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theonotti · 10 hours

Text

Pairing: Theodore Nott x fem!reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: Years have past since the Battle of Hogwarts, and through his grief and desperation, Theo fights to get back every second lost since then.

Warnings: Major Character Death (Not Theo), it's just angst lads

Notes: Been a while! But I'm back with some writing! This fic will be 3 parts in total. Shoutout to @classyartisanpizza for letting me write this idea! <3

Masterlist

The nightmares are the worst part.

It's always the nightmares.

Theo wakes with a start, his chest heaving as he abruptly sits up. It takes a moment of his eyes darting around in fear for him to realise he's simply in bed. No battle. No green bursts of light flying inches from his head. No bodies dropping around him.

He closes his eyes, running his hand down his face to rid the beads of sweat rolling down his skin. Though he forces himself to take deep breaths, his heart continues to race. The room feels so warm. Why does the room feel so warm? His chestnut curls fall over his eyes, slightly matted to his forehead, and for the briefest of moments, he considers shaving his head.

The vivid technicolor of the nightmares always gets him. Blaring realism and exaggerated memories have him waking in a panic without fail.

A hand runs up Theo's lower back, followed by a soft voice speaking in tongues and distortion. A chill runs up his spine as his fight or flight kicks into high gear, causing him to jump off the bed and point his wand directly at the perpetrator.

Daphne Greengrass stares back at him, looking mainly annoyed yet mildly confused as she wraps the sheet around her naked form. There's a long, tense silence as the two of them stare at each other, and despite knowing there's no threat, Theo doesn't bother to lower his wand.

"I thought I said no sleeping over."

His voice is clipped, a stark contrast from the sultry tone he had taken with her the night before. Then again, he doesn't ever have to work in order for Daphne to become putty in his hands. Not really. Him putting on the show just makes him feel better about using her.

She sits up slightly, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face. Even in the dark, the blush that fills her cheeks is unmissable.

"You fell asleep and I-"

"That's not an invitation."

You're such an asshole, He tells himself. But he can't help it. The point of the rule was so that he'd never have to wake up to Daphne. She's not ugly, or entirely terrible to be around. But his care for her only extends to the point of what she does for him. A means to an end. And the end is to distract him from the never ending abyss of his mind and the standing void in his chest.

Besides, that spot in the bed belongs to someone else.

Belonged-

No. Belongs.

Another beat passes before Theo realises that his wand is still raised, and he finally lowers it to his side. Although he should feel worse about his overreaction, he's only a slight tinged embarrassed. It's being overshadowed by his annoyance.

Daphne takes a moment to stare at him, her eyes searching his face for the humour that never comes. A quiet sigh of relief escapes his mouth when she finally climbs out of his bed and starts to get dressed.

"What are you doing later?" She asks while pulling her shirt over her head.

The clock on the wall reads quarter till three in the morning.

Theo tries to hide his smug irritation at the fact that she's already trying to plan when she sees him again, despite his complete disregard for her only moments ago.

When he doesn't respond right away, Daphne looks over at him, throwing a sock off his floor right at his face. In another life, with another person, Theo would've found this gesture amusing, but right now, he just stares at her in exasperation.

"I'm busy."

Merlin, you're a fucking asshole.

But Daphne remains unfazed as she pulls her jeans up her legs and fastens them.

"Maybe next week then? I'm working all weekend."

And despite his self awareness, Theo just can't fucking help himself.

"I'll call you."

Now he's done it. The sting ripples through her face as she pauses all movement, her eyes falling back on him. Under her confused gaze, the temperature in the room falls, but Theo keeps his expression neutral. For a long moment, they just stare at each other in tense silence, before finally Daphne breaks the prolonged eye contact to finish putting her trainers on.

"I don't understand why we keep doing this, Theo," She says in a low voice as she ties her right shoe. It's clear she's trying to be more confident in her words than hurt, but she's failing. "You clearly don't want to commit to me or even care about me. Why do you keep phoning if you can't be bothered?"

Theo leans his back against the wall, his shoulder brushing the door frame of his bedroom. The words leave his mouth before he's able to process them, or to consider not saying them.

"Because you always come running."

Twenty years on this planet and you still don't know when to shut your bloody mouth.

Daphne looks appalled as the words hang in the air. Despite the fact that Theo's guilt is radiating off of him and filling the room at a suffocating rate, he continues to say nothing else. An eternity later, she snatches her coat off the floor and storms out of the room, slamming Theo's bedroom door so loudly that he flinches, followed by the slamming of the front door of his flat.

Silence.

Theo pushes off the wall, walking over to his bed and collapsing on top of the covers.

Silence.

As he buries his face in the pillow, desperate to go back to sleep, his mind starts to drift back to the nightmare that started the domino effect events of the evening. A chill runs up his spine for a second time as he dives head first into the dreams that haunt his subconscious damn near every time he closes his eyes.

The falling bodies.

The walls crumbling down.

The flashes of bright green flying passed his head.

The set of eyes. His favourites. Watching as the life drains out of them.

Theo abruptly jumps out of his bed, his hands trembling slightly as he walks briskly to the door and throws it open. His flat is dead silent, save the sound of his footsteps across the hardwood floor. Through the darkness, he can make out the faint outline of his black cat moving quickly across the floor towards him.

"Piss off, Shadow," He mutters to the cat. She doesn't seem to notice his hostility as she continues to move between his legs. But he's quite rehearsed in this dance at this point, and manages to cross the pitch black living room without tripping over her and falling on his face. He makes his way to the spare bedroom, the room that used to be where he worked on his potions.

That is, until more important projects grabbed Theo in a chokehold.

Unlocking the door with his wand, he quickly goes inside quickly, making sure the cat didn't follow him through before shutting the door behind him.

"Mattheo, I'm fine."

"Is the kidnapper in the room with you and forcing you to say that?"

Theo rolls his eyes, rubbing his right eyelid with his free hand as his other one stirs the brewing potion in the cauldron in front of him. His phone rests on the desk next to him with his best friend's display name taking over the screen, the call on speaker.

"You think a kidnapper would willingly keep me?" He asks as he lets his free hand drop back to his wooden desk, accidentally into a puddle of spilled potion that had toppled from the cauldron. Making a face, Theo instinctively wipes his fingers off on his jeans. "They'd return me before you'd even realised I'm gone."

Mattheo lets out a quiet laugh before saying, "You're right. I'd say we could use the break, but no one's seen you in weeks."

Theo lets his other hand drop to the desk, sighing exasperatedly.

"Mate. We've just hung out. At the Leaky Cauldron, yeah? When Malfoy got so piss drunk, he fell in the toilets and smacked his face on a sink."

The memory causes a ghost of a smile to form on Theo's face, but the silence on the other end of the phone causes it to fade just as quickly.

"Hello? Did I lose you, Riddle?"

When Mattheo speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically quiet.

"That was two months ago."

Every single muscle in Theo's face slackens.

"What? No. That can't be right. It was just two weeks ago, yeah?"

"No, Theo. It was two months ago."

Shaking his head, Theo grabs his phone, switching to check the date as he stammers whispered denials, more to himself than anything. But Mattheo is right. Two months have passed since that last hangout, and besides the occasional mess around with Daphne, which he assumes are now over since the debacle a few nights prior, Theo hasn't seen anyone else since.

Where did the time go?

You know where the time went.

"We're really worried, mate," Mattheo says in a soft voice. "I know it's been hard, but-"

"Don't," Theo barks, almost instinctively as he sets his phone back on the desk. He knows where this conversation is going, because this is where the conversation always goes.

"It's been almost three years, Theo."

Theo shakes his head, his eyes closing as the air slowly starts to syphon from the room.

"It's not- Surely I can't be expected to just forget."

A quiet sigh rings out from the other side of the phone, as Theo fights to keep his rising emotions in check.

"Of course you wouldn't forget. We just-"

Theo quickly shakes his head, not wanting to hear the same things he always here's when one of his friends decides to play therapist for him.

"Oh shit, I've just remembered I have better things to do than have this conversation."

Theo lifts his hand towards his phone, with the intent to hang up, when he heard Mattheo's desperate voice quickly calling to him.

"Meet in the Three Broomsticks tonight!"

Theo pauses, staring at his phone as his brain starts its usual war on itself whenever someone wants him to do anything that isn't rotting at home. On one hand, going out with his friends would placate them for long enough that they won't have yet another conversation like this one. But on the other handâ€¦

He's close. He's so close to figuring it out. And any time that isn't dedicated to figuring it out is, in his eyes, a complete waste.

But as he stares down at his best friend's name on his phone, he lets out a heavy sigh.

"Piss off."

He can practically hear Mattheo's smug grin in his voice.

"See you there," He says, before promptly hanging up the phone.

A heavy sigh forcing its way out of his mouth, Theo turns back to the cauldron in front of him.

You need a break.

Maybe stepping back for a night and coming back will trigger an epiphany.

Theo lets out a resigned sigh. The last thing he wants to do is step away. When he's away from the work room, he feels like he can't breathe. When he's not working or researching or planning or even contemplating, he feels like he's drowning.

In his head, he's running out of time. But with every centimetre closer he gets to the finish line, he gets another centimetre closer to getting every lost moment back.

The remaining butterbeer swishes circles at the bottom of the glass as Theo twists it with his wrist. A quiet yet fake laugh comes out of his mouth, if only to mix in with the loud, howl-like laughter surrounding him from whatever funny thing Blaise just said.

Merlin, I should've gotten a firewhiskey.

Though, he knows it would've been a bad idea. His tolerance for alcohol has grown concerningly high over the last few years, and he doesn't want to explain why he would've been fully functional after seven hard drinks while his friends would be well beyond wasted.

