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insufferablelust · 2 months

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Aemond claiming you as his 🔥 SMUT

RAVISH [BYKA ZALDRĪZES] Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Targaryen Reader

This work contains mature acts, Minors DNI. 18+ Only.

Bind by her betrothal to the rider of Vhagar, the daughter of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen meets Aemond Targaryen to find herself getting more than she ever expected.

Words counted: 6.9k (My sincerest apologies)

Content include: 18+ MDNI! Targcest (canon incest practice of the Targaryen house), Smut, Sex, Oral sex (F receiving), Heavy breeding kink, Chocking, Claiming of maidenhood, Manhandling, Slight degradation, Reader has the attributes of the Targaryens (silver hair, purple eyes etc), Mention of blood (nothing graphic).

Hello! this is my first time posting my work for any HOTD characters, thank you to the anon who requested, and special thank you & dedication to Gabrielle my friend who helped me Beta this work❤️ My request is always open for HOTD characters. English is not my native language so bear with me. Enjoy and let me know what you think! thank you my loves.

Masterlist

Rules to Request

You can feel the tightness of your evening attire wrapped around the slopes of your curves, with the long thick fabric that overlaps the bodice of your dress downwards. You stayed as still as you could when your ladies dressed you with much attentive eyes. Hands everywhere from the collar to the soles of your feet.

One of your ladies braid your silky silver hair loose but neatly, perfecting your looks for such occasions. One being the arrival of your uncle, the rider of the biggest dragon in all the realms, Aemond. You can feel the loud thumping of your heart against your ribcage, albeit constricted by the tight layers of your attire, it does not deter your nervousness.

Not only is his arrival would have significance on the chess play of the throne of the dragons, but it would bear you consequences that you, in fact, are unable to escape this fate. The fate you have little to say against. The near last wish of the king to betroth you to unite the two sides of the Targaryen blood. Marriage of dragon and dragon, hoping to conceal the gaping wound left by Viserys decisions.

Neither your mother nor your father can truly save you now as you have made your decision to choose your destiny to try and serve the realm the only way you know how. The rising tension and possible bloodshed of cousins and nieces are no longer needed, you had hoped, if you agree to this arrangement. You have no other choice than to take his hand in marriage, even if it means that you have to sacrifice your own freedom and the ambiguous name of the true heir.

You have yet to set your feelings for the rider of Vhagar, he is not only an enigma to you but, more so, a mystery that you are both eager yet scared to fully unveil. There is a part of you know that there is a darkness that surrounds his being like no other, as your brothers have always told you. However, if you are to take his hand in marriage, you would have to force yourself to see the light in him, as you wished for the Seven to guide you in your unprecedented path.

“Princess, pardon me but Her Grace, Queen Alicent has requested your presence at the gate, for Prince Aemond’s arrival.”

At once your shoulder straightened as you breathe out a heavy sigh, pulled out of your heavy thoughts by one of the servants. You smiled, and replied with a gentle “Of course, Lyana. I am to be done and head there right away.”

Closing your eyes briefly, you gathered your thoughts, and silently prayed to not only the Seven but to all old Gods of Valyria to gain you strength and will to overcome this behemoth of a challenge that is to be bestowed upon you in a matter of minutes. Opening your eyes again, you begin to shuffle your way out of the mighty wooden door, and off to your journey just outside of the Red Keep, on the gates overlooking Rhaenys Hill.

You’re accompanied by the two of your ladies as well as your trusted guard as you make your way down the castle. You can see in the distance the few people including the Queen, that has already stood patiently waiting for Prince Aemond’s arrival. You blushed as the foot of your dress sweep gracefully onto the stones below, your heart raced with anticipation of meeting your soon-to-be husband.

“Your Grace.”

You curtsied as you approached Queen Alicent, a sign of greeting and respect you have for the mother of the alleged battling heir to the throne. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you smiled as she gently touches your arm. Her smile is soft, casted as genuine, however, you can clearly see the tightness in them.

Alicent has always spared you more content than to others directly of your mother’s blood, your obedience to the crown, realm, and dedication to the Seven, helped her to overcome the dreaded raging crossfire between the two apparent heirs. Your demur soft upbringing, contented her enough to welcome you in a hug, albeit fabricated with quarrel.

“Princess, it is a delight for all of us to be blessed by your presence, in honor of the Prince, of course.” She replied, your lips set into a thin smile, as you bowed your head to Princess Helaena. Unlike to her brothers or your step aunt’s entourages, you have a knit bond with Helaena, having to endure the chaos of the brooding conflict in the throne, you both shared the same wish to cultivate what was once a peaceful reign and put an end to the family’s misery. You watched attentively as she rubbed her swollen belly, knowing full well the usurper successor of your mother’s rightful throne cradled in the form of the babe inside her body. Your eyes fleetingly meet hers as you continued to smile.

“As it was a delight for me to procure your request of my presence, Your Grace. I am of honored to be here for the Prince’s arrival.”

Alicent patted your arm one more time before you both overlook the land of King’s Landing, with the view of the Narrow Sea dances in your eyes. You were always amazed by the beauty of the realm, the blue greyish skies are your scenery, especially when you have the opportunity to ride on your dragon’s back. Oh how you wished you could just fly away to Dragonstone right about now and see your family again. Alas that too is wishful thinking.

You were suddenly halted of your longing when the sound of the bellowing of mighty Vhagar came to light, your eyes drifted to the source of such powerful force, as the silhouette of one of the greatest beast come into view. You admired her majestic wings from afar, eyes squinted at her fierceness, biting through the wind and seamlessly breaking through the clouds. As the dragon got closer to the Hill of Rhaenys, just outside the Dragonpit, you could also make out the rider of said beast.

Prince Aemond Targaryen.

Even from miles away from the ground, one would not miss the way he fiercely ride the biggest dragon alive known in all seven realms, a dragon he conquered to be his own, the dragon that came to him not when he was born yet when he was in his biggest pit of despair. Vhagar’s bond with her rider is as strong as ever, just like when she roamed the skies with Queen Visenya Targaryen once during Aegon the Conquerer’s reign.

You could make out the shadow of his being as he landed on Rhaenys Hill ever so smoothly, dismounting from the beast before patting her and giving her to the dragon keepers. You hissed in pain as you finally realized that you have been clenching your hand too tightly in front of you.

“Seven heavens dear, are you alright?”

You can hear the soft gasps, and murmurs around you, noticing how you clutched your fingertips together. You have not noticed the entire time that you had been so nervous, it numbed the pain of your even dull fingernails on the palm of your dainty hands.

“Gods.” You exclaimed feeling your palm stings, Queen Alicent noticed the whole thing, her eyebrows furrowed in worry, so did Princess Helaena. “Princess, may I accompany back to the keep? so we can clean your hands” Said Haelena softly, in which you find yourself grateful for.

A nod and curtsy came from you as you lower your head in shame, “I apologize Your Grace, My Princess, for I have unable to assuage my pain. May I please be excused to clean up?” Your voice is in the teetering edge of whimper, eyes too humiliated to stare into Alicent or Helaena’s eyes. If you could summon your dragon here and then, you would and fly away with her so you don’t ever have to come back to Kings Landing but the luck of the Seven was never truly behind you since the start.

“Very well, Princess. Please see to it that the maester is make aware of her condition, and let her heal properly.” Alicent replied sternly, her voice laced with bitter shame covered with fantom worries, and she encouraged Helaena to accompany you, stressing that it would not be much fuss that neither of you would be there to greet the one eyed Prince.

You curtsied once more, before turning away from the looks of all the ladies and lords that have awaited for the Prince’s arrival. You tried to drawn out the murmurs in the background as your hem of your dress shuffled across the cobblestone, making your way back inside the keep.

Haelena was patient as she accompanied you to the Maester’s healing chamber, making small comments so that they are well aware of your little incident. The blush on your cheeks has yet to subside nor does the pounding in your chest. The bodice strangling you from the outside, as your own fear strangled you from within.

“Niece, however are you feeling? has the pain subsided?”

You were pulled out of your thoughts by the soft ringing of Helaena’s voice, your mind eased a little hearing her, she is a soothing presence in the midst of your confusion. You may live in King’s Landing, however your soul have always been with your family, home is wherever they were, and that was Dragonstone. How you so badly wanted to be there.

“No need to be worrisome, muñus. By the will of the gods, I shall be fine. It was just my foolish mistake. I should have been more careful.” Aunt.

The last words that left your mouth were that of a whimper, small plea you made to yourself. A plea that you knew would save yourself and possibly the realm had you not make the same reckless mistake over and over again. Helaena whom has been pestering over the healers, sit down besides you. She might be your aunt by bloodline, but she is also closer to your age, knows the burden you carry with the looming threat of the crack in the lair of the dragons.

“Dare I ask what is occupying your mind, dear?”

There is a tinge of pleasant playfulness in her voice that didn’t fail to make you tilt your head and chuckled. Sighing, “None of the matter, My Princess, it is merely a big day for us all.” You looked straight into her eyes as you replied, knowing full well she would understand what does big day entailed.

“Jorrāeliarzys, a fierce dragon such as yourself need not be worry of any apprehension.”

She clicked her tongue at you like a mother scolding their child, you feel comforted by the warmth she displayed to you knowing full well all of this heap was due to her own brother’s arrival upon the keep. Aegon himself has not been able to sleep peacefully since he catches the news of his brother’s wind in Kings Landing.

“Thank you, Helaena. I shall pray that the Prince arrives at the gates safely—“

Your moment was cut short however when you both heard the huge door opening, revealing the two guards that stood in front. Your breath hitched slightly, when you took upon notice the presence whom have entered the healing chambers.

“Brother, welcome.” You quickly took back your hand as soon as the maester was done wrapping it up in a soft silk cloth, concealing your earlier omission from him. Your eyes had not dared to look into his, instead focusing them on the ground beneath your feet as the brother and sister embraced each other in front of you.

Had you not looked away, you would have seen that Aemond’s eyes have certainly never wavered from your presence, his attention was on you as soon as he arrived to the gates. Blood boiling with fury as he had heard what had happened to you. It was supposed to be a happy day, at the very least for him, as it is the day he was going to set eyes again on you. His future wife. The queen to his soon to be realm, the one whom he will fight for.

His eyes has yet to set ashore from your slightly trembling body, it only darted towards your enclasped hands in front of you. “Do you wish to retire to your chambers? you have had a long day on Vhagar’s back.” You can hear Haelena’s voice ring, you wanted so much to greet him as you are accustomed to, however you found your lips to be very hesitant. No sound came out.

“I shall retire later, sister. I wish to see the princess first as I have been made aware of her conditions.”

The smooth sound of his thick voice caresses you softly, yet it leaves a rough grip on its awakening, just like dragon scales. You tilted your head slightly, finally looking at him as you have been sought after.

