garden and your dad would cut the grass. It was only last summer, but it feels like a lifetime ago. The sudden onset of dejavu makes you smile. But then, you suddenly don’t want to leave the car. You don’t feel ready to disappoint yet another family. Perhaps, this family have more rules than draw others. There are always so many rules. Rules about what you are allowed to eat to what soaps you can use. So you let go of the plastic bag and clutch your fists to the seatbelt. The social worker opens up your door, and you shake your head. She tries to grab your hand, but you refuse. You really do not want to come out of the car.

She gives you a sad smile.

“Okay, how about you sit here and I’ll go get your new fosters?”

You shake your head rapidly and your little heart feels like it’s about to beat out of your chest. You feel warm, and sweaty, and stressed, and scared.

“I cannot let you sit in the car forever, I’m really sorry. I’m gonna have to lift you out of the car now.”

You close your eyes while your hand unbuckles your belt. The last family made you buckle and unbuckle yourself, so you are no stranger to helping yourself. You unwillingly hop out of the car and hold your kitty tight to your chest. The plastic bag comes along, but it’s too heavy to carry so it ends up dragging behind you. The social worker would grab it, if you would’ve let her; you don’t trust anyone with your things anymore. One family threw away your favourite dress and another lost the last picture you had of your mom and dad.

You find yourself In front of the big front door when the social worker presses the doorbell. It’s late, close to bedtime and the rain is pouring down. You yawn. The door swings open after a few seconds and you get caught off guard. You drop your plastic bag and hide behind the social workers leg.

“Hi! Welcome, please, please come in!” A blonde woman says. You peek at her from behind the social workers leg while trying to decide what category to put her in. She has kind eyes, like your mommy and she is smiling. Your social worker steps forwards which leaves you stumbling a few steps forwards. The embarrassment shows up on your face, but before you say anything; you see the woman reaching for your plastic bag. You know the drill, so you quickly snatch it from the ground before slowly moving yourself to the inside of the home.

You scan the entrance. There is a white built in bench with shoes underneath. You see a coat rack and there is some decor. There is even curtains and blinds on the windows that faces the entrance. It smells like warm cookies and milk, like your mother would make when you were little. Then, you see the other woman. She looks stricter than the first woman. She’s not that smiley, but she dosent look mean. A piece of her hair hangs in front of her eye before she quickly brushes it to the back of her ear.

“Y/N, that is Leah and this is Alessia. Say hi to them, please.”

You can’t say a word. Like all the words and letters of the English alphabet have left your mind. You shake your head rapidly. All the bones in your body freezes and your tears starts pressing in your eyes. You don’t know what to say or how to say anything. You don’t wanna sound dumb, and you don’t wanna sound sassy. The social worker looks down at you and sighs.

“Thank you for taking her in at a short notice. Things weren’t exactly good, and I had to move her quickly. She’s a good kid.”

One of the women squats down to your height.

“Hi, I’m Alessia. Who is this?” she asks. She points to your kitty, but she dosent touch him. You clutch him to your chest, and a silent tear rolls down your cheek. You feel terrified, maybe you aren’t allowed to have him?

“Uh..His name is Meow” you mumble, barely giving her a second of eye contact. Even though you don’t look at her, she looks at you. She waits and she seems to be patient.

“Im happy that you and Meow came to stat with us. We are happy to have you stay here for a while”

You feel scared. A while. How long is a while? It’s one of those adult’s acronyms that you don’t understand. Maybe, if you are good; they will let you stay for more than a while. You decided that you need to be polite, and kind, and helpful. You offer Alessia eye contact, and she smiles warmly at you.

“Oh look, there is someone else excited to see you” Alessia says as their white cat appears. He has white and brown fur, and he has blue eyes. He looks exactly like your old cat. The cat that used to live with you and mommy and daddy. Your eyes widen at the sight of him, and the cat trots its way over to you.

You reach out your hand, like you mother taught you. He sniffs it before instantly bonking his head into your had. Then, her purrs loudly.

“His name is Musli, he is a ragdoll, and he is 4 years old: just like you.”

“Musli” you parrot quietly while looking at the cat. You decide that you like musli and for a second, you feel calm.

“Alright, Y/N, I have to go now. Be good, okay? I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

She pats your head.

“Thank you once again Mrs. Russo and Mrs. Williamson. Call me if any issues or concerns.”

And with that, you are left alone. You, your kitty and your plastic bag is left to yourself. Tears swell in your eyes, and Musli rapidly rubs himself on you. You look down at him, and a teardrop lands in his fur.

“Y/N?”

You look up and you gulp. Time to be good. You nod your head while wiping your eyes on your sleeves.

“We were about to go into the kitchen to have some cookies, do you like cookies?” Leah asks while looking at you.

You nod again as your stomach rumbles. The last time you had something to eat was this morning, when you had a few pieces of carrots.

“Let’s bring meow to the kitchen with us, so he can have a treat too”

Alessia winks, and it makes you smile shyly. You follow the two women to the kitchen; meow in your right hand and the plastic bag dragging behind from your left hand. The bag leaves a stream of water from underneath it, and it makes you feel embarrassed.

“This is where I sit, and this is where Leah sit.”

Alessia points to a table with four chairs. You nod while scanning the kitchen. It’s big, and white. It’s pretty, and there is a gigantic fridge with a tap in the door. You shove your bag next to the wall, careful to not leave it out for anyone to trip on. That way, nobody will get mad at you.

Leah drags out a chair, it’s pink and it has a little step, a little place for your feet and a seat. It’s a children’s chair and you feel confused. Did they have a kid that you don’t know about? It scares you, because that means that there will be a competition and normally, you lose them.

You stand there dumbfounded while Alessia gets the out the plates. Leah gets out the glasses. They are high up, in the cabinets over the kitchen sink. It makes you sad because that means that you can’t help out with the plates.

Soon, everything is set and you are still frozen in the middle of the room.

“Come here, Y/N” Leah says before patting the pink chair. You slowly walk over to her before looking at it.

“Whose chair is that?” You whisper.

“It’s yours, you can use it for however long you want” Alessia says while smiling at you.

You climb up carefully, and you place meow next to you. Alessia puts forward a little bowl of milk, which leaves you confused. Are you supposed to drink out of the bowl? You don’t mind, really, all you want to is to be good. Your hands grab the bowl and you lean forward to drink the milk.

“For meow” Alessia says, and it makes you feel embarrassed. Leah quickly fills up your glass while Alessia puts the bowl infront of your plate. She pats the table, and you put meow infront of it.

“See? He likes it” Alessia says which makes you smile. Then you eat your warm cookie quietly. Alessia tells you about her day, and Leah answers. You just nod along, busy eating your cookie. This feels nice, you think. They seem kind. But you worry that they will be extra mean once you make them angry for being disrespectful, bad or dumb.

After finishing the cookie and drinking the milk, Leah clears the table.

“Thank you Mrs. Russo and Mrs. Williamson” you mumble, scared to say their names wrong. The pair of them shares a sad look before looking towards you.

“Please love, Call us Alessia and Leah. We aren’t your mom or your dad, but we are here to take care of you”

You nod.

“Should we find the bedroom?”

You nod, again.

“This is the bed. I didn’t know what colors you like, so I grabbed what we had. We can go out tomorrow to get you a few things. Where is your bag?”

Alessia says. You lift your bag up, and Leah reaches for it.

“Can I help you put your clothes away in the dresser?”

You nod.

“Thank you, Mrs. Leah”

The pair of them frowns, and you don’t understand why. Then Leah takes your clothes out; one by one until they are all taken out. The clothes are all wet from being dragged on the ground, and the pair of them shares a sad smile.

“Im gonna have to wash your clothes, they are all wet and dirty. Is that okay? Then tomorrow, we will get some more clothes” Alessia says while looking at the small pile of clothes.

You nod, but feel confused. Who are we getting clothes for, you wonder. Perhaps they need you to help carry the bags home. You are either way grateful for getting to come along instead of being left home by yourself.

You let out a big yawn, and drop meow in the action. Alessia instantly picks him up and reach him towards you.

“I think that maybe mr.meow needs a bath? Do you want to grab your toothbrush, hairbrush and pj so you can both get ready for bed?”

You look at her in confusion. You don’t own a hairbrush or a toothbrush anymore. It makes you feel dirty and uncomfortable, so you look down at your socks.

“Mrs. Alessia.. I…uh.. I don’t have a toothbrush or a hairbrush” you stutter out. You don’t see it, but Alessia and Leah shares a heartbroken look.

“Okay little miss, you can call me just Alessia and her just Leah. Whatever you want to, ok?”

You nod.

“We will put down toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrushes, hair ties, hair bands and knot spray on the list for tomorrow. Do you have a pj?”

You shake your head.

“That’s fine, Leah will find something for you to wear. Let’s go to the bathroom to get mr.meow cleaned up”

You smile at Alessia while nodding.

“Okay” you mumble out just loud enough for Alessia to hear.

Mr.Meow sits in the bathroom sink in a bubble bath. His whiskers are pointing downwards because of the weight of the water. Musli sits next to your feet, and you find yourself feeling safer around him. Your mommy would always say that a cat knows a good person; so if you ever needed to know how to categorise someone; see if a cat likes them. The memory makes you smile. Alessia hands you a tiny brush and smiles.

“Do you want to give him a little scrub?”

You smile and nod rapidly. Then, you get to scrubbing. You scrub, and scrub and scrub. Then Alessia scrubs, and scrubs and scrubs. Everything from his tail to his ears and paws. Soon enough, meow is white again and he goes into the dryer for a few minutes until he is dried enough for you to cuddle him.

Leah steps into the room while you are hugging him tightly with Alessia sitting on the toilet lid.

“Here, I have a little cousin that is the same age as you. She said that you could have this!”

Leah pulls out a pink pj. It’s a set with flowers on the pants and a princess on the front of it. It makes you light up. You nod your head before crashing into Leah’s legs in excitement. Leah looks surprised for a few seconds until Alessia nudges her to have her put her hand on your head. It feels safe.

“Thank you, Leah”

After washing meow, brushing your hair with Alessia’s brush and putting on the new pj; Alessia and Leah put you to bed. Or, rather they followed you to your bed while you put yourself to sleep. They turned on the little nightlamp on the nightstand before they said their goodnights. You found yourself laying in bed listening to the sounds of the house, much like you did at the old foster homes. Always waiting for someone to be disappointed with you.

The bed is soft just like your bed back at home. Not your old temporary home, but your old real home. The home you were born into. Where you took your first steps. Where you learned to put the cereal in the bowl before the milk. Where you learned to say please and thank you.

The bedroom is big. It has been painted a calm pink color, and there is a bookshelf with a few books. A few of the books are books you recognise, like the pink glittery one with Pappa pink. There is some toys and what you seem to recognise as Lego. You are not sure if you are even allowed to use the toys, but you appreciate being able to look at them. You don’t really know who they belong to because you arrived so late that you couldn’t think of asking. Your hand presses down on the mattress you have found yourself laying down on. It’s soft, and it’s comforting in a weird way. It feels like what used to be home. Before mom and dad and you took the trip to the local beach. Before one drunk driver changed your life forever. Before your life become something that you couldn’t even recognise anymore,

But the bed isn’t like home. It’s probably the most comfortable bed you have ever had, you decide. Even nicer than the one you once had. The frame is white with butterflies. The pillows are fluffy and the duvet is warm. You like the print too, it is pink with little purple flowers. Even though your new foster parents have spent a ton of money and effort on making this bedroom feel cosy, you end up sleeping on the ground. Not directly on the ground, but on the big thick fluffy rug in the middle of the room. It’s pink too, so you decide that it is perfect to sleep on. This way, you won’t get too comfortable in Leah and Alessia’s home. If you get too comfortable, then it will hurt even worse when they decide to kick you out. That’s why your hands softly pull the duvet and one pillow down to the floor, before laying down on it and wrapping yourself in the duvet. It feels strangely safe to be in this bedroom, in your temporary house. The feeling is new, and you are not sure whenever to regress the feeling or embrace it. You close your eyes slowly, listening to the soft hum of your two new foster moms chatter soothingly downstairs. It leaves you feeling like you are in a state of bliss that allows all the cells in your body to, for once, relax completely. It feels like you are floating, like you are at peace. Meow is in your hand, and musli comes to lay down next to you. He purrs, sending vibrations through your heart making it feel calm. Soon enough, you see your mom and you feel yourself drifting away.

The next morning, you wake up terrified. Did you oversleep? Why don’t your foster moms wake you up? You feel anxious. Perhaps you were supposed to wake yourself up? Irresponsible. That would already be one shot. You only get three. That’s what the other fosterfamily told you. Three shots and you are out.

You are only four, so it isn’t expected of you to wake yourself up. But you don’t know that. You drag yourself out of bed, and then it hits you: oh god. You fell asleep on the ground, but you woke up in the bed. Was it wrong of you to sleep on the floor? Did Leah or Alessia put you in bed? Maybe they are upset with you? It scares you to the point where you feel yourself shiver like a chihuahua.