So he sips his butterbeer under the guise that he has an early morning the next day. If he had more observant friends, they would see through this excuse, but fortunately for him, they tend to miss a lot when it comes down to the quiet, chestnut haired lad whose mind is rarely on planet Earth.

"Oi. Space Cadet. Can you join us for a moment?"

Theo takes a casual drink from his glass as his eyes land on Malfoy.

"Give me something worth joining in on," He quips as he gently sets the glass back down on the table. The blond rolls his eyes as Mattheo and Blaise both let out a chuckle.

"We were just talking about the Harpies. Whether they'll make the cup," Mattheo explains just as the barmaid approaches with their refills. The fresh butterbeer is set down in front of Theo at the same time as he lets out his own laugh. A genuine one, this time.

"The Harpies will make the Cup the same day Malfoy stops bleaching his hair."

Now it's howling laughter from the two other lads as Malfoy slams his mug down on the table, pointing at Theo maliciously.

"Don't start your bullshit, Nott."

"I saw the bottle in your trunk, Malfoy. Third year. One never forgets."

"I don't bleach my fucking hair, and if you say it again, I'll make sure you can't see it ever again."

Theo doesn't miss a beat.

"Is that a promise?"

As Riddle and Zabini keep giggling, the alcohol already to their heads, Theo keeps his wits about him as he stares at the tip of Draco's finger that's still only inches from his face.

"Stand down, Malfoy," Blaise finally interjects. "You've become entirely too serious since getting hitched."

The silver band on that left fourth finger glints in the dim lighting as Draco pulls his arm back down towards his lap. Despite his recoil at the scolding, his eyes don't quite stop glaring their daggers towards Theo, who takes another unbothered sip of his drink.

"Maybe it helped me grow up. Someone should take a page out of that book."

Theo feels his fingers tense around the glass, the heat rushing to his cheeks.

Prick.

Absolute wanker.

Dead man walking.

If my life hadn't fallen apart, I would've been married by now. Maybe I'd even have kids.

A wave of nausea hits him at the thought. Instinctively, his eyes shift to look at the door, as his mind searches for his excuse to leave. If his shift in demeanour isn't obvious to every person at the table, it definitely is to Mattheo, who quickly clears his throat.

"Anyone hear about the hunt for whoever's trying to replicate the time turners?"

Theo's entire body ceases, his throat trapping any sound or breath from escaping, meanwhile his brain starts to race at speeds he has never experienced before. The conversation shifts to this topic as Theo desperately tries to remember how to breathe.

"What's the hold up?" Blaise questions before he empties his glass. Mattheo does the same while lifting his shoulders into a shrug.

"Whoever is doing it, they've covered their tracks quite well. But the Ministry has their best people trying to find them before they're able to muck up anything."

A quiet murmur fills the silence of the table. Sweat beads Theo's forehead as he accidentally chugs his entire glass. No one appears to notice, to his relief.

"How are they able to track that?" Malfoy asks curiously as he drums his fingers against the wood top table.

"A time turner has an Hour Reversal charm encased in the centre," Mattheo explains. "The Ministry is alerted every time one is cast, but whoever is doing it has protected themselves so much that their location is damn near impossible to track." Mattheo pauses to take a drink before he continues. "If it wasn't so infuriating, I'd be impressed."

A slight smirk crosses Malfoy's face before he says, "I take it the 'Ministry's best people' includes your team?"

Mattheo rolls his eyes, though the slight pink hue that covers his cheeks is unmissable. Despite him being nothing like his father, Mattheo has always been slightly embarrassed by his position in the Ministry. While Zabini, Malfoy and Theo all view it as a growth and a middle finger to Voldemort and the Death Eaters, Mattheo sometimes views it as a betrayal, though he only mentions it after he's hit a certain point of inebriation.

"It is a job for the Misuse of Magic department, in my opinion. So yeah, the best people include my team."

Silence fills the table as everyone takes a sip of their drinks. Theo swallows the lump in his throat.

And then he speaks.

"Any evidence that they've been successful?"

The table turns to look at him, and he does his best to appear casual when he shrugs.

"Just curious."

Mattheo shakes his head.

"We'll be alerted if they actually go back," He explains. "Which will lead to their arrest, if they continue to use the Hour Reversal charm."

"Doesn't that only go back five hours?" Blaise asks, receiving a nod from the curly haired man to his right. Theo can feel the impending panic rising in his chest, but he swallows it down.

In theory, it's only five hours.

But with a little tampering, it's longer.

Not that I would know.

No sir.

"Not unless they do something to strengthen the spell," Mattheo says casually. "Like some sort of potion. Or enchanting the sand in the Hourglass."

Theo's face goes slack, and it feels like his entire body grows hot.

There it is.

That epiphany.

His eyes fall back onto Mattheo, the room glowing in a new light as a chill slowly trails down through his extremities and his fingers and toes.

Instinctively, Theo tries to stand before he realises he's in the corner seat of the booth. The rest of the table looks at him in surprise.

"Nott?" Malfoy asks as Theo uses the table and the ledge behind the seat to launch himself over Mattheo and the booth, out into the aisle, only making their shock grow further.

"Fuck, sorry I forgot. I need to- I have-" He stammers, knowing full well nothing he says will be able to explain his sudden change in demeanour. The looks on their faces are the same sort of looks they'd have if he had stripped down in front of them and started screaming like a banshee. He closes his eyes, putting his hands out in front of him as he takes a second to calm down. When he speaks again, it's with less urgency. "I need to go."

And with that, Theo turns and sprints out of the Three Broomsticks.

Before the door swings shut behind him, he can make out Mattheo's distant voice shouting his name. But if any of the lads make any attempt to follow, Theo moves too fast for them to have any sort of success. Once out of the village, Theo apparates back home.

Where he stays for almost ninety six straight hours.

He doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat. He barely leaves his office to use the bathroom. And he definitely doesn't shower.

Theo's marathon is filled with work. The spell strengthening potion alone takes sixteen hours to brew, needing close management. And that was after all of the work he needed to put in in order to put the potion together. Meanwhile, he does an appalling amount of research, scouring text upon text about how one would enchant the sand. When he comes up with next to nothing after twelve hours worth of reading, he moves on to Plan B.

He starts to create his own spells.

It's not the first time Theo's dabbled in spell creation, but it is the first time it's something that's more serious than trying to make Malfoy's farts come out as actual bubbles. (A failed experiment, much to his thirteen year old self's detriment.) But this time is different. Hanging over the desk where he works is the picture of his motivation. And every time he starts to feel like he's failing, he looks up at the picture and a new resolve fills him.

Because he can't fail.

Failing isn't and never will be an option.

Every botched attempt leads to more research. Every new piece of information brings him that much closer.

Until, after almost ninety six hours of what he thought was going to lead to nothing, the moment is here.

He pulls the time turner out of the cauldron, and he can feel it. Despite having used the tongs to pull it out from the potion, Theo can feel the silver metals vibrating with magic, and that's how he knew.

It worked.

His hands tremble in the same manner as he reaches to touch it, almost hesitant from the anxiety that is running rampant in his head. But when his fingertips graze the warmth of the metal, nothing happens. Nothing changes. He looks around the room for a brief moment before looking back down at the makeshift Time Turner in his hands.

Spinning his chair around and leaning back, he examines the creation. His mind is quick to resume his doubts that it didn't work, despite the pure confidence he had just a moment before. Couldn't have worked. Because nothing he's done in the last few years has.

And yet.

There's only one way to find out.

Grabbing his phone from his pocket, he props it up on his knee before he turns the screen on.

And then, he gives the spindle in his hand a turn to the right.

Theo can feel his heart stop as he watches the minutes on his phone go down with every tick of the Time Turner.

It worked.

It actually fucking worked.

A tsunami of emotions runs through Theo, overwhelming him so strongly that he has to turn back around to lean on his desk. For a moment, he lays his head on the desk, in the cradle that is his arms, basking in the darkness as he takes three long, deep breaths.

And then he looks up to the picture on the wall.

To his motivation. To the one he's been working for.

To the picture of you.

"Did you see that, pretty girl?" He asks in a gentle voice.

The spell hits your chest.

And the life leaves your eyes.

His voice is a little choked as he raises the Time Turner to the picture on the wall, wishing once again it was actually you and not just a moving idea behind a piece of paper.

"I'm coming for you."

#theodore nott #theo nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x you #theo nott x reader #theo nott x you #harry potter #slytherin boys #slytherin boys fanfiction #golden trio era #golden trio era fanfiction

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veebarnes13 · 2 days

Text

"I love you more"

Context: Bucky and you got married two years ago, but it didn't stop him from starting "I love you more" contests.

TW: none

Era: TFATWS

(English isn't my native language, feel free to correct me!)

Enjoy! :)

☆☆★☆☆

The alarm went off violently that morning. Bucky groaned and rolled to his side, almost crushing you under his weight. He slammed his fist on the alarm clock, careful not to break it though. He let himself fall on his back, his flesh arm circling your waist from behind. He buried his face in your hair and took in your scent, a smile tickling his mouth.

"Morning." he mumbled.

"Morning, handsome." you replied in a sleepy whisper.

He kissed your shoulder and nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck, his hand roaming up and down your belly.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, worried you would be sore after he made love to you last night.

"Couldn't have slept better." you answered.

He cuddled you against his chest for five more minutes, not wanting to get up just yet. He had a meeting later with Sam and Sharon, to which he wasn't looking forward. They always got Carter and him arguing, Sam trying to soothe them and ending up arguing as well, and made him upset for the whole day.

He finally got up and forced you to do the same, holding you by the waist. You both took a morning shower to start what he had called "the waking up process of lady Barnes". He teased you with how different he was from you on this point. Where he could get ready for a meeting or mission in twenty minutes, it took you an hour and a half just to get up, shower, get dressed and eat.

While you were picking your clothes for the day, he prepared breakfast. You hugged him around the waist and kissed his bare back.

