Oi Mate

I've got a weak spot for men with dead fish eyes, and '09 Ghost happens to fall under this category quite nicely

ghost being the designated photographer because he doesn’t like being in pictures but soap & gaz love it. he’s behind the camera, lovesick, saying “now do a silly one”

y’all wanna talk with me about the first time price cums in his pants with you? embarrassed because he hasn’t done it since he was a teenager and now he’s nearly 40. but shit if you don’t make him feel like a horny teen again

big game

ghost x f! reader | ~5k words cw: simon lies, mean simon, red flags? what red flags, hunting, animal death (discussed), predator/prey, knives, bad restraints, bad suspension, rough (arguably bad) sex, clothed man & naked woman, blood, murder, italic abuse. please tell me if you need something tagged. a/n: a cross between this post and this post. banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

Simon lets slip that he owns a cabin nearly a year into the relationship. It’s the kind of thing where you could and maybe should be upset, but you play it off as no big deal. You have to. This is Simon. The man didn’t show his entire face until the sixth or seventh date.

(He joked about it, too, that first time—Breathe a word about this mug, and I’ll have to kill ya. You laughed, delirious as he split you in two. He didn’t.)

It’s a few hours away from the city, on the far edge of the boonies. It’s long beyond the truck stops and hog refineries that dot this part of the country. Far from delivery and traffic lights. Deep in an unincorporated village, in an unincorporated area. Its remoteness would make one wonder how a foreign ex-soldier found such a location, but again. This is Simon. Ages ago, you learned questions earn neither his favor nor answer.

The property is impressive for its locale. Two bedrooms. A decent kitchen. Heating and cooling. A garage and a shed. Renovated within the last decade and upgraded piecemeal when Simon has time. It sits on a lake shared by only two other cabins, both residing around a reedy bend and well out of sight.

Upon arrival, Simon doesn’t offer a tour, telling you to poke around as he unpacks the car. Well, a jerk of his head and a gruff, “Go on in.” Since you started seeing each other officially, he doesn’t often let you burden yourself with chores. No lifting a finger if he’s available.

The place is sparse. Occupied but not lived in. While stocking a cupboard, Simon explains the previous owner, an older gentleman with cheap taste, left behind what decoration remains. A few tacky fishing signs hang on the walls, intermixed with sun-bleached squares on the wood paneling. A curio box collection of novelty keychains in the hall to the bedrooms, full of states and a couple of names. The lumpy pillows on the sofa pouf tobacco-scented dust when you test its cushions.

Tiptoeing into the main bedroom, you imagine how you might spruce up the austere space. Considering he moved into your apartment after three months, you assume it’s a matter of time until this becomes your cabin, too. 

(It was incredibly romantic—the move. Near sunset, Simon appeared like a specter in the pouring rain, with his few worldly belongings in tow. Kissed you hard and fast, told you he couldn’t stay at his place anymore. That he needed you. You. All your effort paid off.)

The memory brings a smile to your face.

You’ll turn the cabin into a cozy love nest like your apartment. Blankets, candles, a rug or two. Though he’ll never admit it, Simon must desire comfort like anyone else. The first night he burrowed into your duvet, luxuriating in the cotton and silk, he fell asleep like an old hound freshly sprung from a shelter. He tossed most of his stuff the next day—said you had everything he needed.

Looking around, you realize you have your work cut out for you. The austere room more a cave than a refuge. The man's bed doesn't even have a frame. Just a neatly made mattress with tucked sheets and two flat pillows. A secondhand dresser and a stack of plastic drawers for extra storage. On the bright side, the adjacent bathroom is spotlessly clean, with a caddy holding melamine sponges, bleach, and other supplies on a shelf. He's always been tidy, likely a military thing.

From the living room, you're greeted with a scenic view of the lake and the adjoining deck through the glass door. A pair of wooden chairs sit side-by-side in front of a fire pit, one of Simon's old welding projects. Down the gentle slope to the shore, a small dinghy rests in the water, tied off at the aluminum dock. A smattering of yellow and white water lily pads hug the bank.

Peaceful. Picturesque. Private. 

But your eyes hitch on a strange beam.

Bolted between two mature trees, a hefty piece of timber sits within plain sight of the deck. A series of evenly spaced, fixed eyelet hooks and two pulleys catch the light when the breeze shifts the canopy of the bur oak overhead.

Simon joins you on the deck, the planks creaking beneath his bulk. A cracked beer dwarfed in his hand.

“Did the former owner have kids?” You ask as he sips.

“Kids?”

You point at the curious installation. “Isn’t that for a tire swing? Seems like the perfect spot.”

Simon stares, narrowing his eyes slightly with a chuckle. The tone of it prickles—the same snide laugh he makes at his own awful jokes. When he’s in on the punchline, and you’re not. One of the few things that sour his image.

“Kids? Fuck no,” He shakes his head. “That’s where I ‘ang deer and the like out to bleed.”

You bristle and duck the arm he means to drape around your shoulders, ignoring how he huffs baby and c’mon, don’t be like that between snickers. 

He finds you in the bedroom, sorting the clothes you packed with punchy aggression, fuming and embarrassed by his teasing. Stupid and naive, that’s how you feel, for all your care and commitment. You’re just so silly, such a townie, for not recognizing a piece of lumber as a barbaric vehicle for slaughter.

Two wide mitts glide over your sides as you try your best to ignore the behemoth behind you. You are by no means small, but Simon. Fuck, Simon, you whisper, half-exasperated when he nuzzles into the crook of your neck—he’s—fuck, he is big.

It’s an hour before your clothes are finally put away, and you’re already down a pair of underwear for the weekend. Simon leaves you sated and dozing, a tactile apology accepted, and retrieves you to fix supper when he’s hungry. Later, parked in the chairs in the yard, watching the end of the sun’s march to the horizon, you broach the topic again.

“Will you take it down?”

“Sweetheart, what do ya think I do on the weekends you work?”

You shiver. Ten seconds ago, you’d’ve said read or weld or fish. It’s ridiculous how your mind cannot wrap around the idea of Simon out in the woods, stalking through the trees and underbrush, hunting. Decked out in blaze orange and realtree, rifle cradled in his hands. You know his history and what he’s capable of. What he’s done.

But this is different from his military career. Simon said he didn’t want to do any of that. Enlisting was how he escaped a lousy home life; he didn’t plan to get stuck in it for as long as he did. He confessed once, after a silly tiff over your job, that the day he was discharged was the best day of his life, second only to the day you met. That’s where the disconnect lies. Hunting and killing for sport, that’s not the Simon you know.

You tell him as much.

“That so?” His smirk matches the rising moon. A waxing crescent.

You insist.

Simon cracks his neck. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal,” he starts, fingers flexing around the neck of the beer bottle. “I’ll quit, if I can bag one last trophy.”

The thought of burning the beam distracts you from the flicker in his eyes. The ugly thing is the only hiccup keeping the cabin from textbook perfection. You don’t want to think of Bambi’s poor mother dangling like some macabre ornament whenever you look outside.

“Fine. What’s the trophy?”

Simon grins.

~~

“I better win a fucking award for this. It’s freezing.” You’d said, tugging on your sneakers.