You stumble out of bed before making a silenced run to the door. You shuffle down the hallway until you see the staircase and you peek out from behind the handrails. It smells like coffee, and pancakes. You find a place to sit in the staircase where you can look into the kitchen, but still be partially hidden by the shadows of the dark hallway.

Leah and Alessia is in the kitchen. Leah is reading something from her phone out loud and Alessia is listening while making pancakes. You can see orange juice on the table as well as jam, cheese and milk. Leah has a cup of coffee with milk in it. It’s light brown, and you recognise it because your old foster mother would tell you to put milk in her coffee for her.

You can feel the hunger growing in your gut, and you hold meow close to you while closing your eyes hoping that it will disappear. Then, Musli hopes downstairs. He sniffs your arm before meowing at you. You quietly try to shush him, but it doesn’t help.

“Y/N? There is breakfast for you in here love”

Leah says while smiling at you from the kitchen. You look back at her with wide eyes. Musli is still rubbing himself on your shoulder, and you force yourself to stand up. You quickly go to the kitchen, not wanting your new moms to wait. Waiting isn’t a good thing, especially when they are waiting on you. It can cause them to be upset with you. You don’t want that.

You hop up on the chair you sat in last night, and your eyes widen when Alessia places a pink princess plate infront of you with a few pancakes on. Are all of these for you? You feel confused. She hands you a fork, not an adult fork. A tiny fork with a bunny engraved into it.

Alessia sits down, and you look at her. She is now eating, and you look over at Leah who is pouring herself juice. You feel conflicted; if you ask if it is for you then they might take it away because you seem ungrateful. But if you don’t ask, then they can get upset with you for eating everyone’s breakfast.

“Uh, Alessia? Can I eat this?”

“Huh? Are you allergic?”

“What’s allergic?”

They both share a sad look, but to you; it looks like disappointment.

“It’s for you baby, just eat however much you want”

You look at Alessia and Leah. Sceptical, yet grateful. You nod before you start eating. Then you realise that you might need to eat everything; because you don’t know if you are gonna get another meal today. It feels strange to sit here with two adults eating pancakes. Musli is sleeping by your chair. It almost feels like a dream. Like something that is taken out of a movie. But it’s a movie that you don’t want to end. That’s the thing about movies; they always have an end.

#woso imagine #woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso community #alessia russo x reader #alessia russo #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson imagine #leah williamson #Alessia Russo x Leah Williamson #Leah Williamson x Alessia Russo

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celenawrites · 1 year ago

Text

pretty when you cry

pairing - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

word count - 2.4k

warnings - Ghost is a bit of a dick but he gets better, Reader is a bit of a crybaby here but it's just cuz she's very in tune with her emotions, Simon is emotionally constipated and cannot handle feelings, some fluff, heavy-ish (?) angst, open ending, etc.

Note - Kinda got tired of writing fluffy stuff all the time and my mental health is fraying atm, so I decided to (hopefully) hurt some folks with this little piece. Enjoy!

AO3 Version

Divider by @/firefly-graphics

You cry easy.

That's what Ghost thought of you when you first joined Task Force-141.

While he has always been skeptical of any new additions (often temporary) to the team he has come to love and trust after going through hell and back, Price was convinced that your impeccable record on stealth ops, your physical agility, and your skills as a sniper were much needed.

Reluctantly, Ghost silently accepts his Captain’s decision.

However, time and time again, your sensitive nature had him worried that you might prove to be a heavy liability to the team.

When you stub your toe against the leg of the table, you let out a few tears of frustration and pain, cursing everyone and their mothers while you hold your injured foot in the air as you comically jump around the kitchen, even though your lack of spatial awareness was to be blamed here. It is almost always a comical sight, Gaz rubbing your back in comfort while you curse and cry, failing to hide his amusement. Soap is not afraid to laugh at your face for it, while Price has this twinkle in his eye as he asks you to sit and eat something for breakfast.

Simon ignores the flutter in his stomach when you take a seat next to him on the table, your wet hair letting out wafts of jasmine - all for him to smell and keep to himself.

You cry when you accidentally let the door close on your pinky, dramatic hiccups leaving you as Soap ties up your little finger with white bandages, stroking your hair as he consoles you, "That's a brave lassie, yeah? You got this". (Soap has always been good with people, Simon notes.) Sometimes, Soap will be ‘kind enough’ to offer you to kiss your injuries better and you’d shove him, your face giving away the embarrassment and the humorous jest you feel around the demolition expert.

You weep uncontrollably when you watch Marley and Me with Gaz in the rec room. Price and Ghost had been passing by, discussing the aftermath of a mission they had just returned from when they heard loud sobs coming from the usually empty room. They peer in to find both of you huddled close in soft blankets, a bowl of popcorn propped up in your lap and a box of tissues in Gaz’s lap, as you munch on the buttery snack and cry over the adorable dog finally being put to rest. You lean into Gaz for comfort and Ghost wonders if you still smell of mud and caked blood like you did on the field.

Price decides to break up the party as he enters the room, clearing up his throat to grab the attention of his Sergeants. Your lip wobbles as he lightly scolds you, his brow laden with concern as he looks at you and tells you both to go get some much-needed rest. You pass him by as you leave the room, your hand being a feather’s touch away from his and he almost holds onto you. (He still has no idea why he almost reacted like that to you)

One time, Price had been sent to help Laswell out on a crucial mission and all you had accomplished during those three and a half weeks was mope around and wish your Captain were here. You’d be lying on the sofa in the common room and you’d whine to your companions. “I’m so bored. I miss Captain. I wish he was here”, you’d pout and Soap and Gaz would gang up on you, teasing you as they asked you whether you had some unresolved feelings for dear Price. (The idea of you coveting Price like a lover seemed ridiculous to him, really. You and the Captain? Not a chance)

And then there was that one time when you had to go on a solo mission (the first of you being on your own since you joined the task force, really) and when you had come back to him them, battered and bloodied and disheveled but still safe and sound and Price lets out a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging as if all the weight of the world has disappeared now that you’re back home, back to your team (where you now rightfully belong). You rush to them, running as if you cannot close the distance between them fast enough, and Price hugs you with steady arms as he lets you cry into his shoulder, wetting his uniform as you all but sob in relief, leaning on your Captain for support as your legs turn like jelly, unable to support the weight of your weary body.

It must’ve been terrifying - being out there on the field, hostility and death surrounding you in all directions and the only person you could possibly rely on is yourself. Keeping yourself safe and sane as you navigate unknown terrain and fight off the monsters who wear the skins of humans and pollute the very Earth they have been raised on. Blood and gore and gunpowder clinging to you like a second skin as you pray to survive another night and make it back home safely. Back to your team.

Back to your kind captain, and sergeants you have befriended and a cold Lieutenant who sometimes fails to hide the care he carries for you in his brown eyes.

Price has a look of sympathy and understanding on his face as he drags you to the infirmary, even holding your trembling hand in his warm palm as you flinch at the sight of the large syringe needle and hiss in pain whenever the alcohol-soaked cotton is applied to your cuts. He soothes you with a gentle pat on your back, mindful of your treated injuries as he softly tells you to clean up and maybe get some much needed sleep, asking Gaz to supply you with something to eat before you doze off due to fatigue and the morphine still floating in your system.

Ghost found it annoying for the most part - sometimes snapping at you to "Shut up and focus" on bad days and while he’s still irked at the sentimentality you possess, something that he and his comrades have willingly allowed to wither and die in their souls, a small part of him - a part of him that still resembles who Simon was, a mimicry of the humanness he hasn’t felt in his dead soul for years, worried about you. Worried sick about you and your emotions and the lack of lid you have on it. Worried if he had been too harsh on you because he doesn’t do emotions, and clearly he is out of his depth when it comes to dealing with people, but especially when it comes to dealing with you.

He realizes he doesn’t mind you crying all that much.

You go out for drinks to celebrate your successful solo mission and you spend the time you had lost on the field with your teammates - you play billiards with Gaz against Soap and Ghost and lose sorely, and then you try out a peg of whiskey the Captain has ordered and Price laughs heartily as you sputter and whine as the drink burns your esophagus. You somehow convince Ghost to teach you how to throw darts and he tries to not lean into your warmth as he stands behind you, his gloved hand holding your wrist as he positions you and teaches you how to throw the wooden dart you hold between your smooth fingers, and tells you all he knows about making sure that the little thing hits the dartboard without fail.

Simon can smell your jasmine shampoo and your citrus perfume on you as he uses his hands to correct your posture. He can feel how soft and pliant you are under him, eager to obey and please him, and all he can think about is what it’d be like - being your confidante, being the voice of reason for you when you’re drowning in emotions, being a sturdy shoulder for you to cry on.

And he knows for a fact that you’d be all that and more in a heartbeat if he allowed you to.

You lean onto Simon for support, your head lolling onto his shoulder as he quietly guides you to your bedroom. You hum quietly as he carefully makes you lie down on your bed, removing your shoes for you and when you beg him to help you remove the little makeup you had applied for the night (Price blatantly ignoring the use of contraband because it’s you), he surprisingly complies. Years of applying camo paint on his face give him the needed experience around using micellar water and makeup wipes as he helps you prepare yourself for a night of mindless sleeping, which will be followed by a hangover in the morning plaguing almost all of them. (He swears he’ll force you to drink the ginger tea he’ll make, no matter how much you’d whine about it tasting ‘yucky’. He’d rather not have you hurling over everything like a cat with a persistent hairball stuck in its throat).

“I’m so happy”, you hum to yourself as Simon tilts your head up.

“Close your eyes, Sergeant”, he orders and you comply, feeling the soaked cotton pad rub against your eyelids as your Lieutenant removes your pink eye shadow. It’s a pretty color on you, Simon thinks but he never says it out loud.

You stay silent as he finishes up with your work, his calloused fingertips tilting and moving your head to look at any missed spots he might’ve overlooked in the dim bedroom light.

“All done”, he scruffs, getting up on his feet and he hears you call out to him as he leaves the room.

“What is it?” he asks, wishing to be in his warm bed on this cold night.

“Thank you, sir”, you say earnestly with your eyes shining with sincerity and an unrecognizable emotion.

Simon observes you - you lying on your bed in the clothes you wore to the bar, with most of your makeup removed and your eyes struggling to stay open as intoxication and tiredness tempt you to forget the world and sleep.

A moment too late, he asks you, “What are you thanking me for, rookie?”

Only to find you out cold.

He sighs, draping the thin blanket over your shivering body and leaving you alone in your room.

When you wake up the next day with a hangover headache, your makeup removed and your blanket draped over you tenderly, you make your way to the common kitchen and you ask your moody superior if he remembers anything from the night before - your hazy memory failing to cover the gaps in your memory.

He gruffly says out, “No” and then hands you a cup of ginger tea, looking at you intensely as he waits for you to whine about the bitter taste of the tea he’s made for you. Knowing it’s a lost fight, you let out an exasperated sigh and thank your Lieutenant for the hangover cure. He looks at you a beat too long before leaving you to your own devices, exiting the room, and going God knows where.

It takes him time, with all that he is and all that he has been through, to come to a new conclusion for his first impression of you. Steadily with time, Simon realizes that the reason you cry so easily is not because you're weak.

It’s because you’re brave.

Brave enough to express yourself and not fear rejection from others. Brave enough to show that you care, to show that you love life and people and everything life has to offer. Brave and kind and valiant in everything you do, Simon is almost jealous of your ability to be so open and free. He wonders what it would be like to let go and just allow himself to feel.

It’d probably drown him alive.

It might set him free.

He’d never get the chance to know though.

Now again, you sob as you put pressure on his abdomen wound as you talk to him with a wet, unstable voice, “Stay awake for me, Lt. We will all make it”. You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. (You need that reassurance more than him anyway).

He’s sluggish, the blood loss and pain makes it hard for him to focus on your blurry face and the skull mask on his face doesn’t help him either. He’s immobile, despite trying his level best to raise his hand up so that he can wipe away the stray tears on your cheeks. He parts his lips to tell you to please stop crying, to tell you how he’s not worth the worry, he’s not worthy of your tears - not when he has vehemently admonished you for them all this time.

But all he can do is let out a low moan of pain, his eyes rolling back in his head. He can hear your voice, can hear the worry and fear and panic as you call out to him, but everything is hard and he can hear you but comprehending your words is near impossible with the ringing in his ears and the whirring of the helicopter that came in to rescue him and his team. He’s aware of his teammates sitting beside him - he can imagine their solemn faces as they cope with the possibility of him succumbing to his wounds before they make it back to safety. But he focuses on you instead - sweet, radiant you who worries about everyone and everything; who wears her heart on her sleeve and still holds onto the hope that he will make it out of this ordeal alive, even though he can feel his life slipping away from him like the sands of time.