“My Prince.” Your voice finally escaped your lips, breathing a shaky breath as your eyes locked with his. “Welcome back, the keep has not been the same without your presence.” You smiled gently, lips pressed into a thin line— there is so much resistance coming from you and he knows it.

Aemond then stepped forward, standing in front of you. You felt his dominating figure as he towered over yours, making you swallow the bile in your throat. Your breath, however, hitched in your throat as he tenderly brings your hands upwards, bending over a little to place a lingering kiss atop of the cloth covered skin. “How severely does it hurt, My Princess?”

Shivers come washing down on you when you felt his lips ever so gently grazes your skin, even through the cloth you can feel his warm breath, his attentive touch and words releases a bit of pressure off your shoulders. But you must not let your guard down as you are still standing in front of a man that has caused way too many mishaps for your house. The threatening presence to the house destruction, yet, all of that just gravitated yourself closer to him.

“It barely hurts… All is well, My Prince—“ You replied eyes darting between his patchless eye, and to Helaena behind him whom watching this whole encounter with a smile, “I apologize to have caused you much trouble upon your arrival day, for I swear to the Seven, I did not mean it.”

You can hear Aemond clicks his tongue in front of you, clearly unamused to you apologizing for something that causes you terrible pain. After all you are to be his wife, he would always protect you even if it meant from your own self. “By all the realms, you have no need to apologize-“ He tilted his head in what you can only take as a menacing smug gesture with a grin.

“I’ll take your hand in marriage in less than a moon time, and soon your hand would cradle my babe, I am merely seeking to even give you a new hand, if My Princess ever so wishes for one. Hm, ñuhys jorrāeliarzy?” My beloved.

That pulled a hefty gasp out of you, your hands that were still in his grasp turned so cold. Although it is not a new matter that the King and Queen has betrothed you both, it still feels like you’re reverted to how you are a shy maiden, not nearly as experienced as he was in anything. You have your mother’s wit as well as fierceness, your father’s attitude yet you always find yourself in another dichotomy altogether where you’re more demure than those of your siblings characters, Jacaerys is a wise leader, so as your other brothers, you— you are something else. Never wish for any power yet contented to defending your own.

“I suppose so, My Prince. However you needn’t to worry. I shall be fine by the time moonlight arrives.” You replied with trying hard to keep up with his intense eye contact. It was difficult for you to not drown in his lilac eyes, his silver hair, perfectly sculpted jaw, and even more domineering stance. You have wished sometimes that the Gods would just damn you in the Grand Sept for your lewd thoughts.

“Very well, little dragon. I shall see you during supper tonight, for I can not wait to have a feast.” The last words may not he spoken loudly as his lips were truly beside your ears, however, you can hear it as it was meant to be heard by you only. Your cheeks could not contain the warmth that rises to its surface, only spreading further down your neck— flustered and hot everywhere when the back of his nimble fingers grazes your cheeks twice.

“Whatever do you mean by—“

“We shall meet again, Princess.” With a tentative smirk and a chuckle, he put down your hand and left as he was never there, with his own clasped behind his back striding out of the healing chambers. Your mouth still agape as to what he meant, your heart raced as your body burned with desire. You can only wish to be spared tonight, as you wanted to keep your virtue until you wed.

—

The gold ring glimmered under the light of fire within your chambers, you keep twirling your hand to get a glimpse of the engraved Valyrian words across the ring itself. Byka zaldrīzes. The writings wrote, there is a small ruby gem on the top, adorned with small scales to imitate that of your dragon’s— Silverwing. Aemond had given this to you few moons ago, when the Queen and small council have decided to betroth you both. It is “A token for our betrothal, to remind you that I have promised in the name of the Seven and all Gods to solely devote myself to you.” He had said. Little dragon.

Your heart fluttered at the thought, even when everyone deemed him the cold even sometimes heartless prince, he had shown you slivers of his tender nature. You of course knew of what transpired during his childhood, you knew of his torment, and his tormentors— you were there to witness by your ears, always trying to comfort him afterwards out of goodwill. The memory of it all remained fresh in your memories. After the death of your younger brother, Lucerys, both side of the throne were cold as ice, sharp as Blackfyre— alas you too would fly to Dragonstone if not for the binding vows of the betrothal your mother had arranged when you were a mere child.

You see, you were supposed to marry Aegon, the usurper soon to be king, however that came short when she decided to wed Aegon with Helaena instead, and reconcile the betrothal the deal, with binding you to Aemond, instead. At the time you knew the reason why she were to wed Aegon because Alicent disapprove of your twin brother Jacaerys for his lack of Valyrian blood, or so Alicent claimed.

You, however, was spared of the thoughts considering you were born with silver hair, striking that of your twin brother— mayhaps the reason why you were so fragile as a child, the Maester thought once that you could not have made it far to adulthood let alone reach your 15th name day. Your hand might be taken by a man you do not wish to wed out of loyalty to your mother but perhaps, unable to escape, this is the best possible outcome you could possibly get.

Letting out a sigh, you smoothen the red and gold dress you’re wearing, the sheer fabric on the sleeve of your arms are giving you room to breathe despite the tightness of your attire. Few strands of your silver locks tied in a braid behind your head, whilst the rest flowed down your shoulders freely. The most beautiful maiden in the realm, the ladies often said. You admired yourself in the mirror, before hearing the door knock.

“Forgive me, Princess, but Her Grace, the Princes, and Princess have all waited for you in the dining hall.”

“Thank you, Lyana. I shall depart right away.”

Taking a deep breath, you shuffled your way out your chambers and into the dining hall. Two guards were stationed in front of the giant door, you nodded your head before they opened it. Taking a sight to your views, you can see the familiar faces of the Queen, your uncles and aunt. It seem that there is only five of you present, with one babe cradled inside Helaena.

“Your Grace, My Princes, and Princess.” You curtsied and bow your head before making your way inside. You locked eyes with that of Aemond’s, his lips curled into a grin as he set eyes on your beauty, before settling on the ring adorning your finger. You can also feel the heated gaze of Aegon interlocking between you and Aemond, Gods, you hope there will be no quarrel tonight between the two.

“Niece, it is a pleasure to be graced by your company again.” Came the voice of Prince Aegon with a smirk, already looking halfway intoxicated by the wine perched on his silver glass. “As it is mine, Your Highness.” you sat down on the chair, smiling at your hosts. “For I can see that my brother is assured to be… joyous.” Aegon chirped, you didn’t miss the glares Aemond threw his way.

“Has the remedy by the Maester treat your hand well, Princess?” Helaena asked you before giving his brother a chance to refute, you were thankful for her quick response. Darting to your palm, recognizing the piece of cloth it is still wrapped in. Trying not to grimace of your earlier humiliation, you just nodded your head, “Yes Princess, I cannot seldom express more of my gratitude for your kindness. It is treating very well.”

“That is a very good news indeed, now we shall feast on the supper.” Queen Alicent smiled at you, looking as uncomfortable with the brooding tension of her own sons— gesturing to the table in front of you. “How was the trip, Prince Aemond?” You tenderly tried to slice yourself a piece of roasted duck, only to hiss with the ever looming pain, sighing, you heard a click of the tongue belonging to none other than your betrothed.

“Allow me, niece.” Aemond voice cut through the silence as he offered to slice your meal for you. Warmth feels your cheeks once more as you pass your knife to him so he can cut it.

“Thank you, uncle.”

“It was pleasant enough, Vhagar was restless as she had to fly during a hailstorm, however, the journey felt too long knowing what awaits me in King’s Landing.”

The implication of his words made you look around, seeing his brother, the very man that threatens your mother’s throne snickered and with a huge grin adorning his face.

“My my, you have grown, brother, I did not know you could be so… feeble.” He swings his now empty cup so the servants can pour more wine inside. You inhaled sharply at his comment, knowing what awaits.

Shocks were thrown around the room as suddenly, the knife in the hand of your betrothed—belonging to you, are raised upon the soon to be Usurper’s King direction.

“I can and will have your tongue for that.” The air around you is thick with tension, “Aemond!” his mother gasped, a rivalry of heir successors that you have rarely seen in Dragonstone between your siblings, yet appear to be so common now in the grand pillars of the Keep.

“Enough—“

“You could do well try, if you can get past my guards, weakling.”

“Still hiding behind your guards? you are no man, merely a boy sent to be a fake king.” Aemond jabs, standing at his full height now— knife right against his brother’s neck. The clanking sound of the knight’s armor can be heard.

“and I still fuck my whores better than you do, brother.”

Next thing you heard was the loud banging of your knife on Aemond’s hands carved deep inside the table, he had stood up in a rage of fury, if looks could kill, Aegon Targaryen would be 12 feet under by now.

“I said enough!” You have in rare occasions see Queen Alicent be this mad even when her sons drove her crazy, let alone hear her voice this loud. The staring feast between Aegon and Aemond lasted even after the Queen told them to cut it off, looking at Helaena whom seem to be uncomfortable by the situation, you clear your throat and placed a soft hand gently on the back of Aemond’s shoulder.

“My Prince, perhaps I can show you, around the Keep? it has been long after all since you last set foot here.” You tried to keep yourself composed.

You carefully thread your words so neither brothers or queen for that matter, would raise the growing tension ever more. You bravely looked towards Aemond’s piercing stare at his drunken brother. A pregnant pause followed suit, before Aemond let out a scoff and turned around.

The screeching sound of his chair was loud in the silence that cut through the hall, he began walking away as you threw a curtsy before the Queen, and scurried after him outside the hall.

“Prince Aemond, please wait.” You tug the midway of your silk dress so you can follow his pace but he walked with as much rage as he did before. Slender and tall figure scurrying away. Hearing no reply coming from him, you let out a sound akin to a desperate whine.

“Dear will you please— Ah!”

You suddenly feel your back pressed against one of the walls inside the small hall not far from where the bed chambers were located. The walls felt cold to your back, your breathing was loud, so was his. Only then you registered that one of his hands were on your neck, wrapped around your delicate throat with enough pressure to block out some of the air when you inhale. The necklace given by your mother digging through your neck.

“You are quite the woman now, aren’t you, niece?” a teasing chuckle came soon after, “I am intrigued on how you have kept your innocence for all the time I have been gone, hm?” Your eyebrows furrowed.

“W-what does that entail, Aemond?” your lips trembled when you speak of his name, you can feel his knees pressed to open the gap between your thighs— causing you to gasp and widen your soft lilac eyes.

“Still remains a maiden, Princess?” Aemond tilt his head, smiling throughout.

“I— of- of course, what are you so boldly implying?” You were taken aback by his implications, the stinging tears on your eyes are threatening to fall down along with the hoarseness of your voice.