"It's dangerous to cook shirtless. You could burn yourself." you rebuke him with a gentle slap on the shoulder.

"Don't worry about the cook, kiss him instead." he replied.

It was the sentence he used each time you complained on his methods. You rolled your eyes, but kissed him anyway.

"I don't want you to hurt yourself, dummy, because I love you." you said, a finger on his chest.

"I love you more, doll." he retorts.

You snort, your version of a sarcastic laugh.

"Don't start this war. I love you more." you counter.

"Nonsense. I love you more." he added.

"Impossible, because I love you more." you shook your head.

"Shut up, I love you more." he replied.

"Make me." you chuckled.

He raised an eyebrow, smirking, and towered over you. He leaned forward, but instead of kissing you like you expected, he put a piece of the bacon he's cooking in your mouth.

"Tell me how it is." he laughs.

You elbowed him. He shifted away, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

After breakfast, he had to leave for the meeting. You kissed him goodbye, and as he was closing the door, you yelled "I love you more!". He opened the door and said "No, I love you more." then slammed it, preventing you from replying.

You smiled, knowing he thought he won, but he didn't.

At lunch, when he opened his meal, he laughed to himself, making Sam jump. On his sandwich was a piece of paper with the words "I love you more" scribbled in your handwriting.

"Really?" he texted you.

"Can't argue with facts." you texted back.

He smiled and shook his head.

As soon as he got back home, he took advantage of the fact that you weren't back yet.

Your keys jingled and he was standing before the door, a wide smile on his face. You frowned, suspecting something, and put your coat down on the couch. He hugged you tight and kissed you, welcoming you back home, telling you how much he loved you. You said you loved him more, but he didn't argue; he simply smiled.

Weird.

You cooked dinner since he made breakfast. When the plates were on the table, he poured you a glass of water. You noticed a black stain on it and tried to wipe it off with your thumb, but it didn't go away. You licked your finger and tried again, without any success.

"Gross." sneered Bucky.

"Shut up." you laughed back.

You inspected the glass and realized the stain formed an "I". Knowing what was coming next, you took the water jug and looked at the side that was towards Bucky. He had written on it "love you more."

You glanced at him. He giggled between two bites.

To get revenge, you positionned your food to spell "I LOVE U" along with a little addition sign, and he shook his head.

"It doesn't work, you didn't spell it right." he said.

If your eyes were guns, he would've been cribbled with bullets in a heartbeat. He laughed and gently kicked your knee underneath the table. You kicked him back and he snorted.

You both spent the evening without another "fight", but you knew he was planning something. So were you.

You brushed your teeth, got undressed and disappeared under the covers. Bucky joined you ten minutes later. You quietly insisted to be the big spoon and he didn't argue, for once; he loved to be the little spoon.

After a few minutes, you drew "I LOVE YOU MORE" on his back with your index. You heard him chuckle, a deep warm laugh that vibrated through his chest. You pressed yourself against his back and rested your face in the crook of his shoulder.

"I won't let you win this forever, you know." he whispered.

"You will." you murmured.

You cuddled him to sleep, his scent surrounding you. The next morning, you had a day off, so he let you sleep when the alarm rang.

You opened your eyes at 8:30, and the first thing you saw were the rose petals scattered on the floor. You sat up and rubbed your eyes, only to find out James had spelt "I love you more".

You smiled, your heart squeezing happily beneath Bucky's shirt you were wearing.

☆☆★☆☆

Thank you so much for reading this! I hope with all my heart that you enjoyed it.

If you like my writing, you can take a look at my Wattpad account, "WinterBarnes13", but my works on there are mostly in French. I wrote only one Fanfic in English, it's short and was written two years ago.

Lots of love!

- Vee

#james barnes #bucky #falcon and the winter soldier #fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #cute fluff #marvel #romance #fluff

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hellishere7980 · 2 days

Text

Whatever It Takes (CH-3)

“Master Bruce, in quite a lot of cases, you have not been ready for something yet, you took it on beautifully. Some mistakes did happen, but your imperfection is a part of you. I believe you'll know what to do with Damian and how to do it. You both are more similar than you think.”

“I'm not just talking about Damian, Alfred. That girl, Mariam. My daughter.” He said, gesturing towards the blank screen off the Batcomputer.

“I meant it in both cases, Master Bruce.”

Bruce sighed.

“It will be better in the morning.” Alfred said, gently directing Bruce out of the Batcave.

“Good night, Alfred.”

“You too, Master Bruce.” Alfred replied, gently turning off the main lights of the Batcave, leaving the softly humming machines in partial darkness.

Bruce shifted on his pillow his hand reaching out blindly to shut off the alarm clock. Soon the annoying ringing stopped and his muscles started losing the tension in them. Normally, Alfred would come and knock on the door, effectively waking Bruce up. But last night, before he went to bed, he set up the alarm purposefully so that he could have some time to actually process all that happened last night.

Okay. Bruce thought. I apparently have two kids. Their mother is Talia. They have grown up in the League of Assassins. That gir-Mariam most probably treated as horribly as Talia had been by Ra's Al Ghul, and Damian must have been treated like me when I was in that demon’s good books as his potential heir. Okay, Lot to unpack. I can't even decide how to treat them because I don't know if this assumption is true. Well, Bruce thought, getting out of bed. The only way to find out is to actually talk to him.

He went about dressing up for the day with a turtleneck sweater and some slacks. He called up his secretary, (If there are any gods up there, bless that guy who put up with him) and told him that he won't be able to make it today.

He got out of his room and was walking down the corridor towards Damian's guest room. He made a mental note to make sure he has an actual room if he is going to stay here. He turned around the corner to see Alfred about to knock Damian's door in order to get him up.

“Alfred!” He whisper-yelled.

The man in question turned around and raised an eyebrow.

“I was thinking I could get him up.” Bruce said as soon as he came within normal hearing range of Alfred.

“Good morning to you too, Master Bruce.”

“Sorry- Good morning, Alfred.”

Alfred just gave him a smile. “You see, Master Bruce? I told you that you would do what's best.” He turned around towards Tim and Dick’s rooms. “Be sure to come down with the Young Master in 20 minutes for breakfast.”

Bruce hummed in response and slowly opened the door. He saw that the boy had thrown off his sheets and was curled up in the bed.

“Damian?” Bruce hesitantly asked.

The lump on the bed shot up the dagger in front of him in perfect stance. Bruce put his hands up. They both stayed still in that position for 10 seconds before Damian lowered the dagger. “Sorry, Father.”

“No-no, it's all right. Good morning. How did you sleep?”

“I slept well.”

“Good. How about you change and we go down for breakfast?”

“Very well.”

Bruce smiled and turned around. Damian saw him hesitating for a second before Bruce gave him a soft smile and walked out of the room.

Damien scanned his surroundings before slouching back into the bed. I am at my father's house. I am safe here. I am at my father's house. I am safe here. I am at my father's house. I am safe here. He chanted back to himself willing his heart to slow down. He looked out of the window to see the Manor gardens. Mother had always claimed that those were quite pretty, maintained by his father's dear friend who was also his Butler.

He got out of the bed, and walked over to the closet, which had one pair of clothes in every size. Hmm. He thought. That is actually a practical way. He picked up the pair, which he thought would fit him best, walked into the bathroom, scanned for bugs and then changed. As soon as he opened his bedroom door, he saw Grayson who was comfortably leaning against the wall. As soon as he saw him, he stood up straight and gave him a smile. “Hey, Damian. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Grayson.” Damien replied back.

Dick shot him an amused look. “You can call me Dick.”

“No.” Damian said. “I'm not going to use degrading terms in reference to you. My sister did tell me to play nice, didn't she?”

“Actually, Dick is short for Richard.”

“Still is a derogatory term. However appropriate you may decide it to be in your case.”

They both turned around at the sound of laughing. Tim was laughing and desperately trying to make sure that his coffee didn't spill over. “I–” He said to Damian trying to catch his breath, “I like you.”

“Oh my!” Dick exclaimed dramatically. “Betrayed by my own teammate.”

“Come on, let's go, drama queen.” Tim said, shaking his head. “You're going to make the guy think you're actually a dick.”

After breakfast everyone headed down to the cave to find where Mariam could have gone. Well, at least Bruce and Tim were trying to find out where Mariam had gone. Dick and Damian were sparing after Damian refused to join in the search for his sister stating that it was a useless cause since ‘She has been trained. She knows how to protect herself. And the best thing about her is that she knows how to pick her battles.’

While this display of was enough for Dick and Alfred, Bruce and Tim still insisted on trying to find her. They were all interrupted by the soft rumbling of a car as it pulled into the parking lot of the bat cave. The Three resident bats, feeling a sense of Deja vu, slipped on their domino masks. Dick stood in front of Damian, blocking him from the view of the car by his lean frame. A female figure stepped out from the driver's seat. She stepped ahead and the light revealed her to be Talia.

“Are they here?” She asked, her eyes scanning The Cave.

Dick stood aside and Damian started walking towards his mother. Both mother and son met midway and hugged each other.

Talia whispered into Damian's hair, “You're safe. Oh, thank God–whoever is up there, you're safe.”

After she released Damian, she looked up around. “Where is Mariam?”

Bruce stepped forward towards them. “She took off as soon as she dropped Damian.”

“WHAT?!” Talia screamed. “SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO STAY HERE. WHERE IS SHE?”

Bruce hesitantly began, “We couldn't find her. We're scanning through security cameras. We tried to match number plates. Nothing came up.”

“She wasn't supposed to leave?” Damian asked. His head turned up facing his mother.

“No. This is all wrong. She was supposed to stay here, with you.”

“She left a letter.” Tim said waving the piece of paper in question around.

“Huh?” Talia said.

“Yeah, she left me one too.” Damien piped in.

“Show me.” Talia said while getting up.