Each breath of his is labored, and Simon wishes for nothing more than to wipe away your tears or to maybe hold your soft self against his injured body, cradling you close to his heart as he vows to survive this for you. Only for you.

Through black spots and dryness, he blinks up to look at you and he has this realization, a moment of pure ‘Eureka!’ as he observes your worsened state of being.

You have never been prettier than this instant, crying over him and praying to any kind of deity who’d grant him the boon of life.

Satisfied with his discovery and suddenly extremely tired, he allows himself to close his eyes, letting the fatigue win and the last thing he sees is you crying for him to stay alive and fight.

The last thing he hears is your sobs as you beg someone, anyone to save your Lieutenant.

Note -

Title is thanks to the song 'Pretty When You Cry' by Lana Del Rey, although I wasn't actually listening to the song while writing this.

#call of duty #cod #cod:mw2 #simon riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty fluff #call of duty angst #simon ghost riley angst #simon ghost riley fluff #call of duty headcanons #char.simon ghost riley

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parvulous-writings · 3 months ago

Note

Could I request dating headcanons for Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish, and poly Ghoap with gn s/o please? - Fluff anon

Warnings: Oh boy... This be sweet...

Notes: Did I get carried away? Absolutely. I love my boys!! Thank you, Fluff, for indulging me!!

𝔖𝔦𝔪𝔬𝔫 ℜ𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔶

Simon likes to keep his civilian life very firmly separate from his work-life. You know that he's fairly high up in the military, that he often has to be very brutal, and the names of his closest companions. This took years to get out of him, though, and he flat out refuses to tell you anything else, or expand on the information you've already pried from him. "You don't need t'know any of that, love... Don't you worry your pretty little head about it, 'kay?" And that's that. You don't know about 'Ghost', and he'd very much like to keep it that way. He wants to stay your Simon, the sweet, if not awkward, young man you fell for years ago.

He's gone a lot - active service unfortunately demands it. He sends messages when he can, but rarely calls when he's away - you assume it's because he either doesn't want to risk, or can't risk, you overhearing anything in the background. He tries his best to make it up to you when he's on leave, though. Little date nights here and there, spending quality time together - he'll even acquiesce and let you watch your favourite schlocky movies or tv shows, no matter how much he normally pretends to hate them. In truth, they do hold a special place in his heart. They remind him of you, and for that, he'll always appreciate them, in a strange way. Sometimes he'll play half an episode on his phone, when he's away and has a chance - just to keep that piece of you with him.

Physical affection has two facets, with Simon. The public, and the private. In public, he stays almost unnervingly close to you, especially in crowds, but doesn't usually hold your hand or even touch you. Unless he needs to pull you away from something for your own safety, he isn't really a massive fan with expressing his love through public displays of affection; but he doesn't mind if you hug his arm whilst walking, or want to lean into him whilst sitting in a restaurant booth. In private, he isn't quite 'all over you', but he is very close. He doesn't like being in a different room to you most of the time, and if you're in the living room, you're not just going to be sitting around - he will be cuddling you, in some way. Whether he's perched you on his lap, or pulled you into his side - or even, on the rare occasion, when he lets you be the bigger spoon.

𝒥𝑜𝒽𝓃𝓃𝓎 𝑀𝒶𝒸𝒯𝒶𝓋𝒾𝓈𝒽

Johnny does talk a little bit about his time with the task force - unless, of course, he is legally required to not disclose some information (which is a fair amount, but he tries to find workarounds if something is genuinely bothering him). You know his friendships with Simon, Kyle, and Price are all strong - forged in the fires of conflict, and durable enough to withstand it all and more. You know that Price acts a bit like a father, Kyle is the 'funny guy' ("'Sides me, o'course, hen,"), and Simon is Johnny's stoic lieutenant, who he admires, respects, and holds very dearly. Though Johnny has never said the words exactly, you get the impression that Simon is something of a best friend figure to the Scot. Johnny doesn't go in depth or in detail about his missions, he only really speaks about it if there's something that's been bothering him.

He's gone often, but he keeps in contact as much as he can; calls, texts, and video calls whenever he gets the chance. He's often in the rec room when you're on call, and you can hear a faint 'hello' from Gaz whenever he catches Soap on the phone. When he's at home, his favourite thing to do is stay at home with you, and watch movies. Particularly old, or schlocky ones. Sharknado, Attack of the Lederhosen Zombies, and all other manner of B, or even C-rated movies come out. They're usually meant to be horror, but they're often so tacky they don't come across as it. Throw in that night's take out of choice, and boom! Johnny's perfect date night with you.

His main love language is physical touch, so public displays of affection with Johnny are a must, whether it's hand-holding, an arm around your shoulders, or him playfully putting you in a headlock when you're out and about with your friends. The headlock also appears in your private life as well - it's his own, special, silent 'I love you'. It's uniquely him, too. That playful, rough edge that he has, put into his affection. He likes to fall asleep on you a lot, too. Snuggling in bed, or on the sofa, draped over you like a muscled blanket. Something about being close to you soothes his soul, and allows him to sleep with little issue.

Simon and Johnny

There's a small clash with how Simon and Johnny communicate whilst away from you, but they manage to find a slight compromise. Johnny will call you, and drag Simon into view or onto the line if he gets too close to the Scot whilst he's talking to you. He isn't begrudging when he talks to you, but he's very aware of what sounds or sights can be picked up by the phone. He takes privacy and secrecy very seriously, does Simon.

When they're home, you always have practically glued to your hip, no matter the time of day - except the first day home. That first day and night they spend in the guest room together, adjusting themselves back into civilian life. It was a ritual that was started by Simon, that he almost insisted Soap follow with; and the Scot didn't argue. After their day of unwinding, one of them is with you always. Johnny trails after you in the kitchen, or when you're doing chores, and Simon will do the same when you're out and about, getting the weekly shop. It's endearing, in it's own way.

When it comes to night time, and sleeping arrangements, the first couple of nights after they integrate are the best, in your opinion. They both cling to you, one on each side, nuzzling their faces into your arm, or your stomach - or your back, if you're spooning one of them. Sometimes Simon will haul you to sleep on his chest in the middle of the night, and Johnny drapes his arm over the both of you, snuggling into Simon's bulky arm, already half asleep. Other times, Johnny will hug you right up against his front, as Simon hugs him from behind. Occasionally Si will mix things up, and hug you from the front, his large arms reaching over you to grab at the small of Johnny's back, and sometimes his rear.

#requests open #x reader requests #call of duty #cod #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #johnny mactavish #johnny soap mctavish x reader #cod x reader #cod headcanons #ghoap #ghoap x reader

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rookiesbookies · 5 months ago

Note

please please please write a piece where sex doll soap is dominant please please please

also how does this work? is he sentient? does he have emotions? is he ai?

if you dont want to write a pt II id also take a sex doll price

You got Sex Doll Price! Bingo!

So I saw your question and I outlined how it works more in this post (if you havent seen it) and Im getting ready to write the Konig piece, however I want to make it really special so im going to hype it up a bit more and here’s a Price one because I felt like writing him!

I totally forgot this was in my drafts btw

Price’s story of getting bought goes much like all the other’s. His lady is lonely one night, flips through some infomercials because there’s nothing good on and she figured they’d be entertaining she guessed? It was a better idea than Steinfeld reruns for the fifteenth time, and nothing streaming was updated or good. It was a rare mood.

It came on for the dolls and she fell in love with the way he moved, smiled, his eyes. It was like the tv knew how much she loved the soft eyes of an older man.

She slid off her couch and onto the floor before she punched in the number on the phone to call, saying she wanted Price.

It took time before he was there. She felt different, he has been marketed as a companion robot on the tv. One that could walk, talk, cook, clean. It would be nice having someone to take care of the house while she was at work.

When the mystery box was on her doorstep with the gibberish, she assumed what it was based on the size.

It took a long time of struggling to get it through the door. She tore into it almost immediately. She didnt even get him out of the box before she planted a soft kiss to his lips, just as the commercial said. His eyes fluttered open and she was met with the same soft eyes she first saw.

He was swift. Reconnecting his lips to her and moving out of his box without much effort. She slid back to make room for his large form, when she hit the wall he crawled over her.

“I was told you were a companion,” she said softly eyes, trained on his lips then flicking up to his eyes.

“Companions do lots of different things. There are plenty of different types of companions, love.” His rough hands came up to her face, thumb grazing over her lower lip. “It just so happens to be my directive to be a certain kind of companion.”

Her body felt like it was on air the whole time, like her nerves were cushioned by personal clouds as he worked.

He was swift, putting her on her hands and knees before working off her pants and underwear. His mouth connected with her lower lips and began work. He was delicate but hungry.

Once he got her what he deemed wet enough he used his knee to move her thighs apart, pulling his pants down.

“Breath, love.” He whispered sweetly into her ear after spitting into his hand, rubbing it over his cock, “remember to breath.”

He let it rest in her for a long time. She fell onto her forearms, debating letting her mouth hang open so drool could fall.

He was rhythmic and juicy. Everything she imagined. She was so high up she almost didn’t register she was about to cum until it happened. He didn’t seem to orgasm, surprisingly, but he didn’t seem to care, maybe he did - well she had no clue. He picked her up and wondered her home until he found the bathroom, drawing her bath before washing her gently and putting her to better not long after drying her.

Worth every penny.

#cod x reader #call of duty #captain price #captain john price smut #john price x reader #lieutenant price #price mw3 #cod price #price mw2 #price x reader #captain john price #john price

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bobafetts-princess · 6 months ago

Text

Surprise: The Sequel

Pairings: Ghost x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2800

Warnings: PiV, we wrap shit up in this one, a little butt stuff, spit kink, biting, cursing, choking. Reader is a little subby here. This is a fic centered on the reader ovulating and being really horny. Heed warnings accordingly.

Author notes: Yes, this was written when I personally was ovulating and I needed an outlet. Please enjoy 😊

Companion piece to Surprise

“My back fucking hurts,” you grumble to yourself, not really meaning for anyone to hear. But Soap, with his fucking bat ears, does.

“Wan’ me to massage it for yah?” He drawls in his thick Scottish accent. He’s been eying you all day and you can’t figure out why. You’re not dressed any different, you didn’t do your hair any different. You didn’t flirt with him, at least anymore than normal. Soap is the type of guy you can flirt with without realizing it. He’s soft and easy-going with a big personality and the ability to make anyone feel special.

“Mind your business, Soap,” snaps Simon-Ghost-Lieutenant (you’re not really sure what to call him anymore) as he comes in the door. You’re sitting at a desk, writing reports on your latest mission and Soap is at his desk on the left of yours, writing his own.

“Aye L.T. But I do feel like her business is my business,” he chuckles and Ghost flicks him a look as he gets up.

“Why’s your back hurt, Blue?” Ghost asks, hand gripping the back of your chair.

“Not sure, L.T.,” you say but then a cramp hits your lower belly. It’s not your period, definitely not your period, that was two weeks ago. So this means- “Damnit,” you curse under your breath.

“What’s wrong?” Both men ask at the same time, Soap moving to stand by Ghost. Another cramp hits your stomach and you have to stifle a groan.

“Nothing important,” you tell them both but they don’t believe you. But Price walks in, looking for an update on the reports and the subject is dropped. He’s standing over your shoulder and you don’t miss the way he keeps looking down at you, the easy way he smiles at you.

“Looking good today, Blue. Did you do something different with your hair?” Price mentions and you know he doesn’t mean it to be creepy. He’s genuinely trying to be nice and give you a compliment, you don’t get many when your literal job is to commit crimes for the sake of queen and country. But you know the real reason he’s looking at you different.

Your ovulation cycle hits harder than your menstruation cycle, the older you get. Your cramps are worse and men tend to notice you more. They flirt with you easier, they check you out with more purpose. Your skin clears and has this tone to that makes you look perpetually flustered. It’s all very flattering but also, quite annoying. Biology is doing its work, but you don’t want it to. The thing that drives you most insane is that you preen under the attention. You like being noticed when you’re ovulating. You like the way Ghosts eyes are dragging across your hips. You like the easy smile Johnny gives you when he’s flirting. You like the way Price’s eyes struggle to stay in their rightful place.

“Nah, just brushed it this morning, that’s all Captain,” there’s a flash of something in his eyes when you call him by his rank but you can’t unpack it right now. You stand, surprising Price and mumble “I’ll be back,” before you bolt.

Ghost waits an appropriate amount of time before he follows, shoving back his chair with some lame excuse so he can follow you.

He finds you in seconds, heading down the hallway in the general direction of his quarters. As a lieutenant, he gets his own space and as he watches your hips sway he’s thankful for it.

“Blue,” he calls out and you still.

“Not now, Ghost,” you say but you don’t move. His long strides catch up to you in no time and his hand presses into your back.

“What’s the matter?” He asks, and you sigh.

“I’m ovulating,” you tell him, pressing into his hand and relishing the feel of his warmth.