He laughed wickedly. The sound burned right up your spine.

“You’ll get a fucking award, alright.”

Simon sent you off a half hour ago if the time on his watch’s dull, glowing face is correct. He buckled it around your wrist before you darted into the woods, tightening it as far as it would go. It spins loose around the bone anyway. He warned you to watch your footing, pressed bear mace into your palm, and then gave you five minutes to make yourself scarce. Inwardly, you preen. To go undiscovered for this long—you’ve surpassed your own expectations.

However, squatting with your back to a distressingly damp tree trunk, regret eclipses pride and buzzes under your skin. Hopefully, it's not a parasite from one of the puddles you stomped through. It's out of devotion, you tell yourself, itching under a wet sock, that you agreed to this game. Out of love. There isn't much you wouldn't do for Simon. From the moment you met him, it's been magnetic. Poetic.

And that first date? Cinematic. You went out with one man and returned home with another. Your date caught Simon staring from across the joint, a mean set of eyes in a ski mask eating you alive. What kind of man lets another steal his ‘bird’? That’s what he called you—birdie. Need some company, birdie? Complete disregard for the flop-haired man across the table. Cupped a hand to your date’s ear, said a few words, and Mike or Matt or whatever his name was vacated his seat, leaving the big Brit to take his place.

Bringing him home was a foregone conclusion, the decision finalized as you watched him, absolutely rapt, stab the meat of your entree and claim it as his own. Rolled up his balaclava just enough to take a bite with a row of crooked teeth. Breath hitching at the scars, the pale white lines stretching over his chin. You didn’t even know his name when you blurted out the question. And it’s with fondness you recall the flash of surprise in his eyes at your resolute zeal. Didn't make him work for it, offered yourself up on a silver platter.

('Course, afterward, you had to convince him not to fuck you in the parking lot, promising breakfast in the morning if he slept over. He did. For two days. He kept turning up after that.)

You may be hiding in the woods, but he's the animal. Yes. A neglected stray you dedicated the better part of a year into domesticating. Lured him with food, a warm bed, and sex. Assiduously filing down his sharp teeth and rough edges with your body. Introducing him to creature comforts, to living versus mere survival.

Which, again, prompts the question—why hunting? Didn’t you take care of him? If he needed more, all he had to do was ask. Take. Prying a burr off of a sleeve, you wonder if it's like the old saying goes: you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe he needs to chase or track, and you’re another soft-handed city slicker keeping a working dog cooped up in an apartment.

If you still saw your therapist, she’d probably suggest you dissect that. But you don’t, and you’re not inclined to schedule a session. Besides, Simon said all shrinks are—

A twig snaps. It shocks you how quickly you push to your feet.

Twenty feet or so dead ahead, a hulking mass moves through a thin shaft of moonlight.

You run.

Huffing and puffing, you charge clumsily through the trees, miraculously avoiding clusters of roots and shielding your face with your hands. Feels unnatural to run from him. The blood rush in your ears drowns out the heavy thuds on the ground behind you, Simon pursuing, shirking stealth for speed.

Inevitably, he overtakes you. An iron grip latches onto your shirt, and a kick sweeps your legs. The bear mace flies from your hand into the brush, clanging off a tree. You dangle for a spine-tingling second, suspended, heart lurching into your throat. He leverages your tumbling momentum to swing you to the ground at his feet through strength alone. Landing on the cold floor of the woods expels a gasp, a second following as a boot presses between your shoulders. No force behind it; its presence alone enough to keep you down. Despite the dirt and twigs surely sticking to your front and the borderline painful thunder of your heart, you smile in relief. It’s over. His last hunt. The boot lifts.

“Nice work, big guy,” You cough, breathing hard. “Can we—Simon?”

Before you can move, Simon nudges the toe of a boot into your ribs, compelling you to roll over. You startle at the sight looming above, a strangled, incoherent string of mouth noises trickling out of shock. A pair of brown eyes peer through the orbits of a skull attached to a mask. They trail from your face to your stomach, where he takes advantage of your stupefied babbling, binding your hands with cord. You meet his gaze, heat creeping up your neck, and his eyes crinkle.

About a dozen questions surface on the return march to the cabin. None survive the swirling vortex of your head, unwilling to risk appearing perfidious. 

Simon flexes his grip over your bound hands. “Gonna have some fun.”

Your faith does not lapse, though fear simmers low in your belly when he doesn’t lead you to the cabin but toward the beam. A fluorescent nylon rope now feeds through the hooks and pulleys, and an oxidized steel, wide-based triangle sways freely. Beckoning. A humiliating whimper escapes as he positions you on a circle of dead grass, hands of a hangman on your hips.

“Said you wanted a fucking award.”

A fucking award. A fucking award.

Simon reclaims his watch and then methodically changes your bindings. A hand to each vertice, he fastens you to the gambrel and kisses away a rogue tear. He tugs and tests the rope. It shouldn’t induce a flood, and yet.

“Is it—Can it hold me?”

“Birdie, this is built for stags and boars. It can hold me.” He strokes your cheek, tapping the bone with a knuckle, then breaks away. “Stay put.”

As if you have a choice.

Leaving you with the frogs and crickets, you watch Simon retreat indoors. A breeze carries a cool rush of air from the lake, your thin top a poor barrier to the slight chill. You take deep, rattling breaths to slow your heartbeat, still racing from the pursuit.

A distant click breaks the quiet, followed by a low, electrical buzz and the sudden, blinding intensity of light. It sears your vision before you can screw your eyes shut, blinking away the phosphenes with a noise of displeasure. The sensation’s almost enough to knock you off your feet. You squint, sight adjusting, and track the source to a previously unseen flood lamp affixed to the oak tree some distance away.

Simon returns shortly after you regain your bearings, his imposing silhouette accentuating his mass. Closer, he’s stripped down to a fraying and stained white t-shirt, but your eyes hone in on the rig fastened around a thick thigh. The cut of the strap guides your eye to the straining denim, and the image of his dick flashes in your mind, scorching like the flood lamp.

He extracts a knife from the sheath, steel reflecting light like a mirror. You squirm, a cross between impatient and uncomfortable. Is he cutting you down already? What was the point—

He pulls the front of your shirt, setting the knife edge to the hem.

“Simon,” your voice jumps high in your throat. “Don’t you dare.”

A steady upward glide answers the warning, cleaving the material in two open drapes. The breeze hits your sweat, the band of your bra suddenly chilled and sticking, though that doesn’t last long as he slices through it, too.

“Someone could see!” you stammer, nipples tightening in the night air.

“You’re frettin’ over nothin’, sweetheart. Nobody’s out here. Open.” Simon demands, pressing the hilt to your lips. “Good girl.” he praises when you relent to bite the compressed leather between your teeth, catching a whiff of polish. He rips off the remnants of your top and bra, dropping them to the ground in scraps. A big hand fondles and weighs a tit in its palm as if he hasn’t played with it before. There’s a deep inhale from behind the mask as he swipes a thumb beneath its mass, then a chuckle. “Work up a sweat?”