Tim handed her the envelope. She slowly opened it up and began to read. The letter was in Arabic.

Dear mother,

#maribat #miraculous lb #bruce wayne #dick grayson #alfred pennyworth #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fanworks #damian and marinette #marinette dupain cheng #damian wayne #tim drake #bio dad bruce wayne

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willowser · 7 months

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bakugou must be so high-strung and on edge when he comes back from a long term underground mission 🥺

doesn't sleep well in his own bed for the first week or two, doesn't eat as much as he typically does. probably has lost some weight, even. if you speak too loudly, it has him gritting his jaw on instinct, and he's so jumpy about you touching him, even though he's more aware of you than he ever is. he's quiet typically, but all your attempts at conversation are met with little grunts or one word answers.

it's rough for you both and he knows he's being less than pleasant, but it just takes time to melt back into the comfort of being home 🥺

#SAD #you try to rub your hands up his back and he JUMPS out of his skin #and you run and hug him at the airport and he just looks tired #🥺#is a little skinnier than he was when he left #he's just like. ready to fight at all times #not WITH YOU but just PHYSICALLY #probably sleeps on the couch #and his internal clock is probably wack #and it probably makes him so mad too bc all he wanted while he was away was to come home to you #and now he's here and can't fucking RELAX #POOR THING WAAAH #✿ thoughts: bakugou

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sunjoys · 7 months

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i desperately need to get my watch fixed i have no sense of time without it and it is fucking me over

#just missed my bus for the second time this week #my bus which comes once an hour and is literally the only bus here #AND today is the one class we have where the teacher insists on us not being late 😭😭😭#im going to krillmyself for real #like using my phone as time keep DOES NOT WORK bc I have to pick it up. turn it on. check. turn it off etc #and like. numbers don't help me see the process of time sorry ppl who can't read analogous clocks 😐#my watch I can literally just keep an eye on it and I See that time is passing. its on my ARM #also also normally I'd ask for a lift from one of my.parents to the nearest train station [10 min drive] but my mum is out and it's my dads #bday and hes sleeping in so imnot gonna wake him up for MY fuck up #godskdkfdd. i have nobody to blame but myself but I'm still so 👊🤜🤛👊💢💥💢

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crowleyaj · 1 year

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bad news: in the course of the last two weeks, flatmate went from slightly annoying, messy and irresponsible to an outright arsehole, especially at work

good news: I might be moving into a single flat very soon, possibly this weekend!!

#personal #sofi.txt #text #my boss/landlady just offered it to me last week when i said one (1) sentence about how he's difficult to live with #unlike the previous guy #that's the problem with being assigned flats and flatmates by her hah #but she likes me so she gave me a choice and i should be taking a look at it at the weekend #if it's ok i'll take it and move right in because. he's unbearable now #he's a lazy selfish fuck who constantly does a bad job at work #he's the reason we had a customer complaint yesterday for the first time in months if not years #and he steals from the shop several times a day every day by not paying for anything he takes ever #he also takes unofficial breaks and is on his phone in the back on the clock when his shift buddy is very busy out front #and at home he doesn't clean‚ steals cutlery‚ never watches anything with earphones and is on the phone every night #for hours #the walls are thin so i hear everything and can't sleep #i have told him that several times hhhh #well. let's hope the move works out #(by night i mean midnight to 4 am)

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starpros-sunshine · 1 year

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i saw a tweet saying the mdr wtei aira dorm situation cant happen due to the political climate (madara mikejima eichi tenshouin) so my counterargument is what if eichi is a heavy sleeper in this specific instance what if he doesnt even Know.

Ooooo yeah I have a specific scenario for that in my head but I don't know how to articulate it maybe I'll come back to you on that once my stomach is full and I can think clearly again but yes yes yes

#i could also imagine Eichi be the kind of person to wake up briefly because of some noise and then look around and go to sleep again #and when he wakes up he can't be bothered to discern if that was some kind of lucid dream or a sleep induced hallucination #or if he really saw Madara climb in through their window #<- ik this is a thing because the amount of times I have woken up to walk across the room to shut off my alarm clock #more asleep than awake and purely out od muscle memory #and when I actually woke up like 4hours later I had no idea if it actually happened #is endless #dino💫

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fazcinatingblog · 3 days

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Who will get there first: Pendles reaching 10,000 disposals or Todd Michael Goldstein reaching 10,000 hitouts

#aflm #Essendon are trying to copy us #we're saying only 4 disposals to go and Essendon obviously looked up the stats and saw Todd is 26 away from 10k #this is unfair #also why isn't Draco Malfoy playing??? THIS IS HIS DAY #he dyed his hair blond for nothing #embarrassing #also i can't sleep because i feel bad i shouldn't have looked at Tony's timesheet sure they told me to but #i shouldn't have been so loud about it as well #i just #I'm an idiot #ok gonna go back to sleep #i think my alarm is still set to go off at 7 #why don't alarms understand public holidays??????#alarms are sentient but they're just assholes #they're like 'hm it's anzac day maybe we'll let her sleep today--- GET UP LOSER!!!'#it's really mean #alarm clocks and Sophia are the same #like you know that deep down they care and they don't want to yell but they feel they have to #it's fair enough #otherwise I'll just spend the entire day sending out tax returns and filing and #i need her to yell at me re: terms of engagement letters and to do an interim invoice for $8000 because she doesn't have money for wages and #do normal bosses say that #i can't remember other bosses I've had but i don't think any specifically told me every week that they need money for the wages #like it's lying too because she always pays us so why say it????#make us feel guilty about being paid #as if we should be working for free????

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mythvoiced · 9 months

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-. between work and leisure i've had so many british (mostly english) voices in my ears today that my inner voice distinctly sounds like some sort of cross between J.ame.s A.ca.ster and R.ich.ard A.yoa.de now please free me

#;ooc #;tbd #genuinely hope mr a.yo.a.de didn't do anything wrong ever he's so fking delightful #i'm so!!!!!!!!!!! TIRED i didn't do anything i haven't done before but i haven't guarded my eyes so to speak #so now THEY'RE exhausted #i am violently privileged compared to other people absolutely #if i go to bed at midnight knowing that my inner clock keeps waking me at 6 or 6:10 or 5:30 it's my fault #and i can't go complaining BUT truth of the matter is still that i would very much LOVE #to not wake up at that time anymore thank you #it's only an hour or so before i'd wake up anyway so can't i be left SLEEPING MR BRAIN #this girl i'm befriending - who is an absolute disaster - weed girl if you're reading this ami - is dropping hints #she might be interested and/or open to romantic endeavours with women #and i am female shaped so now all my self-teaching of not catching stupid thoughts is going out the window #a pretty girl sends you three of those smiley emojis with hearts all over 'em and suddenly you're FULL STUPID #NOT MY FAULT i'm very easy once you appeal to my boyfriend genes #she wanted to take a video of bees buzzing around my mother's lavender bush near our house #but she's a little scared TRIED ANYWAY and a bumblebee came straight charging for her #so i just turned around and just gestured to hand me her phone like some stupid suave self-confident bozo that i am NOT #and she DID and let me take the video for her and LISTEN I AM EASY OKAY acts of service is a MAJOR love language for me #if you enable me performing it i WILL consider it a major achievement in my character #when i'm simply really pleased that i got to serve and provide #if i come up to you and say 'hey let me handle this for you' and you LET ME i will think about it forever

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heich0e · 2 months

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sukuna is clingy when he sleeps.

you wake in the early hours of the morning to a veritable vice grip circling your waist. it takes you a moment to gain your bearings, but when you do, you recognize sukuna has both of his arms wrapped around you, holding you snug against his chest. he's practically become your own personal futon—your entire body resting overtop of his—but, regardless of the circumstances, he doesn't seem to mind it considering how soundly he's sleeping underneath you.

you lift your head, using your hands against his chest to push yourself up slightly. glancing down at him, you hold back a laugh at the sight: he's frowning, even in his sleep.

how typical.

"sukuna," you mumble sleepily, glancing over to the clock on his bedside table as you blink away the sleep from your eyes. the clock must be unplugged, because there are no numbers lighting up the clockface, but his cellphone rests just beside it on the tabletop. you reach over—as far as you can given the unyielding hold he has on you—and tap the screen to see the time. you sigh. you repeat his name again.

he doesn't stir.

you repeat yourself two more times, though you keep your voice low. it's barely dawn, and yuuji is asleep only a room away, so you can't be any louder. you start shaking him lightly in tandem with your calling of his name.

finally his nose wrinkles in discontent, a single eye cracking open.

"whaddaya want?" he grumbles as he lets his eye close again, his arms tightening even further in their grip on you.

"gotta get up," you reply. "yuuji'll be awake soon."

the youngest itadori brother tends to be an early riser—a morning person to his core. sukuna tends to rise early only when absolutely necessary, and he's as far from chipper in the mornings as a person can possibly be.

"don't care," sukuna mutters.

"i care," you counter his indifference with indignation.

he doesn't reply, seemingly having fallen asleep again.

"sukuna, let me go," you whine as you fight his hold, but it doesn't waver for a moment.

"baby, stop," he grunts as you wiggle uselessly against him.

you freeze.

his eyes open in the wake of your sudden stillness, a look of suspicion on his face.

"baby?" you repeat quietly as he looks at you.

"what, you don't like it?" he asks, quirking a brow. "would you prefer brat?"

he calls you that anyway, so your preference matters very little.

you're a bit flustered by the sudden turn of events and sukuna leverages this momentary reprieve to his advantage: using his hold around your waist, he pulls you over so you're resting on your side in his bed, facing him. there's little light in his bedroom this early in the morning—just the faintest bit of sun on the distant horizon—but you can still make out his face even in the dimness. his eyes are open but still heavy-lidded with sleep as he watches your face closely.