“What’s that mean?” He knows that’s your fertile period and you can get pregnant but he’s not sure on the specifics.

“I’m so horny,” you whine, twisting your neck to look up at him and he wants to dip down and run his nose alone the soft skin there. It takes your words a second to click but when they do, he’s shoving you down the hallway and into his room, locking the door behind him.

———————————

Ghost has you on your knees and you’re taking him. Your pussy is slick with your orgasms and your back is slick with sweat. You’re dropped down to your chest on the bed, fingers gripping the sheets as you cry out. It’s not helping though, because every one of Simon’s powerful thrusts pushes you up the bed.

“This fuckin’ pussy,” he snarls from under his mask. Since that day in the shower you’ve had this tryst going on regularly and it’s been satisfying for the both of you. “Fuck, you take me so well,” he grunts as his hand presses into your shoulders to hold you down. “Love when you submit to me,” he says but you think you can take it a step further. You move your hands from the sheets to behind your back, gripping your forearms as your face presses into the bed. Simon groans deeply as he slides his hand down your back to press down on your forearms. “Look so pretty takin’ my cock like this, Blue,” he snarls and you know he’s getting close. You’ve already cum several times, so you’re not concerned about finishing when he does, but Simon is. His hips ratchet up a notch and you hear the distinctive sound of something in Simon’s mouth. You’re about to peek over your shoulder to see what he’s doing when his thick thumb presses up against your asshole. You gasp and still underneath him as he presses circles into the tight ring.

“I’d love to watch you take me here,” he grunts before he pushes his thumb in. Your whole body tenses but you’re pinned. His hands are still pressing your own into your lower back and his finger in your ass is up to the first knuckle. You’re going to lose your mind, you can’t even scream because your face is pressed into the mattress. He continues pressing until he’s got his whole thumb in your ass and you’re gone. You’re so full, so thoroughly worked over that you when Ghost-Simon-whatever you’re calling each other these days, picks up his thrusts you’re blind with pleasure.

He’s putting you through the mattress, his hulking body pressing yours down. You break first, your body clamping down as you cum. He’s so heavy, so thick, and you’re so overwhelmed but Ghost isn’t done yet. He’s growling deep in his throat, snarling something about what a good little slut you are for him and you know he’s right at the edge of breaking. You feel something sharp against your shoulder and it takes you a few seconds to realize he sank his teeth into the soft flesh. He’d apparently never pulled his mask down after he’d wet his thumb and you feel his tongue soothe the sharp sting his bite left. You lay like that for a second, Ghost’s body laying across yours as you both pant with the exertion. Simon’s tongue licks a hot trail across your shoulder and up your neck, stopping at your ear.

“You’re a good fuck, Blue. Y’know that?” You laugh aloud because any kind of compliment coming from Simon Riley is noteworthy.

“Thanks, you’re not so bad yourself,” you flash a grin at him as he peels off of you, moving to dispose the condom. He comes back and his mask is still pushed up to his nose and his grin would’ve knocked you over if you weren’t already laying down.

“Not so bad, eh? Do I need to split you apart on my cock again so you know how good I can be?” He chuckles, dark and dangerous as he crawls on the bed and stares down at you. His huge hand finds your throat, squeezing and reminding you just how dangerous he can be. But the only thing you feel right now is another how streak of lust through your nerve endings. Your nipples are tight and when he flicks them, a sharp gasp escapes your mouth. Ghost takes the opportunity at hand and pulls you up to him by the throat, shoving his tongue in your mouth. It’s not the first time you’ve kissed but it’s one of the only. You can feel him hardening against your thigh and you can feel how slick you are. His fingers squeeze as he trails his lips down your neck, over where his thumb is digging into the soft flesh.

You’re aching, ready to be filled again, when Ghost speaks in your ear.

“I want to taste you, Blue,” he grunts but you shake your head as best you can with his hand wrapped around your throat.

“Later. Want your cock,” you tell him and he nods, releasing you to get another condom. You desperately want to tell him not to use one, but you are smack in the middle of ovulating and the risk of pregnancy is much higher than if you weren’t. You’re not in a place where you can have a baby and you don’t think Simon is ready to be a father, he may not ever be. But god, the idea of dripping with his cum all day? It’s got you clenching between your legs.

Simon has the condom on, cock swinging between his thick thighs. He’d only managed to get his pants down to his knees the first time and the second time won’t be any different. He’s got a long sleeve shirt on bearing the British Army flag on it and even without all his tac gear he’s huge. Tall and bulky, with a menacing edge to him, you can see why people are terrified. But right now, all you are is horny. He slides between your thighs, lifting your hips and placing a pillow underneath them.

“Gonna take me?” He asks, circling a finger over your clit. You nod but he’s not content with that. “I asked you if you were going to take me, I expect an answer,” he growls from under his mask, pulled back down now.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” you breathe as he presses the head of his cock into you.

“Yes, Lieutenant, what?” He snaps, one hand on your tit, the other on the base of his cock.

“Yes, Lieutenant,-“ you gasp as he pushes into you.

“Go on,” he prompts, almost all the way in now. “Or I won’t fuck you. You can lay here and be my pretty little cock sleeve,” you clench around him, wishing he’d wrap one of those big hands around your throat again.

“Yes, Lieutenant, I’m gonna take all of your cock. Please, I want to take all of your cock.”

“Good girl,” he growls, low in your ear as his hand wraps back around your throat. His thrusts start slow but it doesn’t take long before he’s hitching one thigh up his back, the other pressing you down and pushing you to your limits. He’s more vocal this time, grunts and growls as he sits back on his heels to give himself more leverage. He’s got to be sensitive, it’s the second time in less than 30 minutes, and it shows. His fingers tighten every couple thrusts until you nearly can’t breathe but you know he wouldn’t hurt you. The other hand finds your tits, groping them and pulling at your nipples. He presses the thumb of the hand around your neck into your jaw until your mouth pops open. He pulls the mask above his mouth, leaning down, his eyes wide with question and you nod at him, sticking your tongue out in invitation. He gathers in his mouth before he leans down, spitting directly into your mouth before he closes your jaw and speaks.

“Swallow it.” You do as he asks, opening your mouth again and sticking out your tongue to show him. He groans deeply, gathering his spit again and spitting on your tongue. This time though, he keeps his thumb pressed into the hinge of your jaw so you don’t close it. “That’s my fuckin’ girl,” he snarls, his accent thicker as he pounds into you, “take everythin’ I fuckin’ give ya, don’t ya?” You nod desperately at him, mouth still open, tongue still covered in his spit. “Fuck yeah, ya do. I’m goin’ to cum, I know you’re close.” You nod at him again, pussy tightening as he spits into your mouth again, closing your jaw and telling you to swallow.

“Next time you’re gonna swallow my cum jus’ like that,” he tells you before he leans back, pressing a thumb against your clit. It only takes one, two, three swipes of his thumb before you’re over the edge, crying out his name and clinging to the hand still wrapped around your throat. He follows right along with you, slumping his heavy body against yours. “This will never get old,” he says as he rolls to the side slightly, still laying on you but not quite with his full weight.

“Yeah,” you agree, out of breath and worn down. Finally sated.

“Is it always like this when you ovulate?” He asks, picking himself up and disposing of the condom, for the second time. You nod as he comes back and picks up your underwear off the floor.

“It gets worse as I get older, like evolution is telling me to get a move on.” You stand as Simon holds your hand and helps you into your panties. “My cramps get worse and I get almost unbearably horny,” you tell him as he hunts down your tac pants and helps you into those too. He chuckles as he finds your sports bra, slipping it over your head.

“Maybe you should pop out a kid or two,” and your jaw drops.

“Yeah, sure! I’ll drop my whole life and have babies! Ruin my career, my tits, everything I’ve worked for just to give evolution the middle finger!” You exclaim, annoyed he’d even suggest it. But he’s fully laughing, searching for your shirt under the bed.

“I’s a joke, love. You don’t take those as well as you take my cock,” he husks, finding the army green tank and slipping it over your head. “Besides, it would be a shame to ruin these perfect tits,” he tells you, standing behind you and cupping said perfect tits. Fuck, you didn’t think you could go again but the way his thumbs are brushing over your nipples right now is making you question that. “Well, we better get back to writin’ our reports. Price’ll wonder why we’ve been gone so long,” he says, slapping you on the ass and striding out the door. You’re left panting and annoyed, but you follow after a reasonable amount of time and when you make it back to your desk, Soap is standing next to it looking like the cat that ate the canary.

“Aye, lass. Y’look good today. Exceptional even,” he drawls, and if you weren’t rolling your eyes you’d have noticed his own flick over to Ghost to gauge his reaction.

“Get off my desk, Johnny.”

“Will do, but would ya like t’have a drink with me tonight?” He’s leaned down, in your space, his bright eyes full of mischief.

“No.” You tell him, you’re not really annoyed with him but you are frustrated because Ghost left you horny and every bit as distracted as you were before he fucked you stupid. Your hand flashes out and connects with the inside of Soaps elbow, knocking him off his balance. Ghost chuckles from behind you at his own desk.

“Might wanna leave the girl alone, Johnny. I think she could kick your ass,”

“Ooh I might like that,” Johnny says, not fazed at all that you hit him. Ghost has to suppress a groan at the idea of watching you and Johnny wrestling for dominance. He’s pretty sure you would win and the idea of you fucking Johnny stupid the way he fucks you stupid has him hardening in his pants.

“Johnny,” you start, your voice all sugar sweet and sticky. “Can you do something for me?” Your tone is full of promise and Johnny’s eyes droop as he mutters a gentle ‘of course, lass’

“Go get me some Tylenol and coffee, Johnny,” you say, smacking him upside the head. Simon barks a laugh from behind you, and Johnny looks graciously indignant.

“Aye, lass. Whatever you want,” he’s no actually offended, but he played the part well. Off he slinks, to retrieve the items you’ve asked for and Ghost feels a rush of relief that he’s not the only person in this compound that cares for you.

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost smut #simon riley smut #cod smut #call of duty smut

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powerfultenderness · 1 year ago

Text

A Good Boy

Summary: A very drunk König ends up at your door. Paring: König/F!Reader Rated: Mature Word count: 988 A/N: [Neighbor!König.] A little free write fluff before I get back to requests.

For @crisped-jello I know this isn't quite what you asked, so consider this a companion piece (bc I do like the request you sent! but König got drunk first!)

You heard the voices first, two men, before someone started to rattle your doorknob. It wasn’t an alarming situation for one reason only, you’d recognized one of the voices.

You quickly turned off the TV so you could hear the muffled voices better.

“Are you sure this is the right key?” Of course this was followed by someone trying to jam a key in the door.

The response, from the man that you were familiar with, was unintelligible. You chuckled under your breath and got up to answer the door. It was quite late, just past 2 a.m., and you were about to go to sleep (after one more episode!) so it was a surprise to hear your neighbor returning home at this hour. Well, him drinking with his friends made sense on why he didn’t show up around dinner like he usually did.

You opened the door and the young man in front of you nearly stumbled inside. The little surprised squeak you let out as he accidentally invaded your personal space was cut short as he was quickly shoved aside by the much bigger man.

“König!”

Heat rushed to your face as he held you tight to his chest. Really tight. The side of your face was squished into his chest as he wrapped his arms around the back of your head and your shoulders. König’s scent enveloped you, a mixture of his soap and what you’ve come to know as the smell of gun oil and a touch of sulfur, all under an almost overwhelming smell of alcohol. Geez. How much did it take to get him this drunk?

“I missed you, darling.” His words were slurred and he swayed on his feet as he hugged you.

“You saw me this morning.” You pried his hands off of you and put some breathing space between you, “why don’t you sit down.”

He stumbled a bit, thankfully the young man that had been helping him caught one of his arms and kept a hold on him until he plopped down on your couch.

“Thanks,” you sighed and looked at the man. He was dressed similarly to König, with a black tee and green cargo pants, so you assumed he worked with him.

“Sorry it’s so late, ma’am. I didn’t know he lived with his girlfriend.”

Your face went hot again, “oh! We’re not. I mean, uhh. He lives across the hall.”

A look of panic crossed his face, “ aw shit! Sorry! He said this was his flat! I can get him across-”

“No, no! It’s ok! He can sleep it off here.”

“It was my job to-”

That was apparently as long as König could go without your attention, as he reached for your hips and attempted to pull you to him. Perhaps only because of how drunk he was, you were fast enough to avoid falling by turning around to face him and snatching up his hands. “Hey, you know the rule. Only good boys get to touch.”

You were mostly joking, but that line had worked wonders on reminding him to keep his hands to himself before. Judging by the way he always found a way to touch you, whether it was as overt as a hug or as subtle as his knee bumping yours, you figured he was a bit touch starved. With his inhibitions lowered, you can only imagine how handsy he’d be. You honestly didn’t mind his touches, but you wanted to at least let his friend (co-worker?) leave first.