The hand with the knife carefully discards the mask, revealing smears of eyeblack, and he pops his thumb into his mouth to suck it clean. A gasp slips out when he steps closer, hand engulfing the tissue again, pushing it up to glide his nose along the underside, tongue trailing. He nips, soothing after you yelp.

You mourn your expensive leggings when he shreds them next, reducing them to ribbons—another deep breath and a throaty laugh, selfish and all too pleased.

“Knew I smelled ya in the woods.”

“You ruined–you tore them–”

“Thought you’d get lucky tonight?” Scarred knuckles drag from your ribs to your thigh, squeezing, his thumb rubbing sweet circles over old stretch marks. Your wires cross, his blatant rewrite of the afternoon makes your lips purse, but his hand, Christ, your toes curl in your sneakers. “A quick screw in the woods?” He sheathes his knife to trace a finger along the crease of your thigh.

Air whistles through your teeth in a sharp inhale. He skims, dipping to gather some of your wetness, licking his fingers clean again. He hums appreciatively. “Get off on being chased? Fuckin’ dripping, birdie.”

Your hole twitches at his teasing, and you know he must see it with the sneer he gives you alongside the abrupt plunge of two fingers. The hand on your thigh migrates to your ass, pulling you snug to the webbing. 

“Simon!” A curse hisses out as he burrows his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, curling—not for your pleasure, no, but to keep you there, a crude hook. The rope strains as you squirm, impaled, and stretched too tight on his hand, clenching uncontrollably as if your cunt can’t make up its mind. A flurry of sensations meets head-on with reason, and logic’s never been your strong suit. Reduced to need and want in equal measure, a single twist of his fingers confirms you’re as desperate as the night you met him.

You don’t notice his other hand abandoning your backside for the rope. What squeaks first, you or the pulleys? It’s sudden, the way you slide off his fingers with a lewd pop, feet leaving the ground. He hoists you up and up, the movement practiced, tying you off like the boat secured around a cleat hook. 

Some feet off the ground, naked and shivering in the dark, exposed—you should feel fear, but the other shoe, instinct or intuition, doesn’t drop. All the vulnerability does instead is send a white-hot pulse to your clit. A plea leaves your mouth before your brain considers anything else. Pelvis tilting. He awards your eagerness with a grind of a zipper and a gratified grunt. Simon tugs his jeans and boxers down, then bends slightly to hitch your legs.

Your legs settle around him, and though he huffs when you squeeze, trying to ease the pressure off your wrists, you think he likes it. The ropes above slack little, raised higher than he’s tied you. With a massive hand back on your hip, he uses the other to feed his cock into you, bringing the line taut once more as he pulls you down.

The steady shove and fullness push a low whine from your mouth, which Simon smothers with a toothy kiss. It stings some—you’re not nearly wet enough, only quieting with the faith he’ll make it better. However, the fact that he doesn’t give you time to adjust isn’t promising.

He ruts. Barges in. Takes what he needs in full strokes. Builds a pace that rattles the hardware and your insides. The pain steadily stressing your wrists and lower back is secondary. Third, probably, to pleasure and heat, though the former isn’t building as fast as the latter. Sweat beads in your hairline and neck, collecting under your breasts and in the creases of your belly. Makes your calves slick where they press into his sides, the cotton of his shirt sticking to his and your muscles.

“Simon, I can’t–” The words eke out, abdomen and thighs burning, friction in the wrong places.

His arms flex, boots shuffling over dirt and grass to further beneath you, cock dragging along your walls at a drastic angle, head jabbing into your cervix. More support, less comfort. A bitter trade-off, exchanging one hurt for another. The pinch of his brow makes the bursting stars at the edges of your vision worth it.

Each thrust shakes you in the rope, pulleys whining in solidarity. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes across the cabin’s yard, coupling with your gasps and Simon’s ragged breaths. After a particularly harsh snap of his hips, laughter, deep and gular, trickles out of his mouth. "You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?" he drawls, voice oozing sangfroid. “Y’like your award?”

That has you shuddering. His hands settle on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks. “Look at you, strung up so prettily. Pretty fucking ornament.”

Bambi’s poor mother.

Simon's voice and the image of a dangling deer carcass collide, punctuated with a thrust like a battering ram. It forces another string of needy sounds. Discomfort and desire coil in your stomach, twisting into a warm mass with a life of its own. You feel every inch as he withdraws and shoves in. The heat of him, the hardness. Nylon chafes your skin, each buck a reminder of your helplessness. Restraints are nothing new, but this is—

The air leaves your lungs in one big whoosh as Simon hits a sweet spot.

You slump a bit, legs close to jelly from bracing. 

Finally, an adjustment. Simon slows to meld himself further into you, and it’s then, sucking in deep breaths, you marvel at how perfectly level you are to be fucked like this. He bands a single thick arm beneath your ass in a casual display of strength, the other snaking between you. Chin to chest, he spits, the glob hitting your clit like a bullseye. You’d cringe if his thumb didn’t chase after it, spreading his saliva. The sudden break, coupled with his attention, makes you quiver. Anticipation gaining on torment. His thumb’s rhythm quickens, alleviating the aches. You’ll be sore as hell come morning, but as you have before, you’ll forgive again.

With a new, albeit haphazard, focus on your clit, he rolls his hips at a more languid pace. The shift is a knife’s edge between torture and bliss. 

“Still want me to take it down? Don’t know if I will, birdie, like the idea of keepin’ you up ‘ere, ‘anging for the takin’ whenever I want ya.” A chuckle vaporizes into a hiss. “Shit, you like the sound of that?

If you could manage speech, you’d say yes. Simon’s rewired your synapses in a matter of seconds with the rough pad of a finger. He’s backlit from this angle. Haloed. Suits him, you think. What you’re feeling is rapturous, however ruthless it may be. Animalistic, really. If you let him leave the beam—this is what you’ll remember. Not some fresh-killed doe staring into nothing. But you, Simon, and the orgasm he harvests. 

It creeps up on you. You howl, jerking in the ropes, muscles spasming and weeping. Revived with a burst of adrenaline, your legs try to close automatically, only to press uselessly into his sides. There’s no stopping him and nowhere to go until he’s done. Your body sags in its ties like a puppet.

Simon snarls something, and his palms return to your ass, abandoning all pretense. A haze rolls, thick as molasses, over you as he uses you to his end. He goes silent the few seconds before he comes, breathing harshly through his nose. One last snap of his hips, a deep grunt, and his cock floods your pussy. His chest heaves. Breaths heavy and stunted. Burrowing into your chest, he digs his nose into your sternum and rasps his teeth over your frantic heartbeat.

Your eyes droop along with the rest of your person. Everything disappears under a tenebrous wave.

Movement. The grind of the pulleys. The sawing of a knife. A sliver of lucidity buoys you, a headrush from popping to the surface after drowning. Your head throbs, the world spins, and by the time you make sense of it, you hear the familiar creak of the cabin steps. 

Simon lays you out on the lumpy mattress, brushing his fingers over your hair and skin. He disappears, and you float in and out of consciousness. Thoroughly fucked.

You briefly wake when he tucks you in. The crux of your legs is damp, and a faint medicinal smell emanates under the blanket. Layers of gauze over aloe wrap your wrists where they lay beside your head on a flat pillow, and you wiggle your fingers experimentally.