"go back to sleep," he finally grunts out, tugging you into him so that your cheek is pressed to his chest.

"what about yuuji?" you ask.

"i'll take care of it," he replies dismissively. you hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks again: "you're not the only brat i'm used to dealing with. right, baby?"

#big brother!sukuna #sukuna x reader #jjk drabble #jjk writing #writing

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omgeto · 8 months

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oh you wanna play psycho killer? can i be the helpless victim...

｡･:*˚:✧｡ authors note — my first kinktober!! ahh go crazy. i will try my best to write good smut for you people. here's my master list so you can see what im cooking up for you guys. i might add some more but for now here it is... MDNI!!

OCTOBER 1ST...

THRILL(h)ER — satosugu x reader

when watching a scary movie with your two best friends, you cant help but hold onto them tight every time you get jumpscared. but as the night goes on and your fingers roam... wait, what movie were you watching again?

cw: threesome (duh), double penetration, blowjobs, spanking, praise & degredation

OCTOBER 7TH...

your 'ONLY FAN' — dilf neighbour!toji x cam girl!reader

when you're a top cam girl, your used to having thousands of people watching you every night. yet among the masses, theres one fan that stands out. he not only is a high tipper but is someone you happen to know all too well. and he's about to go to long lengths to prove to you that he's the only fan of yours that matters.

cw: toji breaks into your house and blows your back out. facefucking, slight choking, use of toys, consensual sex tape making, sight breeding.

OCTOBER 14TH...

when you fuck your older neighbour — nanami, toji, geto, gojo

on the way to a halloween party, you just couldn't help but put a little pep in your step as your strut past your older neighbours house. and he can't help notice how tight and tiny your outfit is — it can barely fit. not that it matters anyway... it'll be off of you before the clock strikes 11...

cw: age gap (duh), spanking, nipple play, face riding, dick riding, all types of riding

OCTOBER 21st...

a quiet place — nanami x babysitter!reader

after returning from trick or treating with his kids, your 'boss' can't help but beg you stay the night with him. hoping to give you a 'treat' of his own. but shhh... you can't get too loud, his kids are sleeping.

cw: breeding, raw sex, talks of pregnancy, a whole lotta cum

OCTOBER 31st...

"CULT?... i thought this was a bathroom." — geto x reader

on a drunken halloween night you thought you were stumbling your way into the bathroom of a club, but you end up stumbling into the lap of a cult leader. and he doesn't like people like you. instead of doing what he usual does to your 'kind' he decides to punish you a different way — in front of all of his followers.

cw: public sex, major degradation, dark content... (slay)

so what do you think. what do you think of the banner? I tried really hard to make this whole thing so hopefully you guys love the layout AND THE FIC IDEAS. which one are you most exited for lmk :) also don’t use my header pls and thanks THERE IS NO TAGLIST <;33

#stampedwithane★#jjk x reader #jjk smut #toji x reader #geto x reader #gojo x reader #nanami x reader #toji smut #geto smut #nanami smut #gojo smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk fic #toji fushiguro smut #geto suguru smut #gojo satoru smut #nanami kento smut

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tartarusknight · 1 month

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Steve had this habit, a habit which most of the party were annoyed by. They understood it, God did they understand. But after everything was over and the Upside Down was gone for good, it kept happening. Months and months of daily calls. Just Steve checking in and asking them about their day.

Mike hadn't understood why he was on the list of names Steve would call, but if he didn't pick up the phone, there would be a knock on the door within the hour. And Steve, sometimes followed by Robin, would stop by like he was that important to them. Once, it had been on their way to work, and Steve had only locked eyes with him and raised an eyebrow. Mike just flipped him off and continued reading his comic.

Dustin had told him it was Steve's way of coping, and Lucas had turned the calls into workouts with the older teen. Will had just gone a little red and nodded along. El smiled and told Mike about the tips for hair care she got. Max just rolled her eyes and said that Steve had taken to stopping by with food most days.

Steve would be there. He was always there. It was annoying, but it was a constant. Maybe that's why Mike laid awake as the clock ticked closer and closer to midnight. Normally, he could fall asleep within minutes, a habit he had inherited from his dad. But he could bring himself to sleep as his phone didn't ring. As the walkie stayed silent. As the door remained untouched, no knock to be heard.

And it was stupid. Because Mike didn't want Steve to call him every day just to ask him if he was okay. It made him feel like a kid. It reminded Mike of his mom, but even his mom wasn't that bad. No, no one really did that for Mike. No one checked in day after day even as he remained uncaring towards them. No one but Steve.

Until now...

Mike watched the clock as it passed midnight, and his stomach twisted into knots. Fear bubbled up, and he pictured Steve getting into a fight he couldn't walk away from. He pictured a car crash so great that Steve was unable to reach for the walkie he carried with him everywhere. He pictured the worst- the Upside Down still around. The demogorgon coming up and dragging Steve into that hellpit.

Mike was up and pulling on a warm sweatshirt before those images were fully formed. He crawled out his window and down the roof, not too unlike the way Steve had done to visit Nancy. It left him already out of breath by the time he climbed on his bike. But that didn't stop him. He pushed off the ground, biking as fast as he could towards Loch Nora.

The cold air hot his face, and the road seemed to go on forever, but Mike didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Not until Steve's place was in view.

Mike tossed his bike uncarringly onto the pavement before slamming his fist into the Harrington's nice door. He didn't let up. He couldn't as an image of Steve dead in his own pool floated in his mind.

However, then the door was opening. Steve stood there, looking like he hadn't been asleep either. A smear of white powder on his cheek and a hollowness in his eyes. But still, something eased in Mike the same time Steve lost some of that weight in his shoulders as well. "You- you didn't-" Mike started, still out of breath. "Call. Why didn't you- call?" He gasped and Steve looked at him with a weird expression.

"You- What?" Steve questioned, sounding lost.

Mike crossed his arms, "I- you can't just stop!" He gasped out, and Steve's brow furrowed.

"But you don't like it when I do? I annoy you," he tries to point out, and Mike huffs.

"God, of course you annoy me! You track our days more intensly than my mom, and you always make dumb jokes, and I hate that I find them funny! You always call when I'm in the middle of something, and you make it easy to stay on the phone! You are always there like some weird older brother that I never asked for!" Mike shouts and Steve's eyes are wide.

"You don't have to stay around or call, but you do! You do, and you actually care. Like when you call and ask me if I'm okay, it feels like you care, and I don't understand why! I don't get you! I didn't ask you to care about me, but even when you were dating Nancy, you cared! You took Holly and me to get ice cream even though Nancy had to study! You give me and my friends rides everywhere! You care!" Mike throws his hands up in the air.

He glares at the older teen, "You care so much that I stupidly care about you! I care enough to come and check on you because when you didn't call, all I could think was that you were like dead or something," Mike snaps and takes a step back. "But you're obviously fine so-" and he wants to run suddenly. To run from the way Steve's eyes are filled with tears or the stupid words he just told the older teen.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, tugging slightly. "Mike, I stopped because I didn't think you wanted me to. You always acted like I was your least favorite person in the world and I guess I just- I didn't feel like it was fair to force you to put up with me just because I can't handle not knowing if you were okay." Steve said, and it didn't sound like the normal Steve. He sounded tired and nervous. He sounded like someone had finally beaten him

Mike bites his lip and tastes salt like he had been crying. Or maybe he still was. He crosses his arms like he can shield himself from this conversation. "But now you don't care enough to keep calling?"

Steve rubbed his face, a sigh shaking his whole body as he did. "I still care, kid."

Mike scoffs, "You didn't call."

Steve drops his hands to his sides. "Just come inside. It's too late for you to bike home. I'll call your place and leave a message." Steve says, his voice sounding close to tears. Mike is stiff when he lets Steve pull him inside.

They are quiet as Steve guides him towards the kitchen. The kitchen that has music playing softly and smelling like a bake sale. He blinks as he steps into the room and spots cookies cooling on a rack and a pie stilling uncooked on the counter. The top crust is sitting on the counter next to it. There's a smell of something in the oven, and Mike states at all of it in confusion.

"I bake when I can't relax," Steve admits, and Mike glances over at him. "I still care, and I was trying to give you space. I was trying not to crowd you, so I just," and he waves his hand around the mess everywhere. The smear of white on his cheek now makes sense.

Mike hugged himself, "I don't- I don't mind the calls." He whispered, and it got a snort from Steve.

He looked over at Mike, "I kinda got that from your speech."

They stood there in silence for another moment before Steve moved to finish putting his pie together. "I know that we aren't close or anything. But I care, it's not just the Upside Down making me anxious, it's just that-" and Steve went quiet. "I went overboard, I get it. But now I just- I can't stop." He admits, and Mike hates how upset Steve sounds. How guilty he sounds.

"I fall asleep easier knowing that if someone wasn't okay, we'd know because of you. It's like you take all the stress from me just by being around." He says, and Steve's eyes are wide. "Maybe we just do a sound off every night so you don't have to play phone tag all day." He shrugs, and Steve wrinkles his nose.

"I don't really get how to use the walkie. Like Dustin tried to show me, but he got distracted and started talking about radio waves and well..." Steve mimed it going over his head.

Mike snorted to hide how much that terrified him. The thought of something bad happening and Steve not being able to respond. But he pushed it away as Steve looked at him as if waiting for Mike to tease him. "That's fair. We did modify them, so they worked better. It's not as simple as your average walkie. I can show you," he offered, and Steve's face split into a grin.

"Cool, want to help me finish this so I can put it in the fridge until tomorrow? Then you can teach me the ways," Steve says, going all dramatic, proving to Mike he'd been spending too much time with Eddie. Mike groaned but came over only for Steve to shove him to the sink to wash his hands.