“lykirī, issa jorrāeliarzys—“ scoffing in amusement, “I merely wanted to know how hard I can fuck you tonight.” You tried to wiggle away from his hold against your neck only for him to, once more, clicked his tongue at you as if you’re a disobedient child, and put his other hand on your waist to steady you against the wall— leaving no space to go. Calm, my love.

“ah ah, do not make a fuss now, sweet one. wouldn’t want to alert the whole castle on the doings of their virtuous Princess, now would we?”

You can feel his nimble fingers caresses the exposed skin of your hunched dress, the silk making way for his touches to graze yours ever so tantalizingly. “I have dreamed of this, —of you like this.” He muttered, “each time you soothed me after your cunt of brothers disrespected me.” you were still much shocked and flustered at his ministrations. Lips moving down to capture your neck, slowly moving down to the column of your now exposed throat.

“Aemond— not here…”

“Hush, dove. Now that you will soon be my wife, I shall have you whenever, wherever, and however I desire to.” His words are muttered against your skin, drawing soft breathy whines from you.

“Aemond, we should n-not… Please…” You tried to reason with him, even when your hips grinds against his pants covered knees— still nudged in the slope of your inner thighs. You felt your clothed bundle of pleasure rubbed ever so slightly against him when he further raised his knee against you. Making you whine in delight and frustration. “Gods! mmh, aem!”

“Seems to me that you wanted this as much as I do, little one.” He teased as he continues his quest, deep kisses left in his wake, “I shall claim you how I see fit, wouldn’t you say so, princess?”

You tried to answer him but only mewls and whimpers escaped out your lips as you continued to grind against his knees, meeting his now fasten pace, and the kisses on the sensitive spot on your neck just below your jaw is making you high. Gods, it feels like you’re set ablaze by thousands of dragon fire.

“Asked you a question, niece.”

“Yes! Gods yes! take me however you desire.” Your resolve has been breached once and for all, for you can not escape how intoxicating his touches are. You have been to wound up with all the realm duties, indulgence is not one for the Princess, however your desire is far too strong to resist your soon-to-be husband.

“You may not be a whore from the common streets, but you are my own, byka zaldrīzes.” Little dragon. “You will know how wrong my brother was after I fucked you.”

“and I still fuck my whores better than you do, brother.” The words exchanged by Aegon now rings on your ear.

Wanton moans escaped your lips as he continued his assault on your neck, he bent down a little to access the hem of your embroidery to push it down— you whined at the loss of his knee on your soaked cunt, “Why’d you st— oh gods!” you threw your head back against the wall at the feeling of his warm lips engulfing your now hardened buds.

“Patience.”

He muttered sharply before suckling on your teats, nipples darkened with blood rushing to them— all plump and Aemond salivated to the thought of them filling up when you, one day, will bear his child—children. “Cannot wait to fill you up, watch you swell with my babe.” He groaned, switching from one buds to the other— left you panting.

“Ah mm! can’t wait— oh! to carry your heir, my Prince…”

Whilst his mouth is preoccupied by your left nipple, his fingers are tweaking your other one, pulling and twisting— making you writhe in pleasure, you are sure that your small garment is soaked by now.

“You will never be able to escape me in our marit—“

You both were pulled from your pool of lust and pleasure when you heard the clanking noises of a knight’s armor rounding the corners of the Red Keep. Your eyes wide as you tried your best to push Aemond away only for him to raised an eyebrow and covered your mouth with his hand.

“Shh, do not make a sound, little one.”

You were about to protest when you felt his other hand trailing up your haunched hem, his feet parting your lets.

“nnh—“ you tried to speak against his hand, but he just let out a scoff and pushed you impossibly deeper to the wall.

“Rȳbās.” Obey.

Pleasure overtook you as Aemond’s fingers pushed aside your garment, fingers came in contact with the flushed slick soaked flesh of your needy cunt. “you are enjoying this.” He shake his head with so much amusement to his gleaming eyes and smirking lips—voice just above a whisper to make sure no one heard him, but if you have to guess, he wouldn’t care if someone catches you anyways.

“Here I though my little Princess is a pious woman, and here she is, with a dripping cunt begging me to fuck her.”

You heard the clanking sound moving away, noises slowly disappearing into the cold night. “I’d rather say you have been wanting me to do this, is that what you mean by showing me around?” He chuckled deeply, feeling your already flustered face, heated more.

You gasped a breath of relief when his hand unclasped your mouth, “N-no. I truly wanted to—“

“No need to lie, zaldrītsos. Your cunt tells me enough.” with that he gave your pearl of pleasure a slap, you jolted with a loud whine “Aemond, fuck!” Little dragon.

Your pleasure was short lived, however, when he wrapped his arm below your knees before pulling you up his shoulder. Hauled you up before strolling down the hall to where the royal apartment quarters sits.

“Put me down, Aemond!”

“Quiet.”

He playfully patted your arse as he make his way to what you presume to be his chamber. You did not get a good look if there were guards stationed outside, as you thought they would be— he is the prince after all, it’s not like he could care less.

Aemond slam the door shut, before he puts you down and you catch your breath.

“Aemond, what was th—mmmh!”

Your complaints were cut short when he pressed his lips against yours in a passionate manner, lips engulfing your own, as his tongue breached past to enter your hot cavern. His free hand move up to grasp your hair in a tight knot as he slowly move you back towards his bed, the back of your thighs hitting the edge.

His tongue continued to explore yours as his hands roam over your body, from your sensitive jugular to your taut breasts, belly and the conjuncture of your thighs. You let out a gasp of relief and shock as he pushed you to the bed.

Aemond wasted to time to flip you over and manhandled you so that you’re face down on the bed, your back in a perfect arch, silver locks flows beautifully— your arse is up in the air, whilst your feet dangled from the edge. Having ripped your evening attire off, you’re left bare. Cunt exposed. Needy, soaked, and desperate for his attention.

“Kostilus…” your begs are mere muffled mewls by now as he stood to admire your beauty. Gods. He has waited for this for a long time. Your betrothal might just be the cure to his raging agony. Please.

You heard a thud—“Oh Gods!” throwing your head back, as his cold fingers gathered your slick and run them along your folds, gently at first. You turn your head slightly to see him only to had your moans halted.

It’s Aemond, but he no longer wears his eye-patch. His sapphire gem shone bright under the moonlight that seeped through the night sky of King’s Landing. His soft lilac eyes gleamed too. You’re enthralled by his beauty, every marks and turns.

“My, my… you’re drenched. Desperate, aren’t we?” He scoffed at your agape mouth, feeling his 2 of his fingers entering your cunt with vigor, you closed your eyes tightly as you clench on him in instinct. “Ah ah, none of that, open them now, dove.”

Your eyes fluttered open as he commanded, “Look at me, Princess—“ you did with your eyes droopy and sinful lips parted in shallow breaths, “In less than a moon time, you shall find yourself in this situation, each night in our marital bed, ñuhys ābrazȳrys.” it delighted you, and heated the fire in your core to hear his devotion. My wife.

“Y-yes husband.”

Aemond groaned as he sped up his fingers, squelching noises now aloud bouncing off the walls, “Say it again for me.”

“ahh.. mmh! fuck— I am yours, husband, I promise by the Seven!” His fingers grazed your most sensitive spot, as his palm graze your pearl.

“After I claim you, I’d have anyone’s heads that dared to look at you as I do.” The silken sheets beneath your fingers now creased as you keep on clenching them, “Not that they will ever try, not after you begin to swell.” you arched your back with your toes curled, building release arose inside your belly, “with my seed, my babe, my heir.”

“fuck yes! yes yes! as many as you wish.. please, Aemond!”

“Come for me, little one. I’ll fill you up afterwards.” His free hand tangled itself on your silver locks to yank it back, your body shaking with your high so close, eyes teary with your lips wet, raw, and bitten. Truly a sight reserved only for the Gods.

One more brush of his palm against your pearl simultaneously with his fingers abusing your core, all of it was too much as you let out a silent scream, you came on his fingers.

“Good lord! Aemond…”

“Fuck, princess…” His fingers does not let up, however, and continues its assault inside your now gushing cunt. “You are Gods sent.” He whispered before pulling his fingers out slowly, watching you thrash on the bed, licking his fingers afterward.

“Beats the sweetest Westerosi wines.”

You have no more strength to reply as your legs felt like jelly, however the heat in your cheeks and race of your heart never cease, your eyes blink slowly when you heard the soft clad of his tunic, then followed by his cloth pants fell down the floor.

“Ae—mmh!” Toes curling at the feeling of the flushed hard tip of his cock gliding over your now oversensitive folds, “Ready, little dragon?” he teases the entrance of your weeping cunt as you whined,

“Just put it in— Oh!”

“You—fuck! you are greedy for a maiden.” He slowly thrust his tip inside you making you wince at the intrusion. “Aemond… it hurts…” you closed your eyes briefly for Aemond’s length is not to be messed with… long, width as thick, and curved on the tip. You wish you have more time in the future to admire him fully. “Shh shh, the pain will subside soon, little one, stay with me.”

To ease the pain, his fingers once again found haven on your clit, softly pressing as you jolt in overstimulation, “Mmnh.. please…” your body is writhing in both pain and pleasure, “Hells, you’re so tight.” He grunted, pushing inch by inch as your cunt accommodates his size, before pushing it in one thrust.

Your back arched deeply as your mouth agape, loud mewls and moans escapes them on a rapid rate, as you sure the guards will be able to hear by now. His free hand let go of your hand and move to place them on the slope of your hips before moving to pull almost every inch of his length, then slams it back down to the hilt.

“You f-fill me up so much, my prince.” Moans are now freely came out of your lips, as he continued his unrelenting pace, thrusts that are deep as well as it is hard, giving you no chance to catch your breath. You felt like you are flying with your dragon, its that high pleasure that are like no other. “and I shall do— fuck, again and again to ensure my seeds take.”

Though composed, you can hear his breathing shallower than usual, his thrusts are erratic yet remains a choking pace on you. Your fingers grasp the sheets so tightly, you’d have no excuse if the maids found it shred the next day. “My prince—“

“Close?” he can feel your cunt tightening, and holding a vice grip to his cock, the clench made him lose his mind. Gods, he’d stay inside of you all day if you let him, “I’d rather spend my life inside you than to deal with my cunt of a brother.”

“and… and i’d let you.” your voice are jagged, as your body thrown forward and backward following his pace, cock filling your walls— you can feel every vein and ridge, making their indents known to claim you. “What an obedient little wife you’d be.” he muttered with vigor, his hips never relenting to stop, always reaching your spot.