“Sleep.” He says, poking your forehead.

Your throat hurts. “Stay.”

The bed dips when he obliges. He molds to your back, smushing your chest with an arm and cupping a tit. His breath fans over the shell over your ear, and when you’re on the edge of sleep, he murmurs something, but the words run together.

Somehow, he falls asleep before you. Sated. Ran out. You take care of him, and he takes.

~~

An emaciated tick floats with its legs curled in on itself in a glass on the floor next to the bed. You stare at it for too long, then roll over.

Simon’s awake, though his eyes remain closed and body still. You wince, thighs rubbing together and interlacing your limbs over his. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t shove you off.

You trace a scar jutting across the meat of a shoulder and stare at his chest, pock-marked like besieged castle walls. Months ago, you asked about the stories behind the wounds. The question went unanswered, and it earned you a week of getting fucked face-down. So you simply drop a kiss to a crater on his pec and then his chin.

“You broken?” He mutters.

“No.”

“Then fix us some breakfast.” 

It’s Herculean with how your flanks and thighs protest, but you hum through the kitchen and diligently rustle up the meal. Visions of a life dance through your head. An ivory lace curtain will suit the window over the sink. The smoke-damaged, yellowing cabinets need scrubbing. There’s hair stuck in the hoarfrost of the freezer, which makes you gag. Leftovers from one of Simon’s hunts.

No sooner than you plate the bacon does Simon emerge. No need to call. He’s trained. 

~~

The cell reception is terrible, one of the features that sold him on the property. Calls drop sporadically, and texts scrape by at the shed. His phone vibrates when he sets foot over the threshold—messages from his pet, all sent within a few hours. Poor thing’s bored at work. He wouldn’t know the feeling. His morning’s been productive. Enjoyable.

Simon’s lip curls, and he leans the fishing rod against the shed door. Sliding his phone into a pocket, he turns back to fetch the tackle box. He lumbers past the wriggling cunt strung up on the newly installed gambrel, the plastic crinkling underfoot. The steady drip of blood is barely audible over their whiny throes. Probably hurts. Hooks through the Achilles tendons will do that, but they’ll go quiet soon enough. If he times it right, they’ll be done when he returns for supper.

He nearly pricks his thumb, spearing the worm onto the hook. Watches it writhe. He huffs a laugh and spares a glance back at the cabin. The two trees that once held the beam. It’s a loss to no longer watch game struggle from the comfort of the deck. He surprised himself with how he complied with his girl’s request. She earned it, he supposed. Cried and begged and bled for it. Usually, that sort of response draws his knife, not his interest. But she’s an odd one. Different. A rare beast.

He casts the line.

“Do you want to fuck me?” She’d asked all those months ago, less than a minute after he threatened to hang her date by the balls. Blunt and to the point. Refreshing. He was unaccustomed to finding them so willing, but she fucking imprinted on him like a wobbly-kneed fawn. Nosed his open, reaching hand like a stray, hungry pup. She saw him for what he was—the bigger, meaner predator. Top of the food chain. Thinks some part of her knew she was better off bowing her head and licking his cock than running. She stuck her neck out, took him home, and gave him her pussy without a fuss.

It’s cute, the way she thinks she’s made him agreeable. How she works on him and his hygiene and manners. Doesn’t get that if it were up to him, he’d sleep on the floor, in the dirt, used to a lifetime of bunking down in shitholes. The cabin’s simply suitable for his hobbies. The fact it’s a decent vivarium for the sweet girl is a bonus, a place to keep her nice and soft so long as she’s good. ‘Course, the sight of her hanging by her hands made the idea of introducing her insides to the outside cross his mind, but he won’t cut her down just yet. Not when he’s got her leashed.

Hours later, the cooler packed with largemouth bass and walleye, he unpacks the dinghy and trudges toward the shed. It’s silent, save for the insects and the birds.

The nosy prick from the bait shop sways, unmoving. Coated with his own fluids and dripping. He chuckles. He should call her.

💙 USA 💙

national suicide prevention

national domestic violence hotline

national sexual abuse hotline

trans lifeline and resources

💙INTERNATIONAL💙

list of suicide hotlines by country

domestic violence hotlines and resources by country

sexual (+ domestic) abuse agencies by country

international trans resources

[fairytales: fathoms below]

⤷ john price x f!reader; fairytales!au, mermaid!reader, no warnings!

⤷ summary: a series imagining each of the cod men in fantasy/fairytale settings.

(w.c: 3.2k)

captain john price - the little mermaid 

Deep brown oak lays a steady foundation for the billowing ivory cotton. It is a formidable beast, splitting the current with a wicked ferocity that only further emboldens everything your sisters have said in the privacy of hidden corners and muttered breaths. This monster is a fearsome one, its force unparalleled. Something entirely different than what you have seen before.

Mind your distance, your eldest sister had spoken in between the echoing bellows of your father’s rampage as he raged and roared about the increased presence of the fiend in the seas. It is a frightening being. 

Yet, as you peek above the waves to peer at its high fixtures and its grand weight gliding across the water, you’re less inclined to be scared of the vessel and more curious about who could have made such a thing. Your sister’s words and your father’s fear are quickly things of the past, rendered outdated almost instantaneously beneath its shadow.

What could they know about the intent of such a thing with certainty when they themselves have never been as close as this before? If they had, surely they’d feel the same as you do now.

The ship rocks with a force equal to the volume of the men steering it. They are of varying shapes and sizes, loud as they shout at one another along the choppy water. Words you can only catch on whispering winds, syllables and sounds that are completely foreign as you try to repeat them to yourself. A pulse echoes within you, a ferocious beating of your heart that begs you to get closer, to let the curiosity that surges within you seize its grand moment. If only just to see, just to hear. 

It is one thing to see the ancestors of this magnificent watercraft on the seafloor—to play in its cracked beams and chase your sisters through the wreckage, imagining in secret what an image it would be were it fixed and afloat—but it is something entirely different to see the beast alive. 

To see it be tamed, made nothing more than a tool to be beckoned— by him.

He stands commanding on the helm, the gruffness of his voice carrying on the winds, crossing the distances to you. The men follow his calls, responding in time to his orders and moving with preciseness on the vessel, not entirely unlike your father’s guards. They are seasoned, well learned, and they follow him without question. It is truly a sight to behold, but him, he trumps it all. 

His figure is distinguishable even from afar. You’ve been able to make him out even as you trailed a couple hundred kilometers behind, curiosity consuming all reason as you followed the ship past neighboring reefs and exiting well beyond the boundaries of your father’s kingdom. He’s well cut and corded, muscle visible even if the white of his shirt didn’t stick to his skin—wet from the seawater. 

He’s wide in the shoulders, tall and lean, before it tapers down to a narrow waist; His bottom half is obscured by a dark fabric, which must be the object of your father’s frequent cursing. Legs. You’ve never seen them before, much less two of them. 

Still, his… abnormality hardly detracts from the verboten truth—your eye is caught. It hardly deviates from his powerful stance; Your gaze can wander across the bridge of the ship to the working crew, but it ends up inevitably circling back to him. Drawn into the vortex of him, water rushing, pulling and pushing, and the pang of longing that you have long held quiet finds its strength.