Steve showed him what to do, and Mike was glad to have Steve around. Because sure Steve's habit was annoying, and sometimes it interfered with Mike's plans, but it was nice too. Steve was nice. And that was something Mike ever believed would happen. But as Steve joked that Mike should not become a baker, he was nice. Like the way Mike was nice to Holly or how Nancy was nice to him. He was part of the family, annoyingly nice habits and all.

#stranger things #mike wheeler #steve harrington #trauma response #mike needs a hug #steve needs a hug #knightly talks

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inkbybambi · 7 months

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bodyguard!simon riley who takes a bullet for you —

words: 2.9k rating: e warnings: nightmares, guns/shooting, gunshot wound, hospitals, smut, creampie, cunnilingus, mentions of threats against reader, threat against reader, lowercase writing — please let me know if i missed any! notes: 18+ content, minors dni. warnings have been provided.

he's been assigned to you for two-ish years now. you weren't thrilled at first, and neither was he — but he didn't make it as obvious as you did.

"i don't need a babysitter," you had damn-near hissed when he was introduced.

"i wasn't hired to be one," he counters coolly, which only serves to irritate you further.

actively ignoring his presence — as much as you could when your company moved him into your apartment — even though you begrudgingly made room in the counters and fridge for his things, even going as far as investing into a better kettle so he could make his tea and clearing out an entire cabinet for all his tea, sugar, and steeper.

he trails you quietly as he was hired to; keeping close enough to always have you in his sights but far enough away that people wouldn't be able to clock his association to you — or so he thought.

six months into his contract with you — an unknown amount of time left, as price never answered and soon he stopped asking — he wakes in the middle of the night from a scream he never thought would come from you.

he rushes into your bedroom, gun in hand with his finger resting on the side and not the trigger. the front door is locked as he had left it, windows unbroken. he almost thinks he might've associated it with one of his own nightmares, until he sees you.

curled in on yourself, face tucked into your knees, fingers threaded through your hair as you struggle to breathe properly, hiccups and sobs breaking between your stuttered breaths.

he knocks gently on your door, not wanting to startle you. you jump just a little, regardless, but lift your head to look at him.

"'m sorry," you mumble, voice rough, "i didn't mean to wake you."

and you hadn't. you thought you were done with these awful nightmares, the ones gnawing at the edges of your mind during the day.

"'s'alright," he replies, tucking the gun into the waistband of his sleep shorts, walking carefully towards your bed. "you okay?"

the look he receives damn near breaks his heart.

he learns, that night, that an attempt had been made on your life before. more than once.

they never got close enough to do any harm, you say, but then swallow thickly and clutch your bicep where simon sees a scar that he never took notice of previously. they didn't get close enough to do anything worse, you amend, chancing a look at him.

"i had security then, too," you explain, wiping your tears with your hand, playing with the blanket. "it didn't change anything."

something shifts after that.

he starts cooking for you — with you, when there's time — and you bring him a cup of tea each morning. the bookshelf in the living room, previously only half-filled, collects simon's books. you give him the login to all your streaming services, and ignore the pointed look he gives you when he sees some trashy reality tv show in your "continue to watch" queue.

he doesn't complain much when he stands behind you during an episode, arms crossed, asking a question here and there. you sigh, exasperated at having to explain everything, telling him to sit down and you start the series from the beginning.

nine months into his contract, your nightmares become more frequent, and worse. you don't understand why. you were getting better, you cry in simon's arms after a particularly rough night.

"sometimes these things happen," he tells you softly, gently carding his fingers through your hair, tucking you under his chin.

"make them stop, please," you beg, even though you know he can't. he wishes he could.

he starts sleeping in your bed.

he's so warm, your cheek pressed into his chest, feeling more secure than you have in months when the weight of his thick, tattooed arm slings around your waist. he presses a kiss to your forehead at night, and you burrow into his side.

he starts taking the balaclava off at night.

a morning where you blessedly don't have to be up early, grey clouds hang in the sky, the promise of a storm later.

"g'mornin'," he says, voice rough with sleep, feeling him flex and stretch beneath you, groaning as his body relaxes. a flash of heat snaps through you.

"morning," you reply, only half-awake, tilting your head up to drag your lips across his jaw, prickling with stubble.

his fingers are in your hair, thick and comforting, tilting you back until his mouth slants over yours. he cradles the back of your head as his tongue slips into your mouth, hot and heavy.

the sheets rustle as he moves to lay over you, free arm resting by your head as your legs hook on his hips, trying to draw him closer to you.

he nips at your bottom lip as he rolls his hips, the heat of his cock through his boxers frazzling your brain. you mewl, his tongue back in your mouth, moving his hand to grip your waist and drag you up against him, moaning low in his throat when he feels the wetness seeping through your panties.

"fuck," you breathe out as his mouth moves over your cheek, down your jaw, kissing the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"say please," he rumbles.

"simon, please," you whine, fingers curling at the base of his skull and scratching, and he snarls against your skin, sinking his teeth into the side of your neck as he tears your panties off, pushing his boxers down enough to free his cock.

you're so wet for him, slick coating your thighs as he drags his cock through your folds.

he usually takes his time — using his fingers and tongue to open them up first, wanting to feel the wet heat of their cunt and the spurt of their release to know they're relaxed and ready for him. he eats pussy like he'll die if he doesn't, will happily spend hours between your legs if you let him.

but you? he feels feral with need.

"it's big, sweet thing," he rasps into your skin, right above the mark he sucked into your skin, notching the head of his cock at your entrance. he's not trying to brag, it's just a fact.

you claw at him, the sting of open scratches burning his skin so pleasantly.

"it's okay, don't care," you pant, gripping him hard enough to leave deep crescent marks in his skin, angling your hips up to draw him into your cunt yourself.

he grips your hips with both hands, slowly pushing his thick length into you, nails digging even deeper the more he pushes in.

"feels so fucking good," he says, tongue laving over your throat to collect the thin sheen of sweat that coats your skin. "could fuck you forever," he groans, your breath hitching.

you make a strangled noise low in your throat. it's been awhile since you've fucked anyone, and you've never fucked anyone as big as him before.

the stretch feels so good, though. your cunt clenches around him as he sinks in deeper, mind glazing over as you focus only on him.

"fuck," he whines when he finally seats himself fully into you, nuzzling into your neck, overwhelmed by the heat and slick, "good fucking girl, taking me so well."

he swallows thickly, waiting a couple heartbeats to enjoy this — it's been awhile for him, too.

"think you can take it, love?" and his fucking voice. you would agree to do anything as long as you could hear that rough accent along your throat, teeth skimming your skin.

"yes," you breathe out harshly, moving to wrap your arms around his shoulders, needing him close, close, closer.

for a man of few words, simon has a filthy mouth as he fucks into you, accompanied by groans and growls into your collar.

"never had a cunt this perfect." "fuckin' made for me." "can't wait to get my tongue in you, feel you cum on my face." "no one else can have you." "you're mine."

and you, normally far more verbal than him, are reduced to nothing more than mewls and pleas and moans for more.

you mouth and nip at his jaw when you can, wanting to mark him just as much as he's marking you. you'll be his forever if he lets you, but you'll be damned if anyone else gets to have him either.

"simon — " is the only warning you give before you cum on his cock, head thrown back as you moan through the waves of pleasure, release coating his legnth and thighs.

"that's it, baby, good girl, give it to me," he says, blunt nails digging into your waist as he grinds himself deep into you. you feel so warm and pliant, the pleasure numbing your mind as he rocks himself into you.

"wanna feel you give me one more, angel," he bites at your throat on the other side, wanting to give you matching marks. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, fucking into you deeper, hitting that spot inside you that has you seeing stars and your toes curling.

you grip at him again, clawing as he fucks into you, the sound of your wet cunt taking each thrust creating a symphony with his groans and your cries. he feels so fucking good, splitting you open and making you whole, desperate for him to cum inside.

the way your nails dig into his shoulder is the sign that you're getting close, and he thrusts just a little harder, a little meaner, your cute whines growing more desperate as you walk the precipice of another orgasm.

no one's ever made you cum more than once — sometimes, not even once — and you've never been able to do it yourself either.

but simon? fucks a second orgasm out of you like it's his life mission, ankles tightening around his neck as pleasure lines your veins, shaking as he continues to hit that spot inside you as you cum, prolonging it as much as he can.

"baby — " he chokes out, sharp teeth on your shoulder, thrusts getting sloppy. the slick of your two releases sounds so loud in your bedroom, feeling the desperation as he thrusts, deeper, harder.

"cum inside," you mumble against his cheek, nails scratching at the base of his skull as he thrusts once, twice, three times — the warmth of his release flooding your cunt.

he fists the sheets in one hand, nails dragging down your thigh as he pumps deep into you, your slick and his release seeping out of your hole, dripping down his balls and your asshole.

you stay like that, lips brushing, breathing in each other's air as you slowly come down from the high.

simon gently — so gently — lowers your legs, carefully watching your face for any signs of discomfort, settling them on his hips, hands moving up and down your thighs. "y'alright?" he asks. you swallow thickly and nod, both hands now at the base of his skull, affectionately scratching at the nape of his neck.

he slowly pulls out, and you miss the stretch and the warmth immediately. you push up on your elbows, watching as the mixture of your pleasure leaks out of you, biting you lip.

"fuckin' beautiful," he says almost reverently, mesmerized.

he spends the next hour cleaning you up, and you think your nails create permanent marks on his shoulders.

time bleeds together.

his contract renews on the twelfth month.

he heard rumors that price might switch him out for another guard.

you're at the meeting — it's your bodyguard, after all, they figure you should get some input. price has two separate folders prepared. a sharp look from simon is all price needed to know about how he feels. the tongue lashing you give your higher ups has price raising his eyebrows, and simon sits forward a little more should he need to haul you out over his shoulder.

he wouldn't mind that too much, he thinks, but he'd rather not.

ten minutes later and you're angrily signing his renewal papers, a blotch of ink at the start of your name as you didn't even read the contract before signing, lungs burning from your rant about personal safety and what the fuck are you thinking and i didn't just buy an entirely new tea set for nothing.

you grip his wrist as soon as he signs himself, dragging him to the nearest bathroom.

his hand covers your mouth as he fucks you deep and slow.