“Only for you, my—oh! my prince!” your peak is nearing, you can feel it so does he, fastening the fingers on your clit, “Come for me, little one. Do it.” He encouraged you, he leaned down and kissed your shoulder tenderly, “Avy jorrālean, zaldrītsos.” I love you, little dragon.

“Av— aaah oh gods!” you threw your head back, back arching and, “Aemond!” you peak, coming from him harder than the last, body slumping to the sheets as your high took over. “Please… please, fill me up. put your h—heir inside of me.” You begged with the last ounce of your strength.

Your cunt clenching on his length so tight that he is so close to reaching his own release, “Gonna put a babe in you, gonna— fuck! watch you swell over and over again.” He groaned loudly, feeling himself getting lost on you, in you.

“Avy jorrālean.” You half whine and whispered, “fuck!” Aemond releases inside you, coming with his seed pumping you full, whispering your name over and over again, against the skin of your neck. I love you.

You both panted, he held your now full belly in his palm before sliding out of you gently— his actions so soft and light, a striking contrast to his earlier ministration. “Oh.. Princess..” He cooed tenderly at you when he flipped you over and look to where you’ve separated, eyes focusing on your mixed fluids. “stop looking its—“

“Ah ah, shush, little dragon. let me take care of you.” He kissed your lips once more before placing a soft pillow beneath your head.

There and then you knew that you might not marry the kindest man, nor the man you dream of in all seven realms, however, you knew in your lonely despair, being wed to Aemond would satisfy your affections. Soon thereafter, you marry and in less than a moon time your belly began to swell, and you can only wish to raise the babe with your husband in a safe unbroken house.

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fairene · 3 months

Text

one of your girls / ln4

part one

lando norris x fem!reader

reader uses she/her pronouns, no use of y/n.

part two

you are just one of his girls. a frequent regular. but something changes, and you are his favorite.

a/n ⋯ how do i explain myself...? guess i can't! this will be divided into two parts for the sake of dramatics, and truthfully i can't contain my excitement to share this with you all. reader's dresses are left to be ambiguous for your imagination, only the cut of the dress is described (perhaps a color, once, but i forget); as usual, it is always up to YOU what you are wearing;) i will be focusing on requests before the next part comes out!

inspiration ⋯ VIDEO

warnings ⋯ SMUT / 18++ minors DNI!!! language, drunk hookup, choking (slight), oral(m!receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap before you tap!), fingering!(f)receiving, overstimulation, feral lando. sickeningly in love lando, but not here; non monogamous (yet), insecure reader.

wc ⋯11.3k (unedited.)

your phone rang in from your bag, the vibration shocking you from your conference room in new york. you had been visiting there for your job, meeting with clients, and overall needing to schmooze the entire fucking office. you were sick of it at this point.

and it was sunday, too. who works on a fucking sunday? you. because what’s life without the overtime pay?

until you saw lando’s contact card lighting up your screen. you blushed, instantly, thinking of just how a week ago he had you laid out on his monaco penthouse, screaming and weeping his name while he fucked you rabidly.

you answered, clearing your throat.

“hello?”

“i won! i won!” he shouted, the background noise of crowds drowning out the baritone of his voice. you raised a brow, but were quick to connect the dots. you’d been so busy with work that you’d forgotten that the race must’ve been over, you were only able to watch the beginning before you were swooped up into a meeting.

your hand flew to cover your mouth as you stepped into your office, shutting the door. you couldn’t be loud, and tears began to welt in your eyes. “did you really?”

“yes, yes! god, i’ve wanted this so bad…” he was absolutely full of rile and cheer. you could hear that from his voice clear as day. you were so happy for him. you wiped a stray tear that fell down your face and rolled to your chin.

“i’m so happy for you, lan.” you breathed, laughing when your voice hitched with emotion. you knew that he caught it, letting out his own gasp at your retention.

“you cryin’ for me?” he said your name, know damn well he had a cheeky smirk on his face. you scoffed, rolling your eyes and even he could hear the action.

“shut up. let me be happy for you.” he laughed again, deep and rich, but relieved that you picked up the phone. it was hard for him to get your attention, though you felt vice versa.

“let me be happy, then,” your brows raised at what he meant. “come to miami. tonight.”

you froze, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your work shirt. “lando…” you sighed. “you know i can’t…”

“please…!” he whined into the phone.

your resilience to him was not good. clearly.

“call my boss.” you heard him yip and pop his lips. he was giddy and thrilled that you accepted his advances. it never did take much, though, did it?

you hung up the phone before you could say anything else and settled back into your temporary station before you were back in monaco full time. the office here was more than sufficient and, you couldn’t help but thank god that you were here when lando called. the flight to miami wouldn’t be more than three hours.

your boss knocked on the door a few minutes later with her brows raised.

she spoke her name and you perked up. “you didn’t tell me you had family in miami,” she said, crossing her arms. but she wasn’t angry.

“i do.” the lie was swift. but it wasn't really a lie, was it…?

“your cousin called me, said that you need to use pto hours for a wedding…” she looked at her apple watch. “which is in a few hours?”

you gulped. “what can i say,” you shrugged, “i’m a workaholic.”

your boss shrugged, turning to leave. “take the week off, you deserve it.”

so this is what working so hard got you? damn. you practically leapt off your seat, packing away your laptop and other essentials you had brought to the office. when you were skipping down the steps of the building to the parking garage, you got a text.

flight leaves 6

> one attachment

it was lando. you opened the text as you were unlocking your door, realizing he sent you a boarding pass. he already filled out all your information. he wanted you there that bad, didn’t he? you wouldn’t even consider the two of you close friends rather than buddies who fuck.

you hearted the message and raced home to pack.

when you touched down in miami, there was a car waiting for you outside the airport. you were shocked with such lively treatment, but weren’t one to start complaining. the ride to lando’s hotel wasn’t very long, either, but it was beautiful.

when you stepped out you were greeted by the miami breeze, refreshing from the stagnant air in your humid new york building.

“thought you were gonna chicken out,” his voice was light and airy. you were so dazed by the grandeur of the building that you didn’t see lando standing there at the entrance. you immediately gaped at him, embarrassed that you were caught off guard.

“on what, this? luxury? be for real!” you stifled a laugh. he held out his hand for your bag, and you gave it to him. but it was really meant for your hand.

his other hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you close. he peppered light kisses to your neck, but not your mouth. your relationship wasn’t intimate like that, it never was. kissing was the next step to love, you told him, and you never reached for his lips with the amount of times you’ve fucked.

but he did.

there was always something about your aura that allured him. it drew him in like a moth to flame, and he would happily burn if it meant being in your presence. but he wasn’t ready for a relationship, so he told himself, and neither were you…so you told yourself.

yet you’ve explored each other’s bodies like vestigios conquerors. you knew what made him tick, he knew what made you squirm. it was a fair trade, you thought, and you had no intention of staying exclusive to him.

but you’d make it known to him that when you were both together, there were no other girls around. no boys. it would be just the two of you in your own world, but it was on a time limit.

your hand found the back of his neck, leaning into his lips, but you pulled back when you heard some whispering– paparazzi.

you said nothing as you shifted past him, ripping his head from your neck. he looked confused before he glanced towards the growing crowd around the hotel entrance, some phones being whipped out to record. but he honestly didn’t give a fuck.

but you did. the last thing you wanted was to be plastered as a whore all over your feed. you still needed your fucking job.

“what,” he said, coming closer to you. you took a distancing step back. he came closer. you didn’t move this time. “you didn’t miss me?”

him and his fucking ego.

but you did.

“want me to show you?” you spun around, full of sass. he let out a light laugh, pressing his shoulders back and straightening his posture. little to your knowledge, he was rendered speechless and his dick tightened in his pants. blood flooded to his abdomen, which had him shifting on his feet. this fucking girl.

“come on,” you cooed, nudging his arm. “i came here to celebrate, no? and you haven’t even bought me a drink yet!” you got him there. he nodded, quickling showing you up to his hotel room in miami. it was a beautiful room with a living room and a single bedroom with a king bed.

when you were up there you got a good look, running your hands over the fabric of the couch and the untouched champagne sitting on the coffee table. “this doesn’t count,” you picked up the bottle, turning to face lando from where he stood, placing your luggage on an armchair.

“what? not expensive enough for you?” you rolled your eyes at him, placing the bottle back down on the platter with the glasses. you made haste opening your suitcase, rummaging through the outfits you brought for the duration of your stay, and in particular, your dress.

you pulled out the carefully folded fabric. you held it out in front of you, impressed by the lack of wrinkles, and turned to lando.

his jaw fell agape, staring at the magnificent piece. it was a longer dress that went to your mid calf, and sparkled in the dim lights of the room. he moved closer to you, running his fingers over the fabric. you gulped in his presence.

“shit,” he sighed out, followed by a laugh. “better put it on now.” you raised a brow at him, confused. “else we won’t make it out that fuckin’ door.”

you stifled a giggle and ran towards the bathroom, changing quickly.

there was a knock at the front door when you were just finishing up your look. lando answered when you peeked your head out of the archway to the bathroom. it was carlos.

“ready yet, mate?”

lando shrugged, moving out the way so carlos could make eye contact with you. he said your name with a cheer, brushing past lando to wrap his arms around you. he kissed both your cheeks in greeting, you returned it. lando hummed to himself, wondering what that kind of affection was like from you. guess he’d never know, huh? too intimate, the words rang in his head.

fuck off.

“you flew today?” carlos asked you. you nodded.

“had to celebrate, didn’t i?” you let out a giggle, covering your stained lips when you glanced at lando who was focused elsewhere, his jaw clenching. it had your joy dying in your throat, suddenly feeling like there wasn’t any reason to smile at all.

“of course!” carlos cheered, slapping lando on the back which had him falling back to earth. “can’t believe he finally did it.” lando’s first ever formula one win was an astronomical achievement. you wish you could’ve been there in person.

“neither can i…” your voice trailed when you were focused on his freckled face. a constellation, you called it, and could lose yourself in counting them. and lando was looking at you and your beautiful face. he was addicted to you, he learned, and no girl could fuck him like you could.

carlos glanced between the two of you and raised his brows. “right, then.” he cleared his throat. “let’s get going then, yeah? got the whole grid celebrating you, lando!”

you were quick to put on your heels and grab your clutch. lando waited by the door for you, holding the door open.

when you brushed by him, he grabbed your arm and twisted you around. he pushed his head close to your chest, which had you flushing.

“lando!” you scolded beneath your breath.

“you smell like me,” he raised a brow.

shit. you thought he wouldn’t notice. “grabbed your cologne on accident. was rushing…replaced it with mine, see?” you raised your wrist for him to smell and he did, nose brushing against your sensitive skin. your veins pumped just beneath a thin layer. you felt him inhale and you had shivers running up your spine. he glanced at you again, dropping your hand.