It tastes of wonder and the desperation to escape; To leave behind the home that you know, all that has created you, for the realization that there’s more.

You leave behind the ship before you risk the chance of it seeing you, but the appetite of fascination is hardly appeased. It becomes the bad habit. The ships are wondrous things, but you find out rather quickly that when he is at the helm, that is truly when your heart leaps and you trail even closer to its hull, eager for a sight. 

It goes this way for forty rises and sets, your eyes held on the horizon for the familiar sight of the wooden ship’s sigil and its master. 

Today, he is seen on the day of the great storm. 

The sky sits in a violent gray, lightning spreading its branches as they flare across the clouds. The air smells of the impending storm as the seas grow rougher and with it the ship rocks unsteadily—the waves beating against wood, climbing up its ridges higher each time it strikes against its side, as if it were begging to climb aboard. Despite the mayhem, he stays sharp, pointing direction from the helm and eventually leaving it to the charge of someone else when he decides to help directly. Grabbing rope and throwing it around the masts, clapping others on the back, Keep going, boys! shouting from his mouth.

You see it before they do. A crack that widens in the undercarriage of the ship, beaten open as the waves ram against it, water rushing in. You want to shout, tell them to look, but they realize it soon enough. One of the shipmates peers over the edge of the ship before turning back and shouting,

“She’s goin’ to sink, Captain!”

The Captain—finally a name to the face, one that you roll around in your mind as your eyes track his every movement; Captain, captain, captain.— moves quickly, foregoing the lugging of a rope and saying something that forces all men to divert attention elsewhere. It’s a flurry of movement from there, the men gathering supplies, hauling smaller wooden vessels by rope and filling them in a quick frenzy. Abandoning the ship. 

It’s difficult as wind and rain pellet them, obscuring vision and keeping them unsteady as they attempt to save themselves. The first lifeboat hits the sea viciously, the waves almost capsizing the vessel as they meet its surface. You don’t mean to interfere—you know you shouldn’t— but they’re terrified, and risk drowning, and you’re much more worried about them dying than you are yourself, so you swim to them; Grab the bottom of the boat and pull with as much strength as your arms and tail can muster and haul them away from the immediate danger of the turbulent waves split by the sinking ship. 

The pulley breaks when the next boat tries to descend, hitting the surface unceremoniously, but the men make it to the water.  Two wooden boats buoy a safe distance away from the main ship and the crew sits, thankfully, unharmed as they look towards their Captain, beckoning him to jump. He stands at the edge of the great being, a monolith of a man overseeing the wreckage of his great accomplishment. He must be bidding it goodbye, because he then turns, ready to jump, fortified in that decision as he realizes that all of his men are safe and it is now his turn. 

Wind turns threatening and the air ignites with a charge that speaks of impending doom. It is then that lightning strikes the mast, sparking a loud blast. It singes the wooden pillar, immediately exploding it into a shattering of pieces. The detonation’s impact pushes him off the edge, the Captain’s body hurdling over one-hundred feet. 

Your scream is hidden by the shouts of his own men. His body hits the surface of the water, plunging into the depths as the violent waves hurtle him below. 

There is no hesitation, a choice made without conscious thought. You curl beneath the cresting of a wave and immediately sink into the depth in search for him. It is significantly easier to swim beneath the hurtling waves than atop of them, pressure equalizing against your body. You glide within the water, pushing straightforwardly to the spot where his body met water. 

Your heart pounds in fear. Even if you reach him—no, when you reach him— there is no guarantee of his survival. There must be some kind of injury from falling that kind of distance, or so you would imagine. Being sucked into vortexes does all kinds of damage to merfolk, it must be of equal balance for humans. And even if by some miracle he does survive impact, humans cannot breathe under the water like you can. He must have swallowed some water, is that dangerous for him? How much can he swallow? What do you do if he has swallowed too much?

Thoughts hurtle and tumble in fast succession, but your body moves faster. Crossing the distance between your position next to the lifeboats to the spot of impact at a speed that has never before been demanded of you. Your lungs burning, your mind aching, your heart hurting with worry for a man that you do not yet know. A man that, for all you have been told, could kill you. A man whose kind has hunted yours down for sport, strung your people up for decoration. 

You should not care for this man, have been warned not to, and yet the relief you feel when you find him are the blessings from the forces of the heavens and earth. 

He’s sinking, unconsciously. His eyes closed, body suspended to the whims of the tides as they pull him down. Nearing him reveals that he is much larger than you had anticipated but it means nothing in the rapid pump of adrenaline. Hooking your arms underneath his, his back to your chest, you haul with great might. Lugging his weight with a grunt to the surface, just to get him to breathe again. 

Breaching the surface exposes you to the pellets of the ferocious rain, but it matters not. Your eyes set for direction, your head turning frantically in search of a marker, a sight, something to reveal where you are— where you can take him for safety. The lifeboats have been taken far away by the tumbling tides and the ship that was once so marvelous now roars with a fire aboard its surface. 

You have no idea where to go. You have no idea what to do. 

But the Captain is held tightly in your arms, his head rolling lifelessly on your shoulder. A quick placement of your fingers on his neck reveals a pulsing heart and while it hardly solves any of your problems, it’s all you need to do as you have always done and swim. Somewhere, anywhere. 

So, you do. 

South, in search of sanctuary.

It comes faster than you had thought it would. The shallowing of waters after an hour long haul of both he and you bleeds a hope in your soul that pushed you forward until it came into sight. A cove. Away from the large strip of land that surrounds it, remote enough to deposit him without being seen, but close enough to civilization for him to find a way home. Wherever home may be for him.

Your body is exhausted, the muscles in your tail cramping and spasming from the sheer burden of his weight on yours but you don’t stop. Even as you can touch sand with your hands, even as the movement of waves can carry you the distance to the shore— you don’t stop until he is safe. On land. 

Hauling him out of the water and onto the flattening surface of the beach is surely the worst part. Dragging him a safe distance from the water that was able to ease the pressure of his full weight on you to now being on the surface where his body seems to weigh even more, your arms trembling from trying to pull him further up on the coast, is misery. But you do it, with some herculean effort that has never been introduced to you before. 

He lays on land, supine on his back, finally safe. The rain has stopped, the sky turning from the harsh gray of before to a smattering of thickened clouds that finally allow the sun to bleed through. 

You fall beside him in exhaustion. Ragged breaths heaving your chest, your tail grateful for the much needed rest. The swim home will be significantly easier (and faster) without the man in your arms, but such a trek is daunting when physical debility renders you useless. 

But you must go, before he sees you. You have done what you needed to, you have brought him to land, and while you don’t know how to save him, or if you need to, you know his heart still beats. And that is enough to make a job well done. Rather, it should be enough to grant you dismissal.

And yet, you linger. Unable to part, waiting. Watching. You shouldn’t, and still you cannot help yourself. 

You sit up and lean over him, curious to spare him another look. 

Laid beneath you, the truth repeats like a broken mantra in your head. It is a sin of the highest offense to touch him. Being near him like this is a crime itself. But, there is an ache in your fingers that urges you forward and the desire to know eats away at you, until you blink and suddenly, your fingers are tracing the length of his strong nose.