"don't worry, darling, 'm not going anywhere."

eighteen months into his contract, and he's never felt so little control before in his life.

he's meticulous, prepared, tactile.

there's a gun in his holster for distance threats and a knife in his sheath for those who dare get too close.

he makes sure to memorize the exists before you even get to the venue, now making no effort to conceal himself.

he's like a shadow, or a guard dog.

you've never felt more secure. more protected.

until —

he doesn't know how it slipped past him.

he let his eyes linger a little too long on the curve of your neck, where a new diamond pendant lay with his initial engraved on the back. he admires the dip of the dress you wear, open-back that shows the enticing expanse of your back, the dress covering you above the curve of your ass. you look back at him briefly while whomever you're with speaks, eyes sparkling in the bright light of the room, a smile reserved just for him.

he hears the cock of a hammer and his eyes snap to a gentleman who brandishes a gun like he's never held one before in his life. his eyes, though. his eyes are like fire, black with rage, staring at you with such hatred.

you look one second too late.

simon is on you right after the click of the trigger, pushing you to the floor and caging you with his body.

"stay down and don't fucking move," he growls as he reaches for his own weapon, up in a flash.

you can't hear anything except white noise and screams that sound muffled, heart pounding and making it hard to breathe. two shots ring out, in tandem, and there's the telltale sign of a body hitting the floor.

simon is by your side, eyes scanning, frantic, looking for any signs of harm.

"you okay?" he asks, carefully outstretching his hands to let you stop him from touching you should you want. you don't.

"fine," your voice cracks, and you can't stop shaking.

"you're okay, you're okay," he says, cradling your cheeks, thumbs wiping under your eyes. "i'm so fucking sorry," he adds, guilt heavy in his chest.

you grab his wrists lightly, tears streaming down your cheeks as you look him over. you gasp, unable to catch a real breath, unable to look away from his stomach.

"simon — " you say, horror laced in your voice.

he looks down, seeing the red seep through his shirt.

fuck.

at least it wasn't you, he tells himself.

nineteen months into his contract, and he isn't dead.

while he's been shot before — a fact he tells you, assuming it would comfort you, but only got him a venomous glare in return — it's been awhile.

the hospital, the stitches, the gauze and needles. he hated it then and he hates it now.

price comes to you in the hospital — they're keeping simon for a little, to make sure there's no complications with his healing — offering another guard in the interim while simon recovers.

you've never shot down a proposal so quickly in your life. the nerve.

twenty-two months into his contract, and the last of the moving boxes are taped shut and labeled. some of them in your writing, the others in his. the keys to your new house are tucked into his pocket, alongside a black velvet box.

"why do we have so much shit," you whine when packing, only two boxes deep and so many rooms left to go. you're too busy stuffing a manatee shaped steeper into a box — mana-tea, you giggled when he opened it, him rolling his eyes fondly in reply — and don't see him pause, looking at you softer, never hearing "we" before like that. never dreaming he could hear it like that.

a lot of stalling on your part and encouragement on his, and the last box is packed and placed in the back of the truck.

he laces your fingers together as you drive to the new house, a bottle of champagne already chilled.

twenty four months into his contract, and you come home with something hidden behind your back.

you smile like you have a secret, which would be a first.

it's awkward to bring around from your back, but there's a large german shepard puppy wiggling in your grip, tail wagging furiously.

he feels his heart stop for a moment, unable to take his eyes off the puppy, and then the band that's sitting around your finger. he touches his own subconsciously.

you set the ball of fur down, who immediately launches at simon, whining and wiggling and trying to give him kisses.

there's a collar and tag already there, and you watch with your heart beating faster than ever, unable to stop the smile on your lips, as he wrangles the pup enough to read it.

riley.

#ink by bambi #simon riley/reader #simon riley x reader #ghost/reader #ghost x reader #simon riley/you #simon riley x you #modern warfare imagine #modern warfare fanfic #simon riley imagine #simon riley smut #mondern warfare smut

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yeyinde · 2 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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miserycanary · 1 month

Text

WHAT YOU'RE MEANT TO DO ᡣ𐭩

pairing: alpha!Simon 'Ghost' Riley & workcaholic omega fem!reader

synopsis: you've lived your whole life without any problems due to the status of being beta, and you liked it that way. It doesn't interfere with your work, and suddenly you're informed you're an omega? That can't be.

tags: small arguments, smut like.. actually, dumbification, slight size kink, belly bulge, hair pulling, praise, degradation, breeding kink??, daddy kink, slight overstimulation if you squint, spit kink if you live in delusions

You had a routine you religiously followed. The day starts with waking up at 4, never having trouble getting up because you always look forward to work. You leave the apartment you share with your boyfriend at 5:15— maybe later than that when Simon feels clingy and asks you to stay for that day. You’ll indulge for 5 minutes before pressing a kiss on his chapped lips, promising you’ll come home early for him which seems to satisfy him.

Now you knew something was wrong when you woke up, exhausted, and all your bones weighed like a ton. Thinking back to last night, the clock displayed 10:15 when you finally resigned to bed, even unable to satisfy Simon (which he understood), opting to cuddle with you and nosing around your neck.

Your groan woke up Simon, his muscled figure making the bed creak as he followed your figure almost dragging itself to the bathroom. “Sweetheart?” he calls out, worry evident in his voice. “I’m fine, baby. Just feeling a little under the weather. Nothing some meds won’t fix,” the reassurance slips off your tongue easily despite all the alarms in your mind begging you to rest.

Your breathing got labored as your body tried to function. Your lover seems to have taken your word for it and went back to sleep, making you crack a smile.

Finally, you managed to get ready.. at 5:40. On the way, you could feel stares pointing at you. Did you smell? ‘Did I shower? I.. forgot. No, no... I did..’ you think to yourself, putting your things down on the table and letting your legs rest. “What kind of fucking sickness is this?” mumbling to yourself. Your eyebrows furrow, cursing at the world and complaining about the medicine not taking effect.

Time seemed to go fast but unbearably slow. It seemed like you could only recognize snippets throughout the day. Next thing you know, you hear your boyfriend’s worrying voice coming from your phone. Since when did you call? Nevermind. You hung up. Your mind flashes forward and the bright shine of your laptop looks back. For quite some time, you don’t recall moving, just looking dazed. ‘Water. I need water’ You finally snap back to reality, standing up. The world suddenly swirled and you found yourself on the floor.

‘Oh, shit. I-I need to get up... Fuck, my legs won’t move'

Tears swelled in your eyes, feeling helpless as people started to crowd you. Amid the commotion, a thundering voice booms out, calling for you. “Y/N!” Suddenly, all you could feel was the cool feeling of your boyfriend’s skin on yours. His scent fills your senses. God, you could live off this. “Babe.. why are you here?” you look at him, sighing in relief when you feel his palm pressed against your cheek. “You called me, slurring your words.” His voice was so deep and rough, you thought. Involuntarily, you squeezed your legs when you felt something gush in between. Your period? No, no.. too early. Unaware, everyone seemed to catch up to what’s wrong with you. Everyone rushed to distance themselves from you when Simon held you protectively, hiding you away from everyone and glaring at those who seemed to look at you like prey ready to be devoured.

Before you lost consciousness, all you could think of was you forgot to save your document. Then the next thing you wake up to is your apartment’s ceiling and the clattering from your kitchen with heavy footsteps. You could only assume it’s your boyfriend trying to cook. “Ghost..?” you call out, voice hoarse. In an instant, he was by your side with water in hand. “Hi, baby,” he starts, pushing the glass near your lips. You whine when you can’t even move to take a sip, and he melts at that. With gentleness, he tangles his fingers in your hair and pulls your head back, tilting the glass. “Open,” he commanded, which your body seemed to obey, your mouth opening and letting the cold water relieve your parched throat. As some droplets escape and cascade down your cleavage, you moan as it momentarily relives the heat your skin radiates.

“Love...” your boyfriend starts with the tone you know he uses when it’s about something that will upset you. “You’re required by the doctor to stay home for 2 weeks,” he continues, which finally tips you off. “No! I-I have a project due in 5 days, okay? I just need some paracetamol.” Insisting, you move to get up but you feel your boyfriend’s palm on your waist pinning you down. “No, bunny. You’re staying.” You glare at him in return. A part of you was aware that he was doing this for your sake, but you were too stubborn to let him. “Ghost, stop. I’m not in the mood for any lovey shits, okay? Just let me be,” you snap. Usually, when you get this pissed, he lets you be and just rushes by your side when you inevitably pass out due to over-exhaustion. This time, he doesn’t.

His stare was firm and commanding unlike the usual. Your Simon was soft, always there to clean up your mess. He never forces you to rest nor to listen to him— even if it is for the better. “Bunny, it’s not normal sickness, okay?” he still calmly explains, brushing the stray hair away from your face but you only slap his hand away, still frustrated. Seeing that you’re getting an attitude, he sighs and kisses your temple. “Do you know what your secondary gender is?” At his question, you stare at him like he asked you if you know the sky is blue. “Fucking hell, Ghost. Of course! I told you this the moment we met. I’m a beta, okay? Can you let me go now?” you hissed, attempting to raise his heavy hand of your hand yet he persisted and pressed harder. “No, princess,” he looks away in contemplation. “I rushed you to the doctor earlier, and… your testing was a mistake. You’re a freshly developed omega and it was advised you.. naturally let your heat happen.”