“think mine’s better.”

he meant it. you smelling just like him had him on fucking edge. he didn’t understand why it mattered to him to such a high degree. the primal inclination soaring right over his head, but he knew you were his for the night. longer he would wish, but he would take anything he could get from you.

you only rolled your eyes at him, proceeding to walk down the hall. he caught up with you, hand coming to your lower back to guide you. when you made it to the elevator, he stuck his head into your neck again, breath hot as it fanned against your skin. you leaned into him, but stomped your heeled foot.

“lando…”

he grumbled something inaudible.

“speak, won’t you?” you gripped his chin, pulling him upward.

“driving me fuckin’ crazy.”

your breath caught in your throat. he was always touchy, but it was never this intense. the way he grumbled against the skin of your throat, the needy vibrations which plucked deeply at the strings of your heart. but there shouldn’t be any of your heart involved.

“you’re just a madman, then.”

he chuckled. “gonna lock me up?”

if only, you wanted to say, but held your tongue.

“papaya does look good on you.” you giggled, hand roaming his chest. but you were right about his madness. he was sickeningly crazy. he should be institutionalized, even, in the comfort of your home. what a hell that would be, wouldn’t it?

the drive to the club was short. it wasn’t very far from the hotel. the inside of his expensive mclaren had you dazzled, though it wasn’t really his, just a rental whilst he was in miami. still, your fingers found the pleasure of finding the leather that boarded the doors, wondering just how much leather you could adorn as decoration.

lando, on the other hand, was white knuckling the steering wheel the entire time, debating whether or not his hand would find a good home on the skin of your thigh. your dress had been too long for that, though, and he didn’t…fuck, he didn’t even know. he was anxious to be with you this weekend, not hesitating to call you to be the first one to come down to congratulate him.

he had so many other girls. why did he choose you? he didn’t know it himself, wasn’t sure if he was ready to face such intense truths, but his heart led him astray dialing your phone number. he didn’t even hesitate nor want to connect with another girl, just you.

fucking hell, and you looked heavenly in that dress. he would spend the entire fucking night shifting his pants to hide his stark boner from your eyes.

rolling up to the club, he gave his keys to the valet and you stepped out, fixing the fabric of your scrunched dress. you made your way over to him, elegant as ever, when the cameras began to flash. the amount of attention frightened you, and your phone fell to the ground. it clattered against the pavement.

lando reached down smoothly to pick it up for you, his movements lingering for a moment. when he rose, his hand grazed the back of your exposed calf, trailing up your body to rest on the fabric of your lower back, the top of your ass. you wanted to swat his hand away teasingly, but for the night…you’d allow it. the cameras flashed more and more. lando only separated from you to take a few selfies with fans, but that had been it.

his hand found your back once more, pulling the fabric down that was scrunched at the back. he also did it as an excuse to rest his hand on your ass. guilty!

and you let him. more cameras flashed. he was yours for the evening. so you’d relish in the momentary fame, but would surely be horrified by the comments the next morning. but fuck it, you looked hot in this dress and wouldn’t let these heels go to waste. let them envy you, for you were surely going to envy the next girl on his arm. what? no you weren’t. that thought was fleeting. you were shocked that you imagined of such a scenario.

inside the club was an ambiance of celebratory cadence. it was lively. the bright lights, cheering on goers. everyone seemed to swarm lando, congratulating him and patting him on the back. he was so happy here.

you attempted to shimmy out of the limelight to give him the attention he deserved, but he tightened his hold on you, digging his fingertips into your waist. you were surprised, looking at him with confusion, but he didn’t even take his eyes off of one of the mclaren engineers who attended the festivities.

playing arm candy wasn’t your specialty, but you had the basics down. smile and laugh. straight posture. being fucking perfect. easy stuff, you know? surely sitting in an office chair for your day to day would enthuse a straight spine. surely listening to your old, ratty coworkers jokes would have you rolling with laughter and smiles. surely it was the easiest thing in the world to be perfect for lando norris–

your name was called by a girl at your side. it was alexandra!

you gasped, swinging out of lando’s arms and throwing yourself into her. she caught you, looking absolutely elegant while doing it, and smiled into your hair.

“thank god you’re here!” you cheered, your hands landing on her shoulders to steady yourself. she looked stunning this evening. but she always did. you envied her for that much.

“of course!” her french accent was sweet and endearing. her voice was even softer. “none of us would miss it. i’m glad you’re here!”

alexandra and you had grown a relationship over the past few years you’ve been acquainted with lando. she seemed to always be where you were, and by coincidence, the two of you followed each other on tiktok and realized you had, if not, the same humor. you began messaging each other back and forth, and there you had it– a beautiful friendship between the two of you. being long distance best friends was hard, but it was times like these that you were grateful to see her.

lando had froze when he felt you slip from his grasp, a horrible feeling of incomprehensible dread washing over him that he couldn’t pinpoint why. he interrupted the conversation he was having to see you with your arms wrapped around alexandra, kissing both of her cheeks. his face flushed, hand tightening on the drink he was given by his mates.

why not him?

lando excused himself and clung to your side. you jumped at the feeling of his hand around your waist, eyes snapping up to meet his… irritated ones? you were at a loss as to what could warrant such a look, but you didn’t let it linger when you shifted closer to him, your hips against his thighs. he seemed to relax both his body and face, giving alexandra a smile.

she was amidst congratulating him when charles and carlos approached. rebecca at carlos’ side.

“is this a party or…?” charles remarked, luring you all to the center of the room to dance. lando glanced at you. you could feel his eyes, but you didn’t meet them. not yet. you thought that if you had, you wouldn’t be able to stop tonight. not with how good he looked, not with how he smelled.

on the dance floor was no better. his hands were all over you. it was a bittersweet homecoming to feel so close to you, so flustered. but you loved the way he made you feel. pure adrenaline. alive. your hips swayed and grinded into his own, him matching your pace with a drink in his hand. there had been one in yours too, but you downed it already.

at one point when the beat dropped, they all began to shout his name. you included. his cheeky little smile had him muster the courage to down his drink, emptying the large glass. whoops and hollers filled the club, and there were no more words to describe how magical this night was for him. he would remember it forever, and you couldn’t blame him.

he was magnificent in the spotlight. with a charming tongue, funny jokes, and charisma that had him swooping up any girl he could want. there were a pack of women surrounding him before he pulled you by the arm, interrupting your conversation with alexandra, twirling you to be plastered against his side. the women’s attention didn’t last long after that.

“cheeky, aren’t you?” you raised your lips to his ears, daring to lay one against the top of his throat. you felt him swallow, his adams apple thick and bobbing.

“don’t like to be a cornered animal.” you knew it was meant to be a joke, but there was a layer of truth to it that you couldn’t ignore. lando didn’t do well in crowds without flustering with anxiety. to that truth about him, you could toast to.

you were back on the floor with him in a matter of minutes, engaging in conversation with alexandra and charles. lando was talking to others as well, but he was firm against your back, hand on your stomach. the action had you blushing, unable to forget any time that he’d lay his hands there, asking if you could feel him. and you could. now, you could feel the imprint of his cock behind you. you didn’t know how he could last this long without asking you to fuck him in the bathroom, but you weren’t complaining.

yet!

steadily as the night progressed, he would be laced with sweat and the smell of him. a mix of body odor, sure, it smelt like lando. your lando for the night. he flashed you a smile as he leaned over your body from behind, both hands gripping your hips against him.

you returned the gesture, but were much more bashful than he anticipated. you were giving him that look. a look that he had become trained to respond to. his dick instantly hardened. pavlov was onto something, wasn’t he?

you both had been there for hours. you could only handle so many more amped up bass drops. and you were both plastered enough. it was around four in the morning when you were tumbling out, giggling and laughing at who knows what.

one of the valet club drivers even drove the both of you back to the hotel. neither of you are in the state to drive.

in the car, one of your legs was atop his, slotted between his thighs. you could feel his pulsing cock and your mouth watered at the sensation. he was staring at you through dangerously dark eyes, reflecting back your own stare of desire. it was like looking in a mirror for the both of you. ravaging and desperate to have one another’s hands on each other’s bodies.

lando took liberty and lowered his head to your exposed shoulder, pulling down a thin strap of your dress to your bicep. he kissed the skin tenderly, an action too intimate for your own good, but you were too fucking drunk to deny it.

“fucking beautiful,” he muttered into your skin, quiet for only your ears to touch. you let your fingers trace up the side of his face lazily, feeling your gaze spinning beneath his tender words.

“i’m proud of you,” you whispered, brushing a stray curl from his sticky forehead up into the rest of his hairs. “you know that, don’t you?”

your voice had been tender. delicious to his drunken ears. though he knew he’d remember this sober– he had a feeling. how could he forget that tone of voice, your gentle touch, clearly breaking the bounds of what was too intimate.

he gulped, eyes flaring wide at your declaration. his hand found your thighs then, gripping the soft flesh with depth.

your fingers traced down to his bottom lip, puckering the flesh, but dropped to the car seat with a laugh. you brushed off his shocked expression, leaning back into the cool leather. but his grip didn’t relent. he kept his eyes on you, too, unable to find something else to fixate on. you were the object of all of his desires. he confirmed it then when he was desperate to hear more of your unsolicited praises from your lips.

he craved your lips.

lando’s head dropped to your waist, his face nuzzling into your soft flesh. he kissed through the fabric of your dress, desperate to feel you beneath such a guarding sheath from your skin. you turned your head to look at him from where your gaze latched to the window, your hand rolling down the curve of his neck.

you kept your hand there for the remainder of the drive, but didn’t look down at him. you knew you’d be face with those desperate, glistening green eyes of his. you’d fall weak beneath the light of his love, and you’d find yourself disappointed when he didn’t want what you did. a relationship, dare you think it just for one second.

the valet driver dropped the two of you off and was able to manage a cab on his own back to the club. lando tipped him a hundred euros for his time, beginning to sober himself enough to walk in a straight line and speak without slurring his speech.

you were the same. stretching your legs from the car, hands above your head in a dramatic feline stretch. lando’s eyes were on you the entire time, gaping at your figure. your ass. his lip caught between his teeth, and you caught him ogling.

your hips began to sway beneath the music of his eyes. you’re unable to resist his humorous allure, crumbling the second the second the corner of his eyes uplifted. a smile followed, his gapped, perfect, teeth shimmering the reflections of the pale moonlight.

he stretched out his arm for you to join him at his side. you sashayed there, twirling in your heels that ached your feet. but you did it for him. you’d do it all, though the alcohol was driving your thoughts.

lando swooped you into his grasp, wrapping his arms around your waist and digging his fingertips into your hips. you laughed amicably, his presence both a comfort and a feat of pride.

you mustered the strength to break his hold, trotting up the steps of the hotel. your heels were loud in the quiet, tender moments of the rising miami sun, and your giggles even more so. lando wasn’t far behind, skipping the steps to catch up with you.

you’d never seen him hit an elevator button harder. you resisted the urge to laugh, knowing it was an impossible situation to be so loud at dawn. so you bit your fist in your mouth, choking down a sound that lando yearned to hear.

when the elevator arrived he jumped right in, dragging you along– though it’s not like you hesitated– by your elbow.

he immediately began trailing kisses down your throat, the column of your neck, your collarbones, shoulders. he left no place untouched by his devout, worshipping lips. he’d often say in the heat of the moment that you were the best thing he’s ever tasted– a man feral for your sweet nectar– but you just thought it to be the post-euphoria sex high.

the british driver muttered something into your neck which had your eyes flaring wide, uncertain if you heard him correctly.

you pushed his head back, gripping at the curls near the base of his neck. “what did you say?”

he looked flushed. embarrassed. he choked on his words, shaking his head. he was clearly brushing it off.