A straight bridge, freckled with color. Your fingers move in a fixed trance, trailing across the soft of his cheek until it reaches the jagged meeting line where skin becomes obscured with hair. You feel the coarseness of his beard, trace the pads of your fingertips down the thick and long hairs. The men at home have hair on their faces, your own father does, but it doesn’t feel like this. So coarse, so rough, prickling against the tips of your fingers. Not made silk by the submergence in water, but thick and apparent. 

You don’t dislike it. At least, you don’t think you do, your fingers smoothing down the expanse of his cheek. Up and down, over and over. Feeling the vitality of this human life.  

You don’t feel the same repulsion that your father does whenever mention of the humans is made near him, nor do you feel the same fear that your sisters have at the mere thought of them. You’re drawn closer, if anything. Curious to know more. 

Wondering what would happen if he opened his eyes.

He has a nose, two ears, and a gentle prodding of his lips reveals a full set of teeth. They’re not sharpened in fangs ready to rip your throat (a rumor circulating through the schools of children) nor are they laid in multiple jagged rows (a preach hailed truth by your father). Instead, just a set of hard bones, the same as yours. He has two eyes that you don’t dare try and see the color of, and a full head of thick brown hair.

For all intents and purposes, he looks like you. The same features, the same design.

Your fingers trail downward, below the thick of his beard and down the column of his strong neck. His shirt is soaked and stuck to his skin, stretched to reveal even more tufts of thick hair on his chest. That is new to you. The men at home don’t have hair on their chest much less a kind so thick. They’re smooth, and if you thread your fingers through it in wonder, it will be a secret you take back to the sea with you.

Maybe the gods made you more similar than different. From where you sit beside him, the only obvious difference lies below. Two long limbs that hold flat appendages at the end. Feet, separated with what you can only imagine are toes. Ten of them on each one. 

Maybe in his creation there was an image of you. A curiosity that was sated by the division of a tail into legs, but otherwise remains the same. Two beings sent to their respective homes and yet destined to intertwine. It must be, otherwise these unexplainable feelings that brew within you have no source other than sheer madness. 

A kind of madness that finds you sitting beside him, staring in lingering awe at the marvels of danger.

You don’t know how long you stay there for, trailing your fingers over him. Finding them studying the feel of his skin and somehow always returning back to his neck, feeling the pulsing of his heart as reassurance. But, a long look to the horizon reveals that the sun is beginning to set and you know then that much time has passed. The sky turns to a burnt orange and the warning to return home beats within your mind. It is unwanted, but you know that you can no longer stay here with the man. Soon your father will suspect something amiss and send guards to find you. While you don’t doubt the capabilities of the human, there’s no guarantee he will be able to defend himself against the royal guards of the palace, especially in his weakened state. (There is no telling what he could do to you if he awakens in this state.)  

So you will leave him with the hope that he will wake soon, that he will recuperate enough to pull himself from the sand and walk the short distance back to the mainland. That your efforts were timely and he is able to make his way home. 

You will leave him and hope that maybe, he will come back to the cove in search of you. You will leave him and hope that maybe he will see you waiting for him in the water.

With a sigh, you turn your head back to his face. To look at him once more before you go.

Eyes as blue as the sea you pulled him from, meet yours. You gasp, jolting backwards in shock and he—the Captain, alive and awake— blinks slowly.

“You’re real.” He croaks, his voice hoarse. It still holds the same gruffness that you heard on the ship, the commandeering tone and hefty weight, but in the closeness it is twinged with gentleness. No longer addressing men at his command, but you. A softness mirrored in tone and gaze as he, for the first time, sees you. 

His hand reaches up and you hold still in fear. The conditioning of your father’s paranoia rears its head; Is this where his strength is exhibited? In the calloused palm of his that is larger

than your own? Is this where he decides to lay waste to you in a manner your father is so convinced that humans possess? 

Instead, his hand raises to your face, fingertips slowly brushing a fallen strand of your hair and tucking it behind your ear. His touch is light on your skin, brushing against the curve of your ear before trailing downward and across your cheek. Warm and soft, he stares a seriousness into you as though the only thing he intends to do in that moment is commit you to memory. 

You fall into his touch with little convincing. His skin melding to your own, as though it were meant to be there. 

“I thought you a dream.” 

You shake your head slightly. His eyes dart across your face before moving downward. Surveying you before spotting the obvious truth.

“Mermaid.” He chokes out, in reverence. His stare does not falter and his face does not scrunch upward in disgust. He looks at you much like you have always looked at him. 

Adoration disguised in the innocence of curiosity. 

“You saved me,” He says. “Thank you.”

a.n: i blame my visit to disney world for this idea. the thoughts of john price soaking wet is irresistible, and i aint sorry for it!!

simon is next :)

warming up

[commitments]

⤷ simon “ghost” riley x f!reader; established relationship, porn with plot, oral sex (f!receiving), facesitting, jealousy, slight slander to blondes (sorry blonde friends!), simon being a good boyfriend, waxing poetry about simon's trauma, not beta’d

⤷ summary: between you and simon, which one of you is more likely to get jealous? spoiler alert: it’s you.

(w.c 6.1k)

Simon, by all means and methods of measurement, has always been a man committed to his goal—both on the field and off of it. It’s a feat he served life and limb to before he even understood what it meant.

A boon thrown to him when he was on his hands and knees, beaten and kicked to the ground for his simple existence. Some devil watching with a bated smile as a small boy with bruises and scraped hands held on tightly and forged an inner resolve in hopes of a way out. Commitment fortified the fragments of his heart; It strapped him with stone, created a manolith out of a boy. The devil whispered hauntingly into the boy’s ear, a knife to Simon’s palm in silent question, while his own dripped with blood; Asking him to shake his hand, demanding him to survive.

It kept him upright when his father’s grasp strangled him and rendered him bloody, when Tommy felt inspired by the man and decided to take part in the torture. Found him in the late nights when he would work past closing at Old Man Winston’s butcher shop before heading to the warehouse for the overnight shift at fifteen, just so he could scrounge up enough to leave. When exhaustion and burnout crept between the spaces of his bones, and the edge of the bridge he passed on his way home from the end of a twelve hour shift seemed too enticing to pass up, that wiggle of commitment, the desperation of escape, would start him anew.

The forces gave him a freedom that he excelled well in—almost too well. Tough and fast, he moved up within the ranks with a drive and commitment that was unlike the others. He was formidable, resourceful, and could take a hell of a beating just as much as he could give one. Amidst the carnage that the job provides, he was absolved from the life that took from him and disappeared into this new one. Ghost—not the devil he once knew, but something close to it.

He doesn’t thank his youth for making him this way, certainly doesn’t thank his father, but it’s not necessarily his to own, either. It just is. This commitment to the tethers of the long forgotten is one that burns hot within him—whether he wants it to or not. It’s half the reason why Tommy is still alive, the bastard. Doped up on drugs and a baby on the way, Simon is less inclined to attribute his leading of his older brother to reformed behavior as a good deed and more of the bond to an idea of family that he just can’t cut. 