König whined and reached for you again, though he stopped himself from actually touching you and let his hands hang in the air. Grabby hands. This giant, grown man was making grabby hands at you.

The young man next to you glanced at you, mindful to keep his movements subtle, both confused and amused at the situation.

“Recruit!” König suddenly yelled, voice booming in a way that made you jump and the man next to you stand at attention. “Tell her!”

“Sir?”

Ah, so this guy was some kind of subordi-

“Tell her I have been a good boy!”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop from laughing. The young man next to you, hands still at his sides, didn’t, but from the way he was biting his lip, it was hard for him to stop himself from laughing too.

Still seated, but no less imposing, König glared at the younger man and growled out his command again. “Tell her.”

The recruit cleared his throat and looked at you. “Uh, yes. The colonel has been, uh, a, a good boy.”

It was at that point that you could no longer contain your laughter and you chuckled into the hand you had covering your mouth.

If the recruit finally broke and laughed too, you didn’t hear it, neither you nor König paying any more attention to him.

“See! Now come here!” He reached for your hands and tried to pull you onto his lap.

You managed to resist, still giggling, but ended up standing between his knees. “Alright. What do you want?”

He sat up straight, leaning up towards you, with wide eyes. “To eat your pussy.”

“König!” You gasped, now acutely aware of the awkward cough you heard behind you, and pulled one hand out of his grasp and lightly pushed him back.

He chuckled as he dropped back against the couch, though he never looked away from you.

You sighed and turned back to the still nameless younger man next to you and shook your head. “I’ve got it from here, you can go home now.”

“Good night, sir. Ma’am.”

After locking up, you looked at König. “How about we cuddle instead?”

He nodded, “yes. Cuddle is good.”

You made sure to set some painkillers and a glass of water on the coffee table before laying down with König on the couch, his arms tight around you.

[Neighbor König Masterlist]

Neighbor König taglist (blurbs): Please let me know if you wish to be added or removed.

@warrior-of-justice @cumikering @ihateuguys @rand0m--fangirl @keiva1000 @dtftheavengers @takeyour-pants-off @aeeliy @milenko115 @sodonuthideout @onegami @nadiauddincrafts @nadiauddincrafts @grizzersmamma @flooftoof

#könig x reader #könig x fem reader #blurb #short #neighbor!könig

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wombywoo · 8 months ago

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hawk.

#call of duty #cod #john soap mactavish #my art #unfortunately this young man and his cringefail haircut have bewitched me body and soul 😔#kind of a companion to the ghost hound piece #in that they are both red and feature tasteful depictions of animal savagery in the bg~

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destructive-poet · 7 months ago

Note

Your post about Tav helping Astarion with his hair and post bath cuddles sounds so adorable 🥺🥺 Could I request a full fic for that idea? ❤️

oh of course! I was actually already wanting to write it a bit ❤️ I hope you like it :)

Spa Treatment

astarion x gn! human tav fluff drabble (~400 words, short and sweet.)

“Hold still,” they say, wooden comb gripped in hand, gently detangling the Vampire’s silver locks.

rating: mature

tw: none? (I mean I guess just the smallest bit suggestive for a second.)

minors dni!

The bath had been an undoubtedly fantastic idea.

For the first time in what felt like ages they had been able to have a large, private, warm bath at their whims. And certainly, the two were going to take the fullest advantage of it.

“Fuck,” he said, lowering himself into the water with a groan. “Gods, I haven’t done this in… Well, as long as I can remember.” The human at his side simply slides in, sitting down completely in the stone pool, up to their chest in water. “It’s nice.” They say, simply, though the blissful look on their face suggests it is far better than nice.

“Come here,” they say, reaching towards Astarion to tuck his hair behind his ears. “Look at all of this,” they muse, gesturing to a wide variety of soaps, lotions, and cosmetic concoctions. “It’s beautiful. I could live in here.”

The vampire adds, “As nice as that sounds, I think you would prune up. And I can’t drink from a piece of shriveled fruit, my dear.”

“Oh, so that’s what I am to you? Only a free meal?” They say, turning away and crossing their arms, pretending to be upset. Quickly, a solid figure pulls their own against it’s chest, drawing them back into it. He begins kissing down the back of their neck and across their shoulders, hands settling into their hips. “Not at all, you sustain me in more than one way, dear.” He teases, and the human whips around to kiss him, tasting clean and warm, their arms wrapping around him. It lasts a good while, before they break away, hand trailing across his arm, moving away to look at the jars and bottles lining the side of the bath.

Hours later, they sit on the ground, perfumed in a variety of exotic scents, scrubbed and lotioned and damp. A fur rug separates the two lovers from the cold, tiled floor. The fireplace in front of them warms them, wet hair now almost dried. “Hold still,” the human says, wooden comb gripped in hand, gently detangling the Vampire’s silver locks.

Their eyes seem to drift closed throughout the process, and when it’s done, they set the comb to the side, laying down onto the rug. Astarion is quick to follow, resting his head on their chest and curving his body to cradle his companion’s. “Dearest,” he whispers, and they pull the thick towel over his body, wriggling closer, as if they could live in his skin. “Goodnight, Astarion,” they yawn, half lidded eyes adoringly gazing up at him, before succumbing to the darkness.

He kisses their lavender and jasmine tasting hair, soaking in the warmth of his love, the fire, the fabric. “Goodnight, darling.”

#ao3 #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion x reader #astarion imagine #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #bg3 astarion #fluff #domestic fluff #ask #request

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yagiichan · 14 days ago

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cod x fem!reader EDC Week

cod x fem!reader

cod members reaction to you when they first see you out of your tactical gear, and you’re actually dressed up for EDC.

Warning: mentions of smut, 18+ Minors DNI, language. Mentions of breeding.

A/N: EDC literally just happened in my city, and I’ve been into the COD x reader stories recently. It’s not going to be anything impressive, but I hope ya’ll like it. Again, this is my HC for whatever reason. IDK, I don’t really make sense to myself neither, so don’t @ me. :3 This is also my first time posting on tumblr, so please be nice.

FYI I do not know a whole lot of lore, I’m just here for the fun of it, so please do not flame me for any inaccurate/unplausible storytelling I am about to convey.

P.S. I drew the design of the dress, but I referenced an image on pinterest. I apologize as I do not know the original artist for the figure.

----------------------------

Chatter amongst the operatives broke out, as everyone began filing out of the room, from another long debriefing. You were new to the squad, and just barely began speaking to anyone. Layered in heavy combat armor, and face covered with a balaclava and dark round shades every time you’re on base. You don’t like it when people gawk at you, especially when conducting professional business.

You find it easier when you’re covered up. People treated you like a normal soldier, rather than a piece of meat. Though, doesn’t really stop the flirtatious comments coming from your companions.

Soap would linger sometimes, making fun little passes, “What’ve you got hidin’ under there, bird?” You’d laugh him off and just tell him nothing he’d be interested in. He’d quip back “Bet there’s loads I can find interesting, dove…” You continue to laugh, making your way down the dim hallway. The other members, following behind. Gaz would chime in with a “knock-it-off” comment every now and then, but he was just as curious how you’d look too.

Pretty much, everyone has seen one another, considering how long they’ve been enlisted together, so it’s no surprise that fresh meat would immediately attract the attention of wolves.

Ghost, Konig, and Horangi followed from behind, watching you laugh.

“What’s the fresh meat good at anyways?” Ghost asked nonchalantly. Horangi shrugged his shoulders, with a soft “mm-mm”. Konig shook his head at the both of them “Hand-to-hand combat and reconnaissance. Apparently, she’s managed to close the distance on the Captain and threw him straight into the wall.” Ghost scoffed, attempting to burn a hole in the back of your skull. “She is? Look at her” he pointed with his chin, “A literal fuckin’ gnome is what she is.” Horangi chortled a little bit, Konig staying silent.

Price picking up on their conversation, cleared his throat, “You’ll see in due time lads. Someone like that can be the least expected.”

“So, since it’s the start of the weekend why don’t we start with a bang and head down to the pub for a fill?”

Soap suggested eagerly. The week prior had been incredibly taxing, so everyone was privy to the idea, besides you.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I’ve actually got plans this weekend,” you sheepishly laughed. Soap whined, prodding you on what your plans are. You didn’t budge, only that it was already planned some time ago and you can’t miss you. Despite the constant badgering, Soap deflated in defeat, as Gaz patted his back. Despite the initial rejection, Soap bounced back almost immediately.

Chatting away with you, talking about coming out with them another time. You laughed along, apologizing that you couldn’t attend now, but promised to meet in the future.

Making your way towards your apartment complex on base, you noticed everyone else also shuttling into the freight elevator with you. You tilted your head in confusion, queueing Price,

“Well, we all share the same apartment complex. Compliment of the base we currently reside on. Wants to make sure we’re on the ready for when things go down.”

You slowly nodded in understanding. You clicked your floor number, 10 and noticed that nobody else clicked a floor number besides 14. You looked at Price again, who sheepishly explained that squads are assigned to their own floors. That, since you’re now part of their operation, you’ll probably need to get the changes made soon.

“S’pparently supposed to bring us ‘closer’, build a bond with one another?”

You hummed in acknowledgement, thinking it was cute, “Yeah, I suppose it makes sense.” Chatter continued, until you reached your floor. Getting off, you said your goodnights to everyone. Soap continued to moan, hoping to get a glimpse of you at some point. Gaz agreeing, and Price chuckling at them.

The brooding bunch discussed themselves the best bar to pick from for the night. As the elevator finally reached their floor Soap clapped his hands together “Welp! How’s bout we all meet up again in an hour aye? Freshen up a lil bit. Maybe catch us a pretty bird tonight,” wiggling his eyebrows with the suggestion.

Sighing at Soap’s obvious desperation everyone agreed to meet in the hallway before heading down to the pub.

“Right! Now, let’s get this party started!” Soap howled, looking like he pregame’d before meeting up with the crew.

Everyone had transferred themselves into fresher clothing, finally peeling away the grime of the week. Excitement slowly brews in the group as they can finally wind down for the weekend. Although everyone had changed into more comfortable attire, the three brooding bunch kept their visages concealed. All members shuffling into the freight elevator, chattering happily amongst themselves.

As the freight elevator begins its slow descent towards the ground floor, it suddenly stops at floor 10. Voices begin to hush as the door slowly slides open, revealing a woman with a high slit dress, stopping at the waist. Four thin black bands wrapped around strong thighs.

Her upper torso covered with black cloth besides the diamond cut pattern, exposing her breasts with dangerous allure. Her lower face covered by a black cloth that looked infused with the rest of the dress, leaving only her eyes visible, and hair to flow freely.

The unknown woman continued to adjust herself, before looking up into the elevator, capturing the eyes of every man on board.

----

Your eyes gleamed with happiness, pulling your mask down, smiling brightly at the lot.

“Hey team!” You chirped.

Silence.

“Heading out to the pub now?”

More silence. Eyes continued to stare you down. Not sure what to make of who you are. You started to feel awkward. Not realizing that this is their first time seeing you, especially like this.

“Erm… well then, off we go…? Heh…” you laughed nervously, with the door sliding closed once more, and the lift beginning its descent once more.

The ride down was silent and awkward, at least for the men. You just continued to tap away at your phone, not a care in the world, making plans to meet your friend at the festival entrance.

“(Y/N)?? Is that you?” Gaz piped up, still inspecting you from head to toe. You turned towards Gaz, nodding your head and smiling.

“Suppose this is the first time you guys have seen me outside of my Michelin Man outfit huh?”

You laughed at your own joke, not ever noticing the way their eyes grew hungrier by the second.

You never noticed the way Price stood just a little bit closer, in hopes of accidentally bumping into you. He’d blame it on how crowded the elevator was.

You never noticed the way Soap suddenly started spilling all over his words. His face slowly heating up with every time you laughed at his silly antics.

You never noticed the way Gaz was literally, so star struck, only nodding and laughing at whatever you were saying.

You never noticed the way Ghost suddenly stood up a little straighter, rather than leaning towards the rail of the elevator, trying to make himself look taller. More attractive for you.

Or the way Horangi adjusted his glasses every now and then to make sure you don’t catch him staring at you.

Or the way Konig began to fidget anxiously, staring intently at your being, hands held together to hide something that slowly began to rage in his pants. He was sweating profusely.

“Konig?” you questioned, staring up at the hulking 6’10” man.

Shit.

“Are you alright? You’re sweating up a storm.” Everyone began to turn towards him, suddenly finding himself embarrassed. With a few ‘legit’ coughs Konig spoke.

“Just need some air s’all.” He played it off way too cool. The others glared at him with jealousy when you showed concern for him. Konig, though his face not visible to others, smiled a triumphant smile under his facemask.

You smiled brightly at him, breathing a sigh of relief, tugging at his heartstrings even more. Glances were stolen every now and then by your team members. Assessing your body, and trying to determine if it’s the trick of the light, or your thighs are just that delicious. Toned, large, and ready to crush heads.