“nothin’.”

he resumed devouring your neck, saliva dripping onto your dress, but his words bubbled.

the ding of the elevator alerted both of you. he was the one to lead the way to his hotel room, swiftly opening the door with skilled ease, and had you against the wall in minutes. he gripped at the fabric of your dress, tempting to rip it. you hissed with contempt. “don’t,” he looked up at you with heavy eyes and a half toothed smirk, challenging you. “too expensive.”

you felt him scoff against the skin of your chest. “‘too expensive.’” he mocked.

but he heeded your words, gentle with how he lowered the straps to your forearms. your head lolled against the wall, eyes glistening with liquidated pleasure. there was nothing better in the world that could feel better than lando norris’ lips against your skin. each press was a blessing, a kiss of life, hungry for the divination you relented this evening.

“so fucking beautiful,” he breathed when he shimmied you out of the dress, neatly undoing the zipper. you wore nothing under the dress besides panties, which had his eyes gawking at your taut, perked nipples. you shifted forward, desperate for his touch on your suddenly cold body.

lando didn’t wait. his cock was already painfully hard in his pants, punishing the fabric for being so restrictive. he pulsated, precum already ruining the pair.

his lips found your nipple, other palm fisting the firm flesh. you let out a sweet moan that was delicious to his starving ears, your hips bucking into his for a relenting yearn for release. he let out the deepest chuckle from his throat, finding such impending amusement for your desire.

when he was contempt with the titillation of your nipples, he moved to the skin of your belly, biting softly at the skin. enough to leave bruises for his own eyes when he’d see you next. next. there was always a next with you.

but you had other plans.

your hands reached for his face, pulling him to meet your eyes. his own blew wide, flickering to your lips, to your eyes.

“let me,” you whimpered, reaching for the buckle of his pants. he’d stop you, usually intending on getting you off with his lips or tongue before he could even cum. but tonight, he couldn’t resist your lips. you looked up at him with pure heaven written in your iris’.

he swallowed before nodding his head rapidly, his forehead leaning into yours. “yeah, yeah, please.”

lando norris wasn’t a man to beg. he didn’t have to do any of that shit for his other girls– they were always eager to please him, fuck him, suck him off– but for you…

your lips found his neck, feeling the thick muscles with your tongue. it was arousing how muscular each part of his body was, thundering with endurance.

there was a soft mewl in his throat when you slid your hand down the front of his pants, beneath his briefs, over the length of his cock. the sound excited you tenfold– wishing that you could hear it a hundred times over again. it was addicting how he wanted you.

when your finger grazed his tip, his hips bucked instinctively into you, just how yours had. he cursed under his breath, letting his head fall limp into the crevice of your neck.

you laughed into his skin, finally falling to your knees to drop his pants and briefs. his cock sprung free, red and vibrating for your touch. your touch. you often wondered how his other girls treated him. if you were better, if you were the worst. obviously not the worst if he was the one to call you after his first win, right?

one hand stroked his length, traveling to his balls, simultaneously glancing up at him. he was staring down at you, riddled with urgency, a pleading look reflecting in your eyes. his bottom lip caught between his teeth when his hand found the back of your head, stroking the sides of your face.

his thumb caressed your bottom lip. it caused your lips to open for him, and his thumb found your tongue. you swirled it around the pad of his finger, never breaking the shared look between you two. you let him go with a pop, and he found his hand at the base of your neck again, hand wrapping a makeshift ponytail with his hand.

your lips swirled around the head of his cock, swallowing the precum that dampened his briefs. he held back a rumble in his throat which annoyed you, so you took him wide in your mouth, bottoming him out in the back of your throat.

your cunt clenched around nothing when his whole body sang in praise of your lips. he faltered when you began a steady pace of back and forth, stimulating his balls with your other hand. curses fell from his lips, sinful words, and he gripped your hair tightly. with his other one, he fell forward against the wall, bracing for dear life.

but you didn’t relent. faster and faster you went, and you were awarded by his hips snapping into you, cock gagging your windpipe. you choked, tears forming in your eyes, but it was divine how satisfying it was. to see his eyes rolling back into his head, hands shaking, desperate to feel you up. from this position, below him, you could see the entire world. you had it all on the tip of your tongue.

“fuck, baby…” he groaned. you felt so good around him. warm and tight. it felt like fucking home for him. somewhere he’d always come back to. and he would. no other girl could make him feel this way, had him about to cum in a matter of three minutes. your lips were made to take his cock, and he would yell that to hell and back for the entire world to know.

he felt you moan against his cock, the sound echoing in your throat. he swallowed harshly, drool dripping down the side of his chin at the sight of you alone. you were perfect.

and when your hand came to run over your nipples, kneading at the skin of your breasts, he felt his abdomen tighten. you found so much pleasure in sucking him off that you felt the need to touch yourself. fuck, he never thought he’d see something so hot in his entire life.

he knew he’d been done for in a matter of seconds. with a firm grip of your hair, he pulled you back from his cock. you looked offended, disappointed when the drool from your lips trailed down your chin.

“not yet,” he uttered, gripping the side of your face with his other hand. his cock was angry, furious at the lack of attention. he was practically fucking edging himself. “wanna cum inside you.”

say less, you wished to say, but all that came out from your lips was a whine.

and then you were laid out on your back on his bed. the white sheets were clean and made, cold beneath your scorching skin.

lando traced two fingers up your thigh, the junction of your hips, your waist. you shivered, toes clenching at the sensation. then to your naval, your pussy, your dampened underwear. a ruined pair, no doubt. he smirked, lip curling.

“all for me, huh?”

you nodded instantly.

his hand slapped against your flushed pussy. you whimpered, grasping at the sheets.

“words, pretty girl.”

“yes!” you gasped when you felt him tug the underwear down your legs. “you, you, you, lando. all you.”

he practically purred. your folds were swollen and glistening, drenched from how his cock pounded into your mouth. “so wet,” he observed, twisting his fingers to trail up your slit, gathering the slick between his fingers. he raised the pair to his mouth, tasting your sweet juice on his tongue. your legs pulsed together, eager for friction, a quiet mewl leaving your throat at the sight. “tastes like heaven.”

“lando…” you were getting impatient now. rightfully so. he stood there with his hardened cock, teasing you with his firm fingers.

“what’dya want, baby? hm?” he asked, knowing damn well what the answer would be. yet he’d trace his hands gently up the sides of your body, fingers dancing over your nipples. you writhed.

“you.” you said endearingly. “fuck me, lan, please.”

he was so impressed with your manners that he couldn’t resist slipping his cock inside of you. atop of you he caged you in, a blessed enclosure, lips pressing to your exposed chest. you whined at the initial stretch, always finding yourself so tight around his thick cock.

“fuck, lando.” you hissed, teeth clenching at his immaculate girth. it was a pleasurable burn, and your arousal only had you clenching around him. he huffed through his nose, hot hair breathing over your skin.

“i know, baby,” he reassured you with his bittersweet voice. “y’can take me, can’t you? always such a good girl for me.”

you whined at his words, low moan bellowing in your throat. you squelched with your slick and he could feel it. he smirked, having the gall to chuckle, even. but you didn’t punish him for it, especially not when he began to move his hips back and forth, a pair of fingers coming to rub against the bundle of nerves placatated at your clit.

the sensation of feeling him slip in and out of you was impeccable. you could find no other pleasure than his cock nestled inside of you, filling you to the absolute hilt of your dreams. the imprint of his dick had him riled with lust when it ran over your lower belly.

“feel me here,” his hand came to grab yours, bringing it to the imprint of his cock inside of you. “don’t you?”

you nodded, lip catching between your teeth and opposite hand threading through his curls as if you were a needle and thread. “so good, lando, please. keep going.”

and he did. if you asked him to do anything right now, he would’ve. the slapping of skin echoed in the hotel room, filling silence with vulgar sounds from both of your lips. lando was a moaning mess at the pulses of your cunt, intent on sucking him dry from his cum. and he was an expert at navigating your clit, pinching and swirling the rough pads of his fingers.

your eyes rolled in the back of his head when you bucked your hips for a better angle. “deeper,” you said, finding a grim satisfaction at the thought of him splitting you open.

his eyes flashed to yours, bloodshot and red with lust, and shifted so your thighs were over his shoulders. your back arched for him and he was pleased to see your receptiveness. his hips didn’t falter, and neither did his hands.

this angle had been more than what any gospel could provide. more than any destiny written out for you. fucking him was written in the stars, you knew it for certain, and you blossomed into a glistening constellation before him. for he was the entire universe for you, and you just a mere fractal in the midst of it all.

but oh, how that wasn’t true. how you were the sun in which he orbited, woke up and thought of. you were the first person that he called after his father, needing your presence with him in miami. he needed this. your cunt. your pleasures, your moans. you, it was on the tip of his tongue, edging its way forward through the kisses he laid upon your neck.

you were drenched in his saliva, coated in the thick musk of lando norris. he would never say it aloud but he dreamed of the day to see his cum dripping down your thighs, full of him, the remnants of your love affair sticky and haughty with each step that you’d take.

it was a primal instinct that became so vicious. it overtook him, thwarting him into a dick-measuring contest whenever you went out with him. he’d keep you close. his, the message would be clear. no man would approach you when he had his hand on your lower back, your hips in his hands, your pelvis grinding against his own. you were his own keepsake. the light at the end of the tunnel. a brazen warrior that he’d follow into any battle.

the only battle he was intending on winning was the war of your heart, blessed be his troops.

it only took a few more harsh thrusts of his cock and twiddling of his fingers before you were painfully close to a release. he could feel it. he knew it like the back of his hand. your trembling legs, intense writhing against his hold, your breathy moans. he wished he could take a picture of you, flushed and desperate, and keep it in his wallet.