It isn’t all bad, though. There is some good to this quaint affliction of his. A pleasant caveat to selling your soul.

Simon wouldn’t have you had the claws of desire not dug into his shoulders and drive him forth in want. If he hadn’t capitalized on the pulsing streak of interest that burned within him upon seeing the curve of your smile and heard the lilt of your giggle when you introduced yourself, if he hadn’t made haste toward the beating heart of hope that you gave him, if he hadn’t committed himself—mind, body, and soul—to making it work with you, then he wouldn’t have this.

An enthralling love; Finally, a home to come back to, where stone crumbles beneath your guiding touch, melting into a bubbling magma that heats the hearth of the home. Choking on breaths, not because of hands but because of the surge that clouds his gaze and transfixes him to you. A love where he cares, not because he has to, but because something within him wants him to; A love that reduces him down to a boy, finally being cared for in the way that he has always wanted but could never admit. Chaos and all of its ugly siblings that have dictated his life thus far falling into absolution with you. Rendered to little nothings when next to the hum of your breaths, the lulls of your voice, the sweetness of you. 

He sinks himself deep into you, taking root and letting fidelity sprout selfishly. Unable to convey himself appropriately with words, but better with actions. Letting you become all consuming of him. There is never an intentionally missed phone call, and if there is it is shortly returned. He listens, eagerly, swallowing every detail of the mundanity of your life as though it were the great retelling of the epics.

(“My work is boring. Why don’t we talk about you?” The static of your voice rings through his phone. He settles into his cot, pressing the phone closer to his ear, as if that would pull you closer despite the seven-thousand mile distance. “You must be so tired of hearing about this.”

“Never. Quite like hearing about what you’ve got going on. Especially when it gets you mad.”

“I swear, Si. If I get one more email from her where she misspells my name, I’m going to end up in jail.”

He huffs a breathless laugh, falling further into the bed and for once, comfortably. “Fuck ‘er.”)

He’s never been doted on before, and yet, you do it with such ferocity, such intensity that there’s hardly a chance for him to tell you no. You crocheted him a scarf—not because of an impending holiday or a birthday he always avoids, but because he made an offhand comment about his next assignment being set somewhere cold. It’s a gray accessory accented with stripes of maroon that you present with wringing fingers. 

“It’s not the best. I messed up one of the cross stitches but realized it too late so this line is a little wonky.” You tell him, pointing out the error in the stitch. His eyes remain fixed on the scarf in his hands. “I just know it’s going to be cold, so… If you don’t want to wear it, it’s fine. I just wanted you to know that when you’re cold, I’m hoping you’re not.”

Time stills, his eyes wandering over the loops woven by your hand. He’s held captive, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to do anything but stare at the item in his hand. This great treasure, this prized possession. 

“So? Do you like it?”

He’s never been gifted something just because before. An old fling once gave Simon an antique lighter in the wake of a post sex discussion where she tried to dig her fingers in and pry him open. The conversation ended as quickly as it started, a hard glare sent her way and an ask for a light had her chucking the item at his chest and telling him to fuck off. It wasn’t until after he’d been sent overseas for a duration of months that she reached out asking for it back. 

And he did, because he could feel a pair of eyes staring at him from over his shoulder and the scissors just aren’t strong enough yet to have him cut through whatever sense of loyalty he has. 

His eyes finally tear, looking up to your nervous ones. Voice softer than he intends it to be. 

“Yeah, love. I‘ll wear it everywhere.”

(“Yer fuckin’ whipped, LT.” Soap laughs as he watches the man try to—discreetly—snap a photo in the moving truck of the gray fabric around his neck. The Andes Mountains looming largely behind him. 

“And warm, Johnny.” 

If the Scotsman sees his superior officer pull the scarf up to his nose and inhale multiple times throughout the deployment, he doesn’t mention it.)

And home, sweet home, is no longer four walls of a spartan apartment with an unpacked duffel bag sitting beside the door. It’s yours, now. Or rather, he lives in your home these days. Filled with warm lights, and lively decorations, and a bed with an actual headboard, filled to the brim with pillows. He can’t possibly fathom what they’re all for, you only ever use one anyway, but they’re all so pointedly you that he doesn’t feel the need to discuss it. They’re nice enough to tuck underneath his back when his spine decides to reveal the ache that years in the force can bring; Relieves enough of the building pressure before you mother hen him. 

They’re even nicer to tuck underneath your hips, tilting you up and open for his consumption. 

You’re urging him these days, insisting that he take part in your remodeling efforts since you’re here enough as it is, might as well make it your own, too. It’s a slow convincing, but soon enough your closet also becomes his. Your drawers fill with his t-shirts and joggers, his boots sit tucked by the door next to your sandals and his body leans against granite countertops as you feed him another spoonful of the soup you’ve made for dinner, gently advising you of the need for more salt. 

This home is an undeserved one, but in the silence of the late nights when the sound of your sleeping breaths and the whir of the fan is all he can hear, he thinks that this must be it—the endless tug for survival has led him to his final resting place. This is where he is meant to die. 

Cause of death: strangulation; The familiar ache of fingers against his throat. Not from his father’s hands as he once expected, but yours. Your palm held over the lump in his throat where the I love you seems to be lodged. You know it’s there, you find it so easily. In the meeting of your eyes, in the sweetness of your touch. You know how he feels even without him having uttered the words, but it's crippling all the same. He once felt the need to fight this, to run far away from the things you brought up in his chest that made him feel sticky, and unnerved, and entirely too unworthy.

But now, in the safety of your kiss and the laughter of your eyes, he’s all too convinced that this would be a good way to die.  There’s no question about it. He makes a point to ensure that there is no question about where he stands on this. 

(It’s your call, really. He’s already laid the cards on the table about his intentions. Thought about them ad nauseam, made the contingency plans, looked into the paperwork that would need to be filed, the kinds of protections that would be needed for the kind of work that he does. He’s just waiting for your green light. 

When you’re ready—when you’ve finished the last of your classes for your graduate degree, or when you have a chance to discuss the logistics further with your family—is when it will happen. 

He already refers to you as his wife. It’s only a matter of time until it truly happens.) 

Which makes this all the more peculiar. It’s hard to fathom where this could possibly stem from, considering he doesn’t understand what this is. You’re his good girl, his bird and equally, he is, and always has been, yours. Almost two years and conceptualized tattoo ideas of your birth flower on his rib cage have never made him more sure of something. 

It happens on Friday date night— a tradition kept alive and well when he is home between deployments. It was his turn to choose, and his decision to go to the casual bar that he used to frequent was one made with well intentions. 

Lowlights and tucked corners made for his favorite evenings with you, where his cautious gaze gets to rest from wandering over exits and new customers and instead settle on you. Where he gets to sit close to you in the booth, knees touching yours as you lean into him, elbows on the table and the tendrils of a smile playing on your face. Leaning into the padding of the seat, his hands enjoy the obscurity the table grants him and gets to sit high on your thighs. His thumb rubbing the fabric of your dress back and forth, teasing the skin that each ministration of his fingers reveal. 