Oh, how they wished to have their heads between your legs. To have that pretty black dress lifted over their heads, and to hear your sweet voice calling out their names in ecstasy. Your hair sticking to your skin, drenched in the sweat and tears of your pheromones.

To watch the rise and fall of your heaving chest, as your honey coats their face and tongues. Once you’ve had your high, the dress comes off and you smile that bright smile at them, hands cupping their faces whisper-begging.

“Come here, darling… Come to me. I need you, so badly.” You’d pant out, with tears in your eyes, and a wobbly smile on your face, just begging to be ravaged by them. To be pumped with their loads.

Oh, they all wanted you, and you didn’t even know it.

The ride down felt like forever, until the soft ding of elevator is heard throughout, indicating your destination of the ground floor.

----

“So, where are you heading, dressed up like this?” Price inquired.

“EDC. It’s going on for 3 days, but I’ll only be going for two.” You stated excitedly.

“EDC? Wassall that then hen?” Now Soap asking the questions.

“It’s just a music festival. Electric Dance Carnival. Been dying to go, and since we’re out here I wanted to take the chance.” You informed the bunch. They all walked along side you, the rest in silence as Soap continued his barrage of questions.

“Oh, but I won’t be getting insanely lit or anything like that! It’s just an opportunity is all! I’m meeting some friends.” You corrected yourself, not wanting to have your team think you’re some sort of degenerate (hehe).

As you continued to happily chat away, your taxi pulled up. Bounding towards the door you turn back towards your fellow soldiers, not missing a beat.

“Ay, be safe, okay? If you need anything, don’t hesitate to phone me.” You chirped once more.

“Anyways, I’m off then! Be seeing you around!” You waved as you got into your taxi, driving away into the city.

----

Sitting around a table, with a dimly lit light hanging above them, Ghost groaned at the thought of phoning you to let you know that he isn’t feeling well. That he might need some of that ‘comfort’ you were giving to Konig earlier. Felt kind of sweaty. Might need you to take care of him, if you get what I’m laying down.

Price, Konig, and Horangi sat around the table, watching Gaz and Soap playing rounds of pool, but not really committing to it. Something on their mind, pretty sure knowing what, or who, it could be.

“If I died tomorrow, I’d want it to be those thighs wrapped around my head.” Soap dreamt, leaning on his pole.

“Yeah, no shit. Wasn’t expecting any of that. Reckon I’d begin howling at the moon just to have a bite.” Gaz chuckled.

Eyes snapped up at the duo, and then at each other.

Price laid a hefty pat on Ghosts shoulder, reminding him of his comment earlier.

“Still not what you were expecting, weren’t you lad?” laughing heartily. Ghost grunted at his comment, as did Horangi and Konig.

“I… must admit… I too, was not expecting such a treat tonight.” Horangi shuttered with each word. Konig nodded vigorously.

Still fantasizing about your worry over him. Fretting over his comfort. He was already fantasizing about your wedding. The life you’ll lead together. Breeding you up with his young, having you cry under his weight, with your legs wrapped tightly around him as he drilled his throbbing member deep into your core. Konig shuttered at the thought.

“I’m going to make her mind” Konig stated out of the blue. Suddenly, all eyes snapped at him. Flashes of competitiveness and want evident on everyone’s face. Now, everyone was vying for your affection. And you didn’t even have an inkling of an idea that any of this was going down.

----

I hope ya’ll liked my story. It’s probably all over the place, and that’s okay. It was something I’ve been needing to get out of my system. Something I can go back to when I’m feeling that little itch. I may build on this for our individual heroes. IDK.

#simon riley x reader #john price x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #konig x reader #horangi x reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod x reader #female reader

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cod-dump · 11 months ago

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I have a little funny question

What dogs would you think the 141 + Laswell, Graves, and Nikolai would be?

-🫠

Hmm… interesting question. I don’t exactly have particular breeds in mind for everyone but I have some that feel right.

———

Soap is a labrador retriever (or at least mixed with one). He’s energetic, very smart, a great family dog but also protective. Definitely was trained to sniff out bombs and after he was retired he went to a home with a big family with tons of kids who love him to pieces. He sleeps with the family’s four year daughter and is her constant shadow. He loves to go camping with his family, run around in nature and get filthy… then he has his humans chasing with him to try to get him clean.

Ghost is a rottweiler. Gets a bad rep for being dangerous (and he is, don’t forget that), but he is also very sweet and playful. Was in the dog fighting ring for a couple years before it was broken up, then he was bounced between shelters and foster families until he was adopted by a veteran who needed a companion. That man became Ghost’s entire world. He brought out the sweetness, the playfulness. During thunderstorms they cuddle and wait it out, and when it passes they step outside to breathe in the air.

Gaz is a Belgian Malinois and he was given to a college girl by her parents so she wasn’t alone when she moved out. He is very protective of her and very judgy of any new person she introduces him to. Without a doubt Gaz is her best friend and has been her rock for years. When her wedding day came, he was there. Best man? No, best boy. Her fiance worked on winning him over since day one, and it paid off because now Gaz has two people that he loves fiercely.

Price is a live stock guardian of some kind. Was born on a farm and given to a family friend who just lost his old guardian. Price was raised with a small herd of goats and they became his world. The family who owns the farm he lives on has a couple kids who come out and spend time with him. There are plenty of pictures of Price laying around with baby goats running around and jumping on him. He has jumped the fence more than once to chase off anything that might be a threat to his family.

Laswell is a mixed breed between a German Shepherd and a standard pitbull. She’s scary smart and very protective. She’s lived with the same old couple since she was a puppy. Laswell is very laidback at first but she’s very anxious and constantly moving between rooms to check on everything. She loves when her owners’ grandkids come over and latches onto one of them until they leave.

Graves is a pitbull. He’s big, scary, and a dork. Very protective and sassy. He’s owned by a police officer and that man is his best friend, Graves wouldn’t hesitate to fight someone over him. He has fended off an armed robber, getting stabbed in the process. But he did not stop fighting until he knew his human was safe. He has a gnarly scar as a reminder of that night but he doesn’t have any care. Though he’s much more jumpy at night, his human doesn’t mind it, he feels safe when Graves is on the job.

Nik is a mutt. He’s big, fluffy, and very laidback. He was passed around for a few years before a teenager bought him on impulse. His parents were very nervous about their son bringing home a huge dog whose history they had no knowledge of, but they quickly got over it. Nik is their gentle giant who loves to nap all day, though he is known to have occasionally zoomies that rock the house. He loves his family and would fight for them is the need came up… but he hasn’t had the chance to. One bark and anyone or anything that was suspicious tends to run off.

#🫠#call of duty #modern warfare #ask #thanks for the ask <3 #drabble #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #kate laswell #cod nikolai #phillip graves

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gravitycavity · 10 months ago

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Sunshine (Pomni x Ragatha) Chapter 1 - Put On a Happy Face

[Click here to read from the beginning on AO3!]

Cover art by @blukiar

“You’re supposed to $%#&ing smile, Pomni!” Zooble's hoarse scream reverberated throughout the big top. “Are you stupid?! We can’t finish the new intro if you aren’t @#$%ing smiling!”

“Leave. Me. Alone!” Pomni, denied the catharsis of slinging her sailor’s mouth, expressed her disdain with her middle fingers instead. She only ended up seething harder, however, when a pair of other-dimensional censor bars appeared to obscure the rude gestures.

“Oh! So that’s how you want to play it, Puffball?” Zooble narrowed her eyes, limping toward the jester with as much aggression as their awkwardly-constructed body would allow — which, for the record, wasn’t very much.

Ragatha had seen enough. “Relax!” She raised her voice, swooping vigilantly between the bickering belligerents. “Both of you!”

Gangle, moping off to the side, sniveled pitifully. In all the commotion, her comedy mask had been shattered. For the second time. This morning. “Guys…! Please, just stop fighting…”

Jax crossed his legs, reclining smartly against Kinger’s impenetrable pillow fort. “Can it, crybaby. This is the best entertainment we’ve had in years!” He flicked a piece of popcorn into the air and caught it in his mouth. Meanwhile, a vibrating Kinger poked his eyes out from between two pillows, saying nothing and everything at the same time.

Ragatha’s good-natured attempts to keep the peace were all for naught. She flinched out of the way of Zooble’s punch — but before the strike could connect, a floating boxing bell materialized out of nowhere, piercing the air with a shrill shriek.

“Now, now! There’s no need for that!” Caine’s wagging finger appeared beside the bell, followed shortly after by the rest of the entity. He lifted his tophat, and a cheesing Bubble gingerly drifted out.

“Naughty, naughty~” Bubble chomped his teeth.

Caine snapped his fingers, and an unseen force pushed Pomni and Zooble apart. “The Amazing Digital Circus — copyright 1996 C&A Incorporated, all rights reserved — is a magical, marvelous CD-Romp for all ages! Zany shenanigans and cartoon mischief I can abide, but outright violence? Strictly out of the question!”

With a grunt, Zooble spiked their arm against the floor. “What are we supposed to do, then!? We’re on take fifty-seven of your dumb@%$ theme song because poor little Pomni thinks she’s the main character of the universe!”

Pomni responded to that, but whatever she said, it was profane enough to be scrubbed out entirely.

“Yes, well…” Caine crossed his arms, steeped in careful thought. The last hour-and-a-half of unusable footage played back through his mismatched eyeballs in a matter of seconds. “It’s nothing we can’t fix in post.”

Zooble swiped their discarded arm off the ground and crammed it back into its empty socket. “Great. Then you can edit me in, too.” They stormed off, reciprocating Pomni’s earlier gesture. “Eat $@#%, sad sack.”

Jax sighed. “Aw, shucks. Right when things were getting good…”

“Uh…!” Caine skipped a beat. He swiveled toward the five circus members still gathered beneath the big top. “Well, then!” he elbowed his soap bubble companion, “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, Bubble! As for the rest of you, consider yourselves off the hook for the rest of the day — my treat! Take some personal time, get some sleep, and try your darndest not to dwell on the soul-crushing scale of eternity!”

“I have no soul!” Bubble turned upside-down. “So I don’t mind it one bit!”

“You and me both, old pal!” Caine’s laugh sounded forced and unnatural.

There was a pause. Gangle glanced around, then meekly raised her ribbony hand. “But what about—”

“Go on, now! I won’t take no for an answer!” the ringmaster stabbed the air with his cane, “I want you all in tip-top condition for tomorrow’s wacky adventure!”

🎪 🎪 🎪

It wasn’t long before everyone had gone their separate ways. Jax had slinked off to the digital carnival to terrorize the NPCs, Gangle had left a trail of teardrops all the way to the digital lake, and Kinger, as per usual, had just disappeared without anyone really noticing.

At last, Pomni was alone again. She curled her tear-stained face inward and filled her chest with three shaky breaths. She couldn’t hold it in anymore. Hands tightened into trembling fists, she threw her head toward the sky and let loose a long, ear-shattering shriek.

Why was this happening to her? What did she ever do to deserve this!? She was a person — a human being, for God’s sake — not some stupid, one-dimensional children’s character. How dare anyone expect her to just grin and bear it? She didn’t owe anything to anyone — not even one second of feigned emotion. As far as she was concerned, the moment she forced that goofy smile onto her face would be the moment she surrendered, and she would never, ever, in a million years—

“I’m always here if you need to talk. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

Pomni flinched, wrenching away from the sudden voice. After the emotional hell she’d gone through during her first day, unexpected noises didn’t exactly put her at ease — nor did anything else in this deranged digital purgatory, for that matter.

“Ah! Sorry!” Ragatha covered her mouth. “I didn’t spook you too bad, did I?”

“You did, actually! Wh-What’s wrong with you?” Pomni gathered herself quickly. She didn’t dare to even look in the direction of the person who had just watched her childish tantrum. The moment she found her footing again, she stormed off like her very life depended on it. “Don’t just sneak up on people like that!”

Silently relenting, Ragatha stepped aside to let Pomni pass. She watched the pouting jester jingle and jangle with every step, stomping with boundless confidence in the completely wrong direction.

“Uh…” Ragatha tilted her head. “Pomni? Do you remember the way to your room?”

“Ugh! What do you care?” Pomni doubled her pace. “Mind your own business!”

Ragatha smirked. “Alright, I guess I’ll just head back to my room, then. Which, for the record…” She pointed behind herself, “…is that way.”

Pomni stared vacantly as Ragatha sauntered off. The doll had read her like a book. Locking herself in her room for days on end meant she still had no clue how to get around the tent — if she wanted to get back to her regularly-scheduled self-pity anytime soon, she would have to swallow whatever was left of her pride.

Pomni grumbled under her breath, fast-walking to catch up. “Hey! W-Wait!”