“come on, baby.” he urged, feeling the own heat of his orgasm rising in his lower stomach. he had been resisting the urge to cum for your sake, always finding a deeper satisfaction in seeing your overstimulated face after the fact.

“come for me, won’t you? pretty thing. i’ve got you,” the words of praise that were only meant for you. he didn’t call any of his other girls ‘baby’, but you wouldn’t know that. you couldn’t know. it would ruin all of this, wouldn’t it? wouldn’t it?

i’ve got you, he said tenderly. it’s what had you compulsing, drenching his cock in your slick. your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave, drowning you in the euphoria of what was lando norris’ pleasure.

he was staring at your worn out face, his own tongue coming to swipe at his bottom lip. he was ready to feast on you.

lando’s own orgasm was swift to follow. the rhythm of his hips faltered, sloppily, aggressively. the overstimulation against the walls of your cunt was delectable.

“come for me,” you begged him. it had his eyes flaring once more, shocked to hear such a request from your pretty lips. “inside me, lan, need it…”

“fuck…” he groaned, and with one last snap of his hips he was spilling out inside of you. his forehead fell into the crook of your neck, breathing heavily. your chests moved in unison, catching your breaths after such an intense fuck.

you were sticky against him. his body fell atop of yours, and your hands wrapped around his back. one hand came to run up and down his neck again, which had his eyes fluttering with sleep. but he didn’t let himself, and instead moved to get a towel for you both.

he slipped outside of you, the warmth of your cunt had his expression falling. he saw your face, too, empty once he made his way to the on suite. he grabbed a handheld towel and ran it under the warm water, and crossed the space between the bathroom and the bed.

lando let it run up your thighs, between your legs. your cunt was swollen still, his cum thick and dripping from your slit. he smirked to himself, cleaning the remnants of himself from the immediate vicinity, but wouldn’t go further.

you were aware. entirely too aware of how warm you felt. how filled you were. it was filthy how good sex with him was. you could never orgasm with any man but him.

lando fell to the bed beside you, opening the sheet for you to slip in beside him. you hesitated, never having spent an entire night with him, except for a few drunk evenings. did this count? you weren’t sure. you’d certainly remember that mind blowing orgasm.

but his eyes were drooping with sleep, weary when you hesitated. you couldn’t resist, and slid in beside him, comforted by the furnace of his body.

lando’s head found home, once more, in the side of your neck. you brushed the hairs from his sweating forehead, roamed through his scalp. you ran circles through his hair until you heard the soft snores coming from him. it only took a few seconds for him to fall asleep in your arms and for once, you were perfectly content with that. if this was what your life would be, then so be it.

the british driver woke approximately twenty four hours later.

when he woke, you were not there.

he was startled as he searched for you, but there was no sign of you. he sat up in his bed, sun peeking in through the curtains. he rubbed his eyes, hand resting on the spot that you had laid in. there was an imprint from your body.

when he checked his phone, he knew he was in deep shit.

“fuck.” it really had been a full day that he slept through.

but there were no texts from you.

his gut tightened, heart beating loudly in his throat. why are there no texts from you?

he scanned the room to find a glass of water on the nightstand, previously iced from the ring of water around the side of it. and there was a note, too, with some ibuprofen. he picked it up.

had a good night

proud of you always

text me when you’re up x

and it was signed by you.

he folded the piece of paper.

he supposed it was a good night. the best sex he’s ever had, in fact, and wouldn’t forget his own confession in the elevator. he wasn’t sure if you heard it or not, but there was a part of him that wanted you to.

“you were always my favorite,” he spoke into the column of your neck.

the next time you saw lando was in monaco.

you were back home and invited by alexandra to the paddocks for the home race of charles. you accepted, of course, hoping to catch a glimpse of lando.

you hadn’t texted him much, but neither had he. you heard first from him on that tuesday morning and it had you smiling at the airport, bags in hand. you texted back, and it was sporadic from there on out. it’s been a few days since either of you’ve said a word, and it was beginning to wane on you.

alexandra repeated your name.

“yeah?” you responded, head snapping towards her direction.

“i asked if you were feeling alright.”

“oh.” you breathed, laughing it off. “of course, do i not seem okay?” alexandra shook her head, petting leo’s little head in her hands.

“you’ve been quiet, that’s all.”

and you had been. but since she noticed, you were determined to make her forget about it.

“nervous for charles,” you lied. but alexandra bought it and agreed with you, shedding her anxieties for her boyfriend’s home race.

you were standing on the balcony with her in ferrari’s hospitality. you looked elegant today, matching alexandra’s own vibe. your hands were clasped together as you were leaning down, watching the drivers go in and out for their free practice.

alexandra was still ranting about how nervous she was for charles when you saw him.

the papaya was noticeable from anywhere.

lando

lando and company.

a girl trailing behind him. her hair was done neatly, blonde, painfully thin. you grimaced against your will, face scrunching with a bitterness you had never felt before.

alexandra tapped your elbow before she looked down at what you were staring at.

“asshole.” she remarked, scoffing.

you raised a brow. “you think so?”

alexandra nodded as if it was obvious. “don’t know why he brings them around,” she sighed. “not when he could have you.”

you never felt so flattered before. you blushed, thanking her for saying something so kind. though you denied having feelings for him. she knew it was a lie this time.

lando glanced up at the balcony, finding your eyes inevitably. he could feel your stare at the back of his head.

and he fucking waved.

the girl beside him looked up, too, but she did not.

you could see lando’s smile from up here, but in your intensive bitterness, you did not wave back. you stood and turned to go back into ferrari’s hospitality, not thinking twice about your decision.

the rest of the weekend you spent in bitter earnest. you’ve never seen yourself in such a state. but you plastered on a smile for alexandra and charles, entirely too elated when he crossed the finish line first in monaco. you held her as she weeped with joy.

and, of course, you were invited to the festivities for the evening. your attitude was soured by the girl latched to lando’s arm throughout the entire weekend. but he looked so nonchalant with her, careless. none of it mattered. you’d put on your best dress for the evening.

in the club you were found nursing a martini in your hand, not quaint on the taste, but were keen on getting wasted. you didn’t want to deal with whatever shit storm of emotions were brewing inside of your head. seeing lando with another girl was not new for you to witness. it was the norm, in fact, and you never thought about it otherwise.

but something changed that night of his win in miami. you knew it. he knew it. the words he uttered into your neck in that elevator was sending you up the wall and skyrocketing into the abyss of the universe. and you believe that somehow, he would find you.

he would find you.

lando saw you instantly when you entered with alexandra and charles. rebecca and carlos paired together, too, leaving you the odd one out with no arm candy on display. good, the thought was impulsive.

the girl beside him was giggling at something he said. but it wasn’t meant as a joke. he was convinced that she just had no idea what he was talking about, and was eager for a good fuck from him. he knew his skills of pleasure were not in comparison to any low life dude, but no girl could fulfill the void of receptiveness. of yearning desire.

so when he tilted his head back to down the rest of his drink, he grimaced at the taste, and turned back to the girl he brought with him. but he kept stealing glances at you in your short dress. it was like you were punishing him– were you? he suddenly felt like a dog, a bad boy, reared and chained to the dog house outside your house of a heart.

but you didn’t see him. not for a while, actually. you were intent on staying true to your morals– staying away from him this evening. he only brought trouble for you. confusion. you were sick of this back and forth, and most importantly, this rotten feeling of jealousy. it wasn’t a good look on you, or so you thought.

“dance with me?” alexandra asked you. you accepted, of course, grabbing her hand and holding it high above the crowds as she led you to the dance floor. you were both twirling and laughing with your drinks in hand, purely electric with the rap music. charles joined her, gripping her from behind. you couldn’t help but watch, gulping down the feeling of envy.

alexandra noticed. she knew what you were going through, even if you wouldn’t say it aloud. your ‘relationship’ with lando has gone on for far too long without any real commitment. everyone knew he was your favorite girl to be around, except you. you were the only one, apparently, who didn’t know that lando looked at you like a goddess reincarnate.

and when you shook off your thoughts of envy, your eyes found another pair staring back at you.

sharp emeralds, piercing through the musk of the club.

your breath hitched, catching solemnly in your throat.

the blonde was grinding up against him, throwing her head back against his shoulders. one hand was on her hip, the other with an empty shot glass in his hand. the girl was enjoying herself, at least, and you wondered if he fucked her the same as he did you.

his eyes didn’t leave yours as his hips swayed in motion with hers. his hair was disheveled, a coat of sweat gleaning on his forehead.

the pair of you were waiting to see who would break first. who would succumb to the challenge. you wanted so desperately to win, to grab another random man and kiss on his neck, but you were detested.

the air inside the club felt heavy, and the world would collapse on you. the weight was too much on your shoulders as you became lightheaded.

“i need air,” you said to alexandra before you fled from the dance floor, leaving your glass on the counter.

the air of monaco was brisk when it pierced your skin, your thighs, your shoulders. but it was a much needed refreshment from the confines of that fucking club. you felt nauseous, sickened by lando’s eye contact with you. how dare he.

you looked around before turning the corner of the club, seeing a pair of men smoking a cigarette.

“care to share?”

the men glanced at one another and the one holding the pack nodded. he handed you one and you placed it to your lips. he held out the lighter, too, and lit it for you.

you weren’t one to smoke. it was a drunk cigarette kind of night.

they insisted on you staying with them, talking each other up to be some pair of scrouges who deserved your attention. you politely declined their advances and walked the other way, feeling colder when the tobacco hit your lungs.

when you blew out your first puff, it wasn’t long before the cigarette was ripped from your lips.

“hey–”

“this shit isn’t good for you.”

lando.

he found you out here. rather, he chased you out. the minute he saw you turn your back he scrambled, pushing past every person that came in his way.

you scoffed, unable to look at him as you crossed your arms.

“you don’t know what’s good for me.”

he paused, sucking in a tight breath. his jaw clenched. the cigarette was thrown to the ground, crushed beneath his foot.

“rude–” you uttered, cut off when he grabbed your elbow. that had you looking at him. and his expression didn’t disappoint.

his eyes were widened, pupils blown wide as he looked into your own. his lip trembled momentarily, jaw entirely too tight for his own good.

“what’s going on with you?” he wondered, holding eye contact with you.

“nothing.” you answered instantly, brushing him off. but he didn’t accept that.

“‘nothing,’” he mocked. “you’re not a very good liar.”

you hummed. “thanks.”

the conversation widdled down, but he wasn’t about to give up.

“tell me,” he requested, his face pulling closer to yours. you had to give it to him. he was determined. but you were too.

“there’s nothing to tell.” you bit back.