There were a few beats of silence before you cackled, tears forming in your eyes. “Yeah, right, babe. As if. Can you just fucking let me go?” The news of you being an omega sounded fake— because it is, you scoff. “I’m not joking,” he mumbles with a new profound authority. After realizing he was serious, everything came crashing down on you. This couldn’t be. You loved being a beta. It doesn’t interfere with your life. You can’t be an omega. You can’t! No, it’s fake. This was a joke! Heats?? You?? No, no. That’s not true–

“Y/N! Breathe!” Simon’s voice snapped you out of your haze, looking down to see your nails pressed so hard on his skin that’s letting out droplets of blood. Sobs were robbed out of your body, refusing to accept the change in you, yelling at your boyfriend to let you go. His figure immediately wrapped itself around you, pressing your face on his chest and nuzzling your head. “Calm down, bunny. It’s fine... Just calm down,” he soothes, putting his hand under your shirt to rub circles on your burning skin, and trying to get your breathing to match his. His shirt was drenched with tears but he didn’t mind. He muttered endless praises in your ear about how brave you are, and how you’ll be fine because he’s there. Ghost is there for you.

“I’m here, sweetheart” he cooed, pressing a kiss on your ear and laying the both of you down on the bed. He covered you entirely with his figure, protecting you from the world. With a final hiccup, you lose yourself to sleep and exhaustion, settling down and letting yourself be vulnerable with him with his pheromones blanketing your senses as if he’s the only thing there.

Waking up with a gasp, a layer of sweat covered your whole body when your attention was suddenly redirected to the wet spot below you that seemed to seep into the bedsheets. Hot panic took you over and you suddenly felt ashamed. Did you pee yourself out of nervousness? Clamouring, you stumble as you try to wipe the spot away, whimpering when another sudden gush dripped down your legs which woke Simon.

“Sweetheart? What’s up with ‘ya?”

You cry, rushing to his side and throwing yourself at him while apologizing profusely. “I-I’m sorry! Baby, I’m sorry... Please forgive me. I didn’t know!”

“Calm down, calm down.. tell me what’s happening,” his voice immediately calmed you down, your hands still clenching tight on his shirt and sticking your face in his scent gland. In an instant, the strong smell of whiskey, ground, and cigar invaded your nose but you welcomed it. The aroma calms down your nerves and allows you to talk without tumbling over your words. “I-I.. peed,” you mumble in shame that surprised your lover, but it seems the situation clicked in his head and he only responded with a chuckle.

“No, baby... You didn’t pee,” he sighs, grabbing your waist and sitting you sideways on his lap, while he scoots backward to lean on the headboard. “It’s something omega releases in substitution to lube,” he starts his hand slowly peeling away your shorts, revealing your soaked panties. “This is slick,” his finger swipes along the covered lips of your pussy, a string sticking to his pad. He brings his soaked fingers near you when the smell suddenly hit him. You smell like cherry-fucking-pie.

‘Fuck, she smells so sweet. No, I need to be patient. It’s her first heat’ he thinks while he watches your eyes observe with fascination. He nosed around your scent gland taking in your pheromones that sent blood rushing to his dick. His hand pulls your panties to the side to directly flick on your clit, pressing his thumb down and circling. You whimper, holding onto his shirt as your legs instinctively close. Everything was heightened. It felt like you’d come any minute just from your clit getting pressed down.

“Spread them.” As if your body was possessed, your thighs separate, allowing Simon to completely slip off your underwear and press a single digit inside of you. The reaction was instant. Your back arches and your toes curl in pleasure, red chipped nails digging into his bicep, but he was too immersed in watching your pretty cunt take what he gives you to even care. “Good girl,” he praises, pressing his lips against your ear. Tilting your head to the side, you attempt on taking cover on his bicep, but Ghost only grabs your face, tilting it back.

“Daddy needs to hear you, princess”

Your moans got higher as he added another finger and pumped them, borderline abusing your cunt. But you needed this. How else will you take your alpha’s massive cock? Looking down on you, he melts as babbles and whines were the only things you could muster. Your body writhes in pleasure, eyes rolling back in pleasure. “S-Simon! I’m... a-ah!.. close!” Feeling your release climbing, your pussy clenches around his digits while urging him to go faster; just a little more push to your climax. A scandalized gasp was ripped out of you when he suddenly stopped completely. “No, how do you ask to cum properly?” his voice grumbles, squishing your cheeks while your face is soaked with tears. “I wanna cum, Simon. Please please please–” he cuts you off, tightening his hold on your face and pressing his thumb hard on your clit. “No, not Simon.”

With that, you finally realized the key to your release. “Daddy, please. I wanna cum, please. P-put your fingers in again. Daddy, please” you whine, a hand releasing his bicep to place itself on his nape, pulling him down so you can messily press a kiss. Satisfied, he plunged 3 fingers in, forcing your cunt to take it. “There we go. Was that so hard, princess? Was it hard being polite to daddy?” he teases, pressing down on your sweet spot. His tongue licks around your mouth, sucking on the wet appendage and letting his saliva trickle down into yours.

You felt so tight around his digits, and the thought of how you’ll feel around him made his cock ache. The hard-on pressing against your lower back which lifted as the coil inside of you snapped. He watches with adoration as you soak his fingers and the bedsheets, a sense of accomplishment bubbling up inside his chest, making precum dribble out of his tip and stain his sweatpants. “Good girl,” the praise slips off his tongue absentmindedly as he sneaks a hand behind you, untying his pants and pulling it down just enough for his cock to spring free.

Still high from pleasure, he manhandles your body to the position he wants. Pushing your body forward so your face is planted on the sheets with your hips resting on two-stacked pillows. Amid pleasure, you got brought back when overstimulation ran through your nerves, feeling Ghost’s cock fill you up, inch by inch. You didn’t even realize when he had taken his bottoms off. The only thought running through your head was him, his smell, his overpowering pheromones, and his cock. God, his cock was driving you crazy.

“Babygirl, you need to loosen up,” he orders, slithering a hand under you to swirl around your clit. “No!.. oh! s-sensitive!” you whine, sobbing onto the pillow. “I don’t care, sweetie. You had your fill, now daddy needs his. Won’t you be a good girl and help me? I promise I’ll reward you,” he mutters, his chest pressing on your back. Driven with the need to be good for him, you let your cunt relax to take him in.

Slowly rutting his hips, he tries to thrust more of his cock inside of you. “Slowly, baby. Breathe for me. There we go. Perfect,” he groans, pressing his forehead on your nape when he finally felt himself completely buried inside your hot, wet cunt. “Such a perfect pussy. You want to make me proud, don’t ya?” You only whine in response, then a loud moan ripped out of you when you felt a subtle bulge on your stomach which got pressed down onto the pillow under the weight Ghost was putting down you. “Fuck, you’re so small, aren’t ya? Such a perfect cocksleeve. What a behaved slut for me.” Without a warning, he snaps his hips, thrusting in and out of you without mercy; like a carnal animal with the intent to just breed. God, this is heaven. This is where he’s supposed to be. With you, inside of you.

“I’m gonna fill you up so good, ma” he moans, your voice matching his. “Ah-ah-ah! Fast! Too fa— oh! Too fast,” you sobbed yet it felt so good. Every sense of yours was drowning with the thought of your mate, of Simon. You were so lost in pleasure, hands sprawled out on the sheets and gripping, trying to crawl away from the overwhelming pleasure. Ghost only clicks his tongue, putting his hands on your waist and pulling you back, filling you to the brim again.

“Daddy was too lenient on you huh? Maybe I need to keep you here. You won’t ever need to use that pretty head of yours, worrying about nothing, sweetie. I’ll do everything for you, okay? Your alpha will do everything for you.” You feel him pull back with the tip catching on your rim. As if given a break, you take a breath but suddenly everything was knocked out of you when he bottomed out with one thrust.

“F-fuck, you feel amazing. You just need to be good to me, okay? You just need to be a good mama for our children, stay at home, and let me use your pretty pussy when daddy needs to relieve stress” Pinning your waist down, it was like he actually sees you as a personal cocksleeve, using your body for his own release.

Thrusting faster, Ghost’s moans start to pitch higher, his hand tangling itself in your locks to pull your face from the pillow. Locking lips, he moans louder while pressing down on the bulge in your stomach, helping him get closer from the fact you’re so small— so easily to manhandle and to use freely. Maybe he should actually just keep you here. You won’t need to work. No need to stress that pretty head of yours over trivial stuff. He just needs you to stay with him.

The thought of you being swollen with his baby and staying inside the apartment waiting for him was the final thing that sent him to the edge. His tip spurting out cum filled you up to no end, kissing the entrance of your womb as he buried himself as deep as possible. Your hands scramble to hold onto something, afraid to get lost in the pleasure; scared of being a slave to the mind-numbing pleasure. You dig your nails on his thigh, sobbing and moaning in pleasure as his release triggered another of yours. Feeling so full, Ghost finally stopped cumming and lets you go. His spent body collapsing alongside you in exhaustion. Silence ensued between you guys, basking in each other’s presence. After a while, he got up to grab a towel to clean you up, knowing you’d be insatiable once your omega instincts completely settled.

Feeling his lips kiss your temple, his rough yet sultry deep voice (or maybe that’s just your love for him talking) telling you to relax made you purr. As you watch him take care of you, scrubbing down both yours and his spent off your body got you thinking. Maybe this is where you’re supposed to be. Doing nothing but behaving for your lover, keeping Ghost happy.

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱: AHHHH!! It's my first full-length fanfic which happens to be my very first explicit and descriptive smut. Please be gentle with the criticisms!! Also, do you guys want a König version? Please comment if yes.

dividers by @cafekitsune

Please reblog!! Ask is open!

⟢ taglist is open!! Comment if you want to be tagged in the next posts.

check out my other works in the masterlist: ୭!

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