🎪 🎪 🎪

There was no ambient noise to dampen the tension; the dormitory hall’s plush carpet absorbed the sound of Pomni and Ragatha’s footsteps. Ragatha led, hands tucked politely below her waist, while Pomni trailed behind.

The complete, unbroken silence wasn’t exactly the most comfortable thing in the world, but it was preferable to whatever inane smalltalk would have filled it. That’s how Pomni saw things, at least.

In the time it had taken to walk here, she had managed to cool off a bit — and the unwavering quiet gave her plenty of mental space to reflect on the last few minutes.

She wasn’t sorry. Pomni didn’t care if Zooble hated her — she could hate them right back. Breaking bread with Jax was pointless; that creep preferred to provoke. Gangle was friendly, but to interact with her was to walk on eggshells, and Pomni lacked the patience. And Kinger? Was Kinger.

Arms crossed, Pomni looked up from her big, dumb clown shoes. Her gaze settled on the doll in front of her. Pomni despised everything about this place — but now that she was going through her laundry list of grievances, she had to admit: she had nothing on the redhead.

…What was her name? Ragatha…? She was by far the most mature of the circus’s captives. She was kind. Predictable. An island of calm in a stormy sea.

Pomni’s harsh features softened. Ragatha was the only character who had shown her the slightest shred of compassion since she’d arrived here. The realization weighed down her stomach with more than a few pangs of guilt. Ragatha, of all people, certainly wasn’t a deserving outlet for her angst.

Oh, no — nice going, you idiot. Ragatha was the one thing about this place keeping you anywhere close to sanity, and you’ve already repelled her by acting like a petulant child. She probably hates you now. You know that, right? Actually, it’s not ‘probably’. It’s ‘definitely’. That’s why she isn’t talking. That’s why this is so awkward. That’s why —

“So…what’s under your cap?”

Pomni stumbled. Had the wall not been there to grab onto, she absolutely would have fallen flat on her face.

Stabilizing herself, Pomni gawked up at Ragatha as if the doll had just beamed down from another planet. What’s under her cap? Did she hear that right? It was such an odd, out-of-the-blue question — but at least it had yanked her out of her head.

“I’m sorry?”

Ragatha bent down to Pomni’s eye level. “Your cap.” She said gently, resisting the urge to prod one of the little bells dangling from either end. “It comes off, doesn’t it?”

Pomni blinked. She hadn’t really given it any thought. In fact, until Ragatha had brought it up, she had forgotten that her ridiculous new form came with a hat at all. Doing nothing but hiding under the covers and sobbing for days on end had that effect.

With much bigger problems weighing on her mind, Pomni didn’t really care to check — but something about Ragatha’s expectant gaze possessed her anyway. Very carefully, she hooked her fingers beneath the golden rim. She felt a small amount of resistance as she pushed up, almost as if the headpiece were attached to her body through some kind of magnetic force.

With a just a little effort, though, it popped right off.

“…Huh.” Pomni held the striped cap in her hands. “Look at that.”

“Oh, goodness!” Ragatha tried and failed to suppress a squeal. She paid no mind to her question’s answer, too distracted by the worst hat hair anyone had ever seen. It was certainly a look; a chaotic mess of tangles, knots, and flyaways did as it pleased atop the jester’s capless crown.

“Hey! What gives?!” Pomni ducked her cap back onto her head. A few extra clumps of hair stuck out from underneath. “Why are you laughing?”

“I’m so sorry! Your hair is just…” Ragatha giggled. “Well, it’s a bit messy at the moment. But I like it!”

Pomni leered. “…Liar.”

“I’m not making fun of you! Honest!” Ragatha crossed her hands over her heart. “I love your hair, Pomni. It’s…”

“It’s what?!”

“It’s so cute!”

Pomni’s eyes grew two sizes. That was…not the answer she expected to hear. She didn’t know what to say — just that her face felt a lot warmer than before.

“Obviously, you could use a comb…or three. But who cares about that?” Ragatha’s hand drifted through her own thick, yarn-like locks. “You really lucked out, you know. I’d trade your hair for mine in a heartbeat.”

Despite everything, the smallest of half-smiles lit Pomni’s face.

“I, um…” Pomni took a deep breath. And then two more. Her whole body slumped closer to the floor. Try as she might to keep her personal pity party alive, Ragatha’s radiant energy made her forget her troubles, if only for a moment.

“…Why are you being so nice? And to me, of all people?”

Ragatha just shrugged. “Do I have a reason not to be?”

Pomni gripped her other arm, gaze flicking down the corridor. Her smile faded in the silence.

“Well, um, anyway…” Ragatha glanced at the door behind her — Pomni’s awkwardness was infectious. “You have your room key, right?”

Pomni’s heart skipped at the thought of having lost it, but eased at the feeling of cold metal in her pocket. She nodded.

Gently, Ragatha took the cartoonish key from Pomni’s hand. With a turn and a click, the way to the jester’s room was open.

Ragatha held the door, smiling warmly. “You look like you could use some space. Go enjoy some quality alone time, okay, new stuff?”

“O-Okay.” Pomni didn’t hesitate to do just that — until she did. “Um…” She peeked behind a door half-open. After the longest pause, a simple, stammered “thanks” was all she could manage to get out.

Her door clicked shut. And audibly locked.

My Ko-fi - Tips are very much appreciated! :)

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#pomni x ragatha #pomnitha #ragapom #jesterdoll #buttonblossom #ragatha x pomni #pomatha #tadc #tadc pomni #ragatha #the amazing digital circus #tadc sunshine #tadc fanfiction #sapphic #lesbian

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frannyzooey · 2 years ago

Text

Short Days, Long Nights: 3

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Mature, some angst

A/N: This chapter made me doubt everything, so thank you to @mourningbirds1 and @the-ginger-hedge-witch — you know all you’ve done for me with this one, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough. ❤️

—

Flecks of dirt mingling with his sweat, beads of salt tickle Joel’s scalp, and he takes a break for a moment, pushing the shovel into the loose soil. Raking his fingers through his hair with a scratch, he grabs the hem of his cotton thermal to wipe his face and brings it up, swiping away the evidence of his hard labor.

When you walk out of the cabin with the next batch of plants in your hands, he sees your eyes slide over him and the subtle halt in your step makes him drop the shirt back down.

Head down, using his foot to force the shovel into the ground, he speaks.

“That it?”

“Yea.” Kneeling in front of him, you carefully work the delicate seedling from the pot you started it in into the cup of your hand while he watches. Studying the trench he’s dug for a moment, the crumbling dirt and tender root structure is cradled in your palm.

“Here?” you ask, looking up.

The tilt of your chin upwards has him momentarily speechless, your eyes earnest and trusting and the position you’re in has him beginning to harden.

Jesus, you’re beautiful.

In a wholesome, sweet way: a way he knows is just for him, because while he’s used to seeing you closed off and hard for others, he’s never seen this much openness on your face. The idea of it being for him alone makes him thicken enough that he clears his throat, angling his body away as he answers you.

“Yea. That should be good.”

Your tongue slides along your lower lip in concentration as you bend forward to carve out a spot for the plant; first one, then another and then the last one placed in the soil with a firm press of your fingers around the base.

“Done,” you state, giving it one more pat for good measure. “ Just gotta put up the fencing for the rabbits, and we should be good.”

He’s assembled it already, pieced together a makeshift barrier with some stakes and chicken wire he found in a shed next to the cabin, and it’s clear as he bends to drive the sharpened wood into the ground that he knows what he is doing. Clear too, in the construction of it all, that this is something he knows. His moves are efficient, the two of you working in companionable silence until he’s satisfied it’s secure.

He stands up straight with a low groan, his fingers digging into the base of his spine through his shirt, his flannel stripped off long ago and tossed into the grass.

“I’m gonna go wash off,” he says, pointing at the creek with a jerk of his head, and you dust the moist soil from your hands, wiping them on your pants. Standing, you carefully step out of the garden, and he’s got his hand out to help you, your own smaller one placed in it for a moment.

“Sounds good.” Gathering the pots, you head back inside, and when you turn back at the last moment with a casual “call me if you need me,” he almost laughs.

Almost, the sound dying in his throat as his jaw flexes instead.

Submerging himself in the creek, the water isn’t nearly warm enough for his liking but it’s refreshing all the same.

It strips away the dirt and the sweat, sliding over his bare skin as he forces himself under the gentle current and he floats there for a moment, relishing the pressurized muffle of silence around him.

His hand reaches down between his legs, tempted to give himself relief with the picture of your upturned face still in his mind, but he doesn’t. Instead he holds it there, tightening his fist around himself with a firm squeeze in order to will the bright, strongly centered need away. Popping up with a splash, he focuses instead on scrubbing his body with the bar of soap he brought down.

Using it to wash everything including his hair, he climbs out of the creek and towels off, slipping his jeans and a fresh t-shirt back on. The cotton clings to his damp skin, darkening along his spine, and he sits down on the bank, deciding against putting his socks and boots back on. His gun lying beside him in the grass, he rests his forearms on his knees and digs his toes into the cool ground under his feet. Grass slips against his skin, tearing up in chunks and listening to the birds chirp around him, he lets his head fall back and closes his eyes.

The sun shining bright on his face, the beams heat his chilled skin and he can’t remember the last time he’s done anything like this. Can’t remember the last time he’s done anything like what he’s been doing these last few weeks.

Abandoned when you first found it, the cabin now reeks of domestication and he finds himself simultaneously pulling against it, while unconsciously settling in. The tension that’s filled his muscles for the last ten years as a means of survival: though beginning to loosen in moments like these, it still wraps around his lungs sometimes. Still creeps up on him in the night by appearing in his dreams or grips him out of nowhere when he gets up in the middle of the night just to check that you’re okay.

Everytime he does it is a reminder of the last time he woke in the night to check on someone: a small bundle swaddled in a pink blanket; a sprawled form draped half off her first big girl bed; a tucked ball of preteen.

His fingers seek out his watch, absentmindedly circling the face and he stays there, sitting in the sun.

Hiding in your bedroom and staring at a book with pages you aren’t absorbing, you try not to think about him in the water. You had been in the kitchen, wandering aimlessly into the living room and ended up forcing yourself into your bedroom so you wouldn’t be tempted to peek out the window.

The words blur and shift in front of your eyes, a daydream taking root instead and eventually deciding you’d given him ample time for privacy, you grab your own towel and walk out to the deck.

Heading down to the water, you keep your eyes on him.

His back faces you, the thin material of his shirt stretched taut across his shoulders outlining every muscle in his back, every strong dip and plane. You see a sliver of his skin, a solid, firm slice peeking just below the hem and you come to stand next to him, dropping your towel down on the grass.

He greets you, keeping his eyes shut.

“Nice out,” he says lowly. “Warm.”

In the bright light of the afternoon, you can see clearly the handsomeness of his features and with his eyes closed, you feel braver in your study. His eyes lined, his skin tanned with age, a permanent frown itched between his brows. Gray threads throughout his beard, gathering at the corners of his jaw and peppering lightly through his mustache and along his temples, and without his expression set into his usual sternness, he looks younger.

His mouth is plush and relaxed, his curls a drying halo around his head as they flutter gently in the breeze. You imagine kneeling down to silently straddle his lap, thinking about what his eyes would look like when they opened to find you there. Dark, the brown bleeding into the black, just like they looked like this afternoon as you were gardening.

Wandering down to the edge of the creek, you carefully dip your toe in and with your thin thermal pants rolled up to your knees and your top covered with a tank top, you wade into the creek. When it gets to your thighs, you let out a hiss and looking back at him with an expression of shocked disbelief, you find him watching you.

“You took a bath in this? It’s freezing.”

“I never said the water was warm,” he replies, the quirk of a smile under his mustache.

“A little heads up woulda been nice,” you murmur begrudgingly and he says nothing, shrugging instead, amused.

Knowing that a slow wade in is more pa inful than just taking a leap, you give in and dive forward, staying under the water for a moment until you come up with a shout.

“Jesus Christ!” you cry out, wiping the water from your face and he laughs, a sound that makes you automatically smile because it’s the first time you’ve heard it.

You force yourself to stay in, the water lapping around your shoulders, and pretty soon the sharp cold mellows into something you can stand. Letting your body float in the gentle current, you bring your feet off the bottom and swim closer to the bank.

“Wanna come back in and join me?” you ask, bobbing in the water.

“After that?” He shakes his head. “No thanks. I already punished myself enough for today.”

You shrug, letting yourself fall back and you float on top of the water for a moment, looking up at the sky. You can feel his eyes on you; the image of them so dark still in your mind. A bird flies overhead, your eyes tracking it until it’s out of sight and standing, you face him to walk slowly through the water.

“Feels good,” you make conversation, your head down as you drag your toes through the soft sand. You watch it kick up and swirl around your legs, goosebumps pebbling your shoulders with the water line around your waist. Your comment met with silence, you look up and he’s giving you a hard stare, his eyes dazed.