“i care about you. come on–” your name fell sweetly from his lips. he was prepared to grovel at any second now.

but you cut him off. “ohhh…! yeah, right, you care? pfft, no need to pretend, lando.”

he pulled back, shocked that you got in his face. your words were cruel, but he felt the double meaning behind them.

“what?” he asked, softly. you knew then that he was hurt.

but jealousy was a monster.

“i wish i was as stupid as you think i am.” you rambled, hands thrown up with emotion. but you were done with this conversation. “fuck it, i’m leaving–”

but he used his other hand to ground you before him. “don’t.” he pleaded. eyes watering.

“what? like you’d notice?”

then the bells chimed in his head. an alert that he understood what this was. he was stupid in not knowing what was happening before him.

you’re jealous.

“didn’t take you for a jealous type.”

you scoffed. “you’re ridiculous.”

but he shook his head and tsked. “can’t believe it, baby, that you hid it for so long.”

“fuck you.”

he blew out a huff of air as if he were wounded, hand coming to run over his chest. it was a fatal one, that was for sure. you tried again to push past him, but to no avail nor universe would he let you go.

“come home with me.”

his words were determined, sincere, though there was a layer of softness to it. like unsweetened honey that poured from his lips.

you stared at him. “what?”

he laughed. “you heard me. let me take you home.”

you couldn’t tell if he was being serious. couldn’t tell if he was mocking you. your facial expression dropped from its intense anger.

“don’t…” you started, feeling the heat of emotions that you’ve been burying come to the surface. your eyes swelled with tears but fuck, you promised you’d never cry over him. “don’t be mean, lando.”

his smile dropped. he knew then that you weren’t playing around, messing with him in the ways you usually had. what was this feeling inside of him? guilt? he wanted nothing more than to fix whatever he’s done. the instinct blazed a fire through his veins, igniting a deep rooted reaction that he feared only you could bring out of him.

his hand came to cup your cheek. you flinched backward, staring at the palm of his hand through your wet lashes, but allowed his touch.

“come here…” his hand dropped from your cheek to hold out for you to melt into. an invitation for a hug.

you hesitated, shifting closer on your tip toes. when you were in close enough reach, he grabbed you, earning a yelp.

his body was warm. he pulled you flush against his chest, his head coming to rest on your shoulder. his hands were wrapped firmly around your torso. was he shaking?

he was. lando was wrought with a surplus of emotion when he saw your anger diffuse. he loved to feel all of your emotions, it reminded him that you cared about him. but when he saw it disappear, faze into an abyss of melancholy, his heart set into overdrive. he never got such a rush of adrenaline before. not from racing. not from anything else in his life.

you relaxed into him, shutting your eyes. there was a wet stain from the single tears that fell from your face on his shirt.

but you didn’t care. he smelled so good. it was lando. your lando.

“let me take you home.”

your nose buried into his shirt. his stubble dug into your neck.

“your place,” you muttered. “i want to go to yours.”

his place was always for special occasions. but to your unbeknownst knowledge, you were the only girl he’s ever taken there. the only woman he’s fucked in his bed.

he stuttered. “yeah,” he cleared his throat. “yeah, of course we can.”

you didn’t even end up texting alexandra goodbye. you were too wrung tight with your jealousy, coined poignantly by lando himself. he was quick to catch on to your attitude shift, but you could tell he was frightened. at least you wished for it to be.

but he was. his heart plummeted when your anger reached him. it did more than touch him, it ripped him apart, had his heart bleeding in plain sight. anyone could see it except you. it was never you who saw the love beneath his eyes.

lando’s apartment was just how you remembered it to be.

open space, loosely decorated. it was rather bland.

“you kept it!” you ran your fingers over the displayed teddy bear, one that you had won for him at a fair.

he shut the door behind you two, locking it. he let out a soft hum. “‘course i did.”

he said it like it was obvious. he would never get rid of anything that you’d give him. you squeezed the teddy bear in your palms, but dropped it when you felt lando’s arms wrap around your waist from behind.

his lips found your neck in an instant.

“i missed you.”

you tensed. back arching, you turned your head to look at him, angled perpendicular to his face burrowed into the junction of your neck and collarbones.

“really, now?”

he chuckled against your skin, fanning his warm breath through your body. the hairs on the back of your neck rose instinctively, choosing to hold your breath instead of express anger. though you couldn’t help the huff through your nose.

“you’re so vicious when you’re jealous, darling.” he thought this was funny. it angered you even more, attempting to writhe out of his hold. but he didn’t relent, keeping you taught against his chest. asshole.

“am not.”

he tsked.

“sure.” he continued his trail of kisses down your neck. you fell into him, head lolling back and eyes rolling. fuck, his lips were always so good. he was so good to you.

“am not.” you said again, biting back a moan when his hands came to your forefront, parting your legs for his hands to rest between your thighs.

“whatever you say.”

your hips grinded against his own in retaliation which had him humming in soft praises. his fingers trailed the lining of your panties, other hand holding your hip firmly .

“because i’m not–” the moan that was pulled from your throat was pure divinity to lando’s ears. his fingers had run up your slit, teasing your entrance. blood ran down to your body, fueling your cunt to a puffy state. your weight went lax against his hold, which he was perfectly capable of supporting you.

“not what?” he dared you to continue, not when he had you numb in his hold already. he was clearly cocky. you could hear the smirk in his voice.

“i’m not–” you were determined. but lando was coming back in full force. his middle finger teased you, pushing between your slick, finding the warmth of your walls. you sucked in a tight breath, feeling just how wet you’ve become.

“so wet, baby,” he said into your ear. “what were you saying?”

“fuck–” you sighed, whining. “i’m not jeal–”

and then he seized the bundle of nerves around your clit, curling his middle finger inside of you. you cursed, sweat beginning to bead around your forehead.

“mhm.” lando proved himself right when you couldn’t mutter out a sentence, becoming dumb on his fingers alone. he began a steady pace with just a singular digit, flexing in and out of you supported by your natural lubrication.

“more–” you pleaded. it had him standing up straight, reacting to your soft pleas like he was a dog to a treat. pavlov, and all that shit. he found himself staring down at the sight of your two– his finger etching in and out of you, drenched in your sweet nectar. if he was no better than a dog, why was he about to drool?

“yeah? you can take another?” you were rapidly nodding against the back of his shoulder, biting your lip.

“yes, please. please, lando.” you mewled, gripping at his forearms that caged you in. you never wanted to be chained down, but for pleasure like this, you felt as though you could make an exception.

he obeyed. adding a second finger was close enough to your release, and you knew that was barreling forward at any minute. if he kept this assault of your clit up and the delicious curl of his fingers, you would melt into a puddle.

and you knew he would. if lando started something, he would finish it. the only priority for him was to make sure you reached an orgasm. that was a promise, forever and always.

he found himself bucking his hips into you, the sight of you weak in his arms becoming too much for him to handle. the friction between his pants and your hot cunt was too irresistible. what can he say? you were just pure bottled heaven.

his thumb had been applying more intense pressure to your clit. your face was entirely flushed now, brightened from his attention. he was entirely to carnal to hear the noises you made. noises for him to hear, no one else.

but his pace was slow. teasing. you felt like this was a punishment. your lip curled, face contorting with both pleasure and angst. “please, please.” you whimpered.

“what, baby? what do you want?” smug. always so smug.

you gripped his hand that was flexing inside of you, tightening your grip. he chuckled deeply.

“wanna come? that what you want?”

your head bobbed up and down, breaths coming in fast pants. “need.” you corrected him, and he thought that he would fall dead at your feet. his jaw clenched, muscles in his arms flexing, and he would give you want you needed.

you needed him.

that was all that he needed to hear from you.

you turned your head to look up at him with your bloodshot eyes, dreary with lust. lust for him. your lashes fluttered against your brow line, lip quivering with a singular wish.

he wanted nothing more to kiss you.

“fuck.” he groaned, your thighs were drenched in your slick, a sight he thought could never be hotter. and when he curled his two fingers sweetly, your hips bucked aggressively. he knew exactly how to navigate your body, but it was always so thrilling to see you react in such a way.

“yeah?” he smirked, “that good?”

“so good, lan,” the nickname you used for him was not intentional. it had his dick throbbing in his pants. fuck.

your words of praise would only have him working harder. he didn’t even need to add a third finger when your stomach snapped with tension, coming loose all over his fingers. your vision blurred, legs shaking rapidly. you cried out, head lolled against his shoulder. he held you tightly, and you didn’t miss how he stroked your hip with his thumb. a soothing action.

how he could ever find this kind of pleasure in another woman, he didn’t know. but the challenge begged– could he ever admit that?

his fingers remained buried in your cunt whilst you rode yourself free from your high. it was impossible to look anywhere else but you.

and when he removed them, showing you the mess you made, his popped them into his mouth. it was such a vulgar statement, but you found yourself blushing. he sucked on his fingers, letting them out with a pop, clean as a whistle.

“heavenly.” he reaffirmed. “no girl compares.”

you froze, still delirious from your orgasm, but it had you spinning in his hold. he was slightly blurred in your vision, but you could make out his faintly cocky expression.

“really, huh?”

your attitude would have him rising, cocky attitude falling away instantly.

he gulped. “guess so.” was this it?

a smile grew on your face. your hands wrapped around the back of his neck, grooming through the back of his head. he smiled lazily, lip catching between his top teeth.

but things like this didn’t last forever, did they?

there was a pounding knock at the door. it had you frightened, shifting your panties back into their rightful place. your fingers fixed your appearance the best you could, whilst lando adjusted his dick in his pants.

“open the fucking door, lando!”

it was a woman’s voice.

your brow raised.

“i know you’re in there with that bitch,” the woman seethed. you could feel her anger through the door– but you could feel your own flying through the roof. bitch? you didn’t fucking think so.

you pushed past lando who was about to open the door and he called your name, attempting to stop you.

the door flew open. “bitch?”

the blonde girl stood there. she clearly didn’t expect you to open the door. but she didn’t back down; fine.

“yeah. bitch.” you straighten your posture. “he told me not to worry about you–” what? “and here you are, fucking him.”

not quite, you wanted to correct her.

“fuck off,” he said the girl’s name. “me and you aren’t a couple.” but she rolled her eyes anyway.

“you promised me a good fuck, lando,” she had such a venom to her bite. it had you bristle. “i didn’t think you’d stoop so low.”

“hey, now, don’t be–” lando started, but you were done. you had enough of this night. you turned back into his apartment and grabbed your handbag, your phone, and threw on your heels. you didn’t hesitate brushing past the pair.

lando called your name.

but you only turned your head over your shoulder. your gaze read an entire sentence that he felt up his entire body.

two can play this game.

3K notes · View notes

yeyinde · 7 months

Text

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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