“You doin’ okay over there?” you call out to him, shifting backwards in the water to submerge yourself again. “You look –”

And then you’re gone, slipping under the surface.

Forcing yourself to stay under, you hear the muffled, stern clip of his voice from the bank, again when he yells your name louder and then a loud splash when he jumps in. Diving under, his arms extend out and find you immediately in the dark water, his grip tight and unyielding as he drags you to the surface. Coming up with a sputter, you’re laughing, wiping the water from your face and opening your eyes, the laugh quietly dies when you see how concerned he looks.

“Gotcha,” you whisper.

There is a beat where he doesn’t say anything, the frown that disappeared earlier back and deeper than ever as he looks down at you, and you are about to apologize when his eyes flash with a mischievousness you’ve never seen on his face before.

“You little shit,” he breathes out.

The tension in his body suddenly leaving, you shriek when he lifts his legs beneath him and lets you both drop down into the water, your limbs reflexively winding around him. You push off the bottom and he joins you, a deep breath in before he’s guiding you backwards under the surface again and you force him down with you, wrestling to keep him there. His hand shifts from the middle of your back down to the curve of your ass, pressing you against him and your arms wrap tight around his neck, holding on.

Popping back up, you’re both breathing heavily with matching grins, and you expect him to let go…but he doesn’t. Instead, his hands stay right where they are and you squeeze your thighs around his waist, his body solid and flush against yours. You feel the soft give of his stomach against your core and it takes everything you have not to squirm against it.

“Feels good, right?” you ask him, reaching up to wipe away a drop of water sliding down towards his eye, and he keeps his gaze on you, nodding.

“Yea, it’s not too bad when you get used to it.”

Wanting nothing more than to lean in and press your mouth to his, you resist, not wanting to give him a reason to pull away.

“When’s the last time you went swimming like this?” you ask instead.

He thinks for a moment, his eyebrow raising. “I don’t even know. I’ve gone to wash myself, but I haven’t done this since –” he stops, his face shifting into something more solemn that he pulls himself out of just as fast. “It’s been a while. What about you?”

You’re sitting on his thighs in the water, your bodies gently turning in a circle as you stay submerged to your shoulders and you shrug.

“I can’t even remember. Maybe when I was little, or something?” You’re quiet for a moment while he studies your face; your bodies dancing in the current. “I’ve missed it. Doing something just for…the fun of it.”

Your fingers brush against the wet cotton of his shirt, one of them tentatively slipping under the neckline to touch his firm skin and giving him time to stop you, you bring your eyes to his. “What do you miss?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but you don’t expect him to. His fingers flex involuntarily underneath you, splaying wide over the plush curve of your ass and you think his face betrays what he misses, especially when his eyes drop to your mouth - which makes his answer all the more surprising when he says it.

“Barbeque,” he replies seriously. “Really good barbeque.”

The answer makes you laugh for a moment, if only to relieve the tension swirling in your belly. “God, me too.”

You imagine he must actually know what he’s talking about, with that accent. Southern barbeque is no joke. Or rather, was.

“What about you?” he asks, and the answer is ready on your tongue.

“Music. Movies.”

He nods in agreement. “Movies. I loved those.”

“Maybe we could reenact one,” you suggest, teasing him and you start to laugh when you see his frown return. “You know, see how much we can remember of our favorite ones? Write the lines down and see if we can —”

He’s already pushing away from you, something you resist with a dig of your fingers into his shoulders and it makes you laugh even more.

“Oh come on,” you coax him as he shakes his head. He tugs you closer, lifting you higher up around his waist and turns to walk out of the creek.

“It’ll be fun! Let’s –”

You’re cut off when he dumps you into the water next to him, your limbs trying to right themselves and when you come up he’s already climbing up the bank, his clothes molded to his body. Your mouth goes dry, your lips slightly parted and he bends to grab the soap he was using earlier, tossing it in your direction with a splash.

“Wash up,” he says, grabbing his own damp towel from the grass and then his rifle. Slinging the strap over his shoulder, he starts to walk back up to the cabin, and you grin at the way you can see him shaking his head at himself.

—

It’s late, when you hear it.

Curled up on the couch with a book in your hand, his mumbling drifts down the hall from his bedroom. Sleep thick, his drawl deeper than it usually is, you listen to him for a moment and when it tapers off, you go back to reading. The lantern’s light flickers over the page, the papery brush of you turning it the only sound in the room and when he suddenly shouts, you startle with a jump.

“Tommy! Tommy help!”

Bolting off the couch, you rush down the hallway and push without thought through his doorway that’s stopped you so many times. He’s there, thrashing in his sheets, fighting an enemy you can’t see.

“No, no. Come on baby girl,” he mumbles again. The neckline of his shirt is drenched and dark with sweat, his face twisted in a grimace. “No. No.”

On the last no, his voice catches in a sob and you kneel on the bed, grasping his shoulder to shake him awake. “Joel. Joel. Wake up.”

The second you touch him, he’s up in an instant — his eyes wide open and full of sorrow and rage, his body reacting on instinct. His hand clamps around your wrist with a painful grip, the other twisting in the thin cotton of your shirt to tug you close and he looks furious, drawing in ragged breaths.

You freeze in his hold and wait until he slowly softens in recognition, letting you go. He draws back, forcing distance between the two of you.

“Sorry,” he mutters, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. The heels of his hands dig into his eyes for a moment and you sit down on the edge of the bed.

“You okay?” You venture quietly.

“Yea,” he says, looking down at his knees. His face is stuck in a troubled frown, like he’s still in his head. “Yea, I’m — just a dream.”

You stay with him for a moment, waiting to see if maybe he’ll start talking, but when he won’t meet your eyes, you stand. When you get to the door, you stop and look back.

“I’ll be out here if you need me, okay?”

He rolls onto his side, facing away from you and saying nothing, nods.

–

Not being able to sleep, you hear him get out of bed early the next morning and watch him pass your doorway. The door opens as he walks outside to use the bathroom and lying there, you wonder if you should bring up the nightmare.

Another plank laid down on this tentative bridge of closeness between the two of you, he seemed more relaxed yesterday in the water. The first time he’s ever mentioned or ventured to discuss the past without immediately shutting you down with a silent, stern look, the memory gives you enough confidence to bring it up when you eventually get out of bed, wandering into the kitchen.

He’s there, already dressed and prepping for the day and when you greet him, he replies while staying turned away from you.

Tugging your blanket around your shoulders for fortification, you wait a moment before speaking.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

Rolling your eyes at his back, you continue. “About last night. About the dream you had.” His shoulders tense under the worn flannel, but you push forward. “Seemed like a bad one. Worse than I’ve seen you have anyway, since we’ve been together.”

He turns, his face closed off and tight, his hands busy shoving supplies into his pack. “It was nothing. I barely remember it.”

You hesitate, biting your bottom lip. “You seem kinda bothered about it this morning. Or bothered by something, anyway.” Trying to meet his eye, he resolutely keeps his own down. “We all have them, Joel. It might be good –”

“Just leave it okay?” he cuts you off harshly, looking up. “It was just a dream. Didn’t mean anything, so we don’t have to talk about it.”

His posture squared off and stiff and his jaw set with a clench, his tone brooks no room for argument. This conversation is effectively over as far as he is concerned and you look at the old Joel in front of you, the one you first met so long ago.

“I’m gonna go check out the area.” He says, buckling the straps on his backpack. “See what we’re workin’ with. Scout around, make sure no one else has figured out we’re here.” He slings the strap over his shoulder, grabbing his rifle off the counter and you move to join him.

“Okay, let me just get my stuff.”

Stopping you with a frown, he shakes his head in frustration. “No. You’re gonna stay here. I’m gonna go alone.”

“Why? Don’t you think I should come with? We always go together.”

“Not today.” He walks towards the door, his footfalls heavy in his boots and you automatically follow him. “Just stay here, okay? I’ll be back tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning if –”

“Tomorrow morning?” you ask, panic rising in your throat.

Insecurities flood into your tone and your mind: this because you pushed him about the dream. This is because of the lake. This is because of the way you forced him to stay here when he didn’t want to, and now he’s getting tired of entertaining whatever this is and he’s going to leave. He’s going to say he’s coming back, but he won’t. He’ll keep going and you’ll be left here alone and –

“Wait. Just wait for me to get my stuff. I don’t –” You scramble for words, anxiety choking you when he steps outside.

“Joel!”

He doesn’t stop and doesn’t look back either, and trying not to cry, you slump against the frame still wrapped in your blanket and watch him go.

The overgrown path that led to the cabin in the first place also leads away from it, continuing on into the forest and he follows it, his gut telling him to go back.

He hates that he left like that.

Not trusting himself to leave if he met your eyes, he forced himself not to answer or turn around when you called for him but it doesn’t matter in the end, because he sees them nonetheless.

He sees your face when he scans for any sign of life while walking, hears the panic in your voice with every step he takes. Worries about you being left alone when he finds another abandoned cabin in the woods three miles from your own. He approaches it the same way he did yours, tearing the tarp off the back to let himself inside and crawling in through the window, he wonders if this used to be resort property with the way these places are preserved.

Taking his time, he combs through every one of the rooms, grabbing what he deems to have use: rain jackets, first aid supplies, as much food as he can cram in his pack before he finds a bag in the kitchen to hold more. Early afternoon turns into late, the sun settling into the horizon and the entire time, he feels the remnants of his dream.

He does remember it, though he would never admit that to you. It’s the same one he has all the time, only her face has started to blur into your face, though the outcome stays the same. He wakes up frantic and panting, his hands grasping the ghost of something he’s lost and he can’t decide if he wants to burn the world in his rage or sob because he’s failed.

The dream he had last night the worst he’s had in a while, everything was covered in shadows and sorrow, slices of time merging and blending together. Your face in that garden and then in his bed, your body arching underneath his. Your back as you walked in front of him in the forest, a punch of fear in his gut at the echo of gunshots as you hit the ground. Those same shots but the world tilting, and then he held a much smaller, limp body in his arms.

Still raw, he had felt trapped when you asked him about the dream, the kitchen walls closing in as the image of her lifeless in his arms grew more real and vivid by the minute and needing to leave, the attachment he’s allowed you to form made him panic even more. Clear in your voice when you begged for him to stay, the crushing pressure of someone depending on him had settled in his chest, the weight of it making it hard to breathe.

The pain that he’s spent years burying, now uncovered and overturned, brought to the surface.

He remembered that kind of love.

The kind that swirled heavy in his chest, the kind that flooded it until he thought he would burst. So similar to the physical feeling of being overwhelmed and afraid, the feeling had long ago become synonymous with fear with him — but hadn’t that always been the case?

Fear, because you have so much more to lose?

He needed to go for a lot of reasons — to gather more supplies where he could, to ensure there were no threats out there that he couldn’t see, but he also needed to get some fucking space so he could think about anything but your questions and the way you look at him and your eyes in the dark and your body molded to his in the water, your breasts in that tank top –

He’s felt it, your interest and god — god, he wants so much to press his mouth against yours and take. Trying so hard all this time to resist his urges, you had gotten in that lake right in front of him and he couldn't help himself. Allowed himself the pleasure of holding onto you in the most innocent way possible if only for a moment, just to slake his endless thirst.

He couldn’t stop staring.

Your bare, fresh face. The hardened buds of your nipples through your thin tank top.

He imagined the way they would drag against the flat of his tongue, wanted them to peak for another reason besides cold. He wanted to suck on them, press a kiss to each one, pinch them gently to see what your reaction would be, flick his tongue –

No.

Not only do you deserve more than just the release he clearly needs, but you are too young and naive to ever let it be just that. No, you’d attach something more meaningful to it, and that’s not something he wants. That’s not something he’s capable of.

Heavy with new found loot as he makes his way back through the dusk, he thinks about everything you’ve been doing the past few weeks in a different, new light. He wanted to prepare you, but now he sees it for what it really is: the two of you are playing house, and it’s been a long fucking time since he’s done that with anybody.

Dark when he finally returns, a single window glows with the inviting light of a low lit lantern. He carefully avoids the traps, stepping around them in the darkness and letting himself in, he frowns when you don’t immediately greet him.

The living room is silent and empty, his heart picking up in his chest as his mind conjures the idea that you aren’t there, but his body immediately rejects it. He can feel your presence, being tuned into its exact frequency for a while.

Setting his pack and rifle down, he walks down the hallway to your bedroom and finding it empty, he turns to see you curled up in his own. Tucked into a ball on his side, your face is buried in his pillow, your body hidden under his blanket and he stands there for a moment, looking.

Clearly wanting him too, he could take his boots off and climb in behind you. Curl his body around yours and take you into his arms. Press his face into your hair and share your warmth. Sleep…or not.

You would let him.

You want him to, and wanting nothing more himself, he walks back into the living room. Turning out the light you left burning for him, he stretches out on the couch and lies there, awake.

#joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller/you #joel miller/reader #tlou fanfiction

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