It’s a silent question for more, of which you eagerly let him explore. The sweet and alluring grin on your face turning dangerous under the faded lights. His favorite kinds of date nights—where your hunger seems less directed at the food and more for him. But—

The waitress has made… attempts.

Simon is—acquainted, he insists and you roll your eyes—with her. She used to be at the bar, serving him the drink whenever he stopped by in the olden days and has since picked up shifts as a server. 

(“Oh goody.” You say dully and Simon’s eyes fill with amusement.)

“Simon!” She initially greeted, her tone a bit too excited and breasts a bit too out for your liking. You’re positive she pushed them out upon seeing him at the table but you try to tamper the thoughts down before they start running wild with tidings of bitterness. You’ll admit that you’re prone to irrationalities—who isn’t? Particularly when said causes of irrationality are conventionally attractive blonde servers that bat their eyelashes rather innocently at your equally attractive blond soldier. (Shoe scraped off the underside of a boot, you are not; But your lover is an English man and they are known to have their… preferences.)

You swallow the acid that threatens to be spit, trying to convince yourself that this is all a part of your imagination. That you’re just territorial over the man who came home only four days ago, starved of your time with him and desperate for more. She is just a kind server who is also pleased at the return of your the soldier and is reminiscing in their shared history. 

Yes, that must be it, you lie to yourself.

Her eyes slide over to you and there you see it; the slight edge of resentment that glints in the iris. “And… a friend!”

You force your lips into a sweet smile, hiding the canines that you run your tongue over, lest she know that you bite.

“Joy.” Simon greets in turn, and you suppress the urge to roll your eyes at the irony of her name. He nods his head to you, “This is the missus.”

“Oh!” Joy smiles—and it’s too wide, too fake— as her eyes quickly dart down to your left hand. In search of a ring. There’s a smugness to her voice when she finds your hand empty, looking back at Simon, she puts a hand against her mouth as she mimics a whisper, one that you can hear rather loudly, “She’s rather pretty! Was wondering when someone would take one for the team and snatch up that ugly mug of yours!”

And that’s when it begins. 

The tectonic plates shift, the ground splitting beneath your feet, Hellfire escaping from the core of the earth and into the depths of your soul. Heat licking up the column of your throat and poisoning the smile that used to sit so nicely on your face.

“Oh,” You say, mustering as much niceties as one could afford, “You’ve been serving Simon for a while, then?”

“Been taking good care of him all on my lonesome for years now. Know his order by heart, love!” She laughs loudly, her eyes settling on Simon too comfortably. Your own twitches. “Tried for years to set him up with some girlfriends, but he never took the bait. You must be quite the special lady.”

Canines dig and the copper taste of blood spreads onto your tongue. You hum sweetly despite it, “Mm, quite.”

Finally tearing her eyes away from him, she sends you a wink—obnoxious and pointed. “Just remember, I had him first!”

And that’s when Simon sees it. The night goes downhill, quickly, from there. 

She takes your drink order shortly thereafter, in which you pointedly order a glass of the most expensive red wine. Simon attempts to order his own before Joy completes it for him— Bourbon. I haven’t forgotten, Simon. When she walks away, there’s an exaggerated sway to her steps and you both tear your eyes away from the sight. You in unbridled anger, him in disbelief.  

A silence befalls the space at the table interrupted only by the rhythmic tap of your nails against the hard surface. You have since separated yourself from him, no longer leaning into the press of his body against yours, but instead sitting erect and upright. A glance to you reveals a grimace that has your glossy lips turned downward and your eyes that held such twinkle before practically set into slits.  

This is… new. He’s never seen you behave so viscerally. Usually it’s him with the moods and stretches of silence where you’re rational and emotionally mature. But this bug of jealousy, this streak of possession, that has dug its fangs into you and made you so intense is quite the sight. 

He’s content to watch you stew from the corner of his eye, grateful that the black surgical mask hides the smile that pulls against his lips. It’s when Joy begins her trek back to the table that you finally break the stillness.

“Return the drink.” Your voice is low and serious, it almost makes Simon balk. 

“What?”

“You heard me.” Your eyes look to him, fire burning in the sea of your irises. “Give it back. Tell her you want a whiskey instead.”

“What for?”

Your eyes narrow, “Because I’m your girlfriend, and I think you should drink whiskey.”

He’s curious, really. There’s no competition to be had, no point to be made when it comes to you. Joy was never an option when he was single and she could never be one now where you’re concerned. But a challenge has been presented, a command rendered that you’re demanding he follow. New turf, for once. 

“Or would you like to sit here and drink bourbon with your other girlfriend?”

Truth be told, he rather likes it. His sweet and caring girl suddenly cold and threatening; Venom all but spewed out as her territory is encroached on. 

A charge ignites the air, one that settles thick on his tongue and jolts the tether held between you two. The string of affection that holds you so tightly to him, that allows for the moments of silent communication and the likes that belong to you and he, vibrates ominously. Pulled tight and taut in anticipation. 

Your eyebrow quirks upward in challenge, and Simon finds that his lips are pulling upward into a smirk without him even realizing. There is no sense of play, no flirty conquest that you bait him to rise to within the burn of your stare, but it’s all so intriguing, nonetheless. This is pure, unadulterated determination that scorches the ground beneath you, has you lit violently beneath the rustic lowlights in a dress Simon hasn’t been able to keep his hands away from. Steel infused in your heated glare as you make it abundantly clear that date night has become less about you dating each other and more about the fact that he’s dating you.

Joy returns to the table, placing the glasses on the table. “One red and a special bourbon for—“

“Actually,” Simon begins, eyes trained on you, “Grab me a whiskey instead, would you.” 

She stands affronted, “Oh… well, I can leave the bourbon here. Just as an option for you?”

“No need. Not interested.” 

The approving quirk in the corner of your lips shouldn’t thrill him, but it does. Especially when you turn to grab your glass of red wine, smug victory painted beautifully on your face as you peer up at the woman before you.

Your hand grabs his underneath the table, placing it on the inside of your thigh. His pinky finger brushing against the crease of your thigh. 

“We’re ready to order now.” You smile, innocently.

—

Dinner passes by with much less of a hurrah—much to your pleasure and Simon’s chagrin. 

Joy quickly retreats from her place of familiarity into one of passive service, taking your orders without much of a second glance either of your ways. She’s not quick to return back to your tables and you make Simon switch meals with you, not entirely convinced that she hasn’t spit in your food. Simon throws a handful of bills on the table once you declare your desire to leave. He hardly looks back, much too transfixed on your backside to even consider sparing a glance to the disgruntled waitress. 

The night is cool, but your temperament hardly seems affected by it. If anything, you continue to radiate burning heat. Your heels click across pavement in quick steps, anger driving you forward to the car park, muttering all the while. 

“I cannot believe that bitch—” You spit as your hand yanks on the door handle once, then twice, your anger now directed to the car door that Simon has yet to unlock. 

“Easy. It’s over now.”

“If I ever catch you over there again, Simon—” You turn quickly in your place, manicured finger pointed directly at him as he approaches you and your side of the car. 

You pull on the car handle once more in emphasis and Simon levels a deadpan stare at you. “Fat chance.” 

Approaching you, he pushes your hand away from the door before clicking the key remote to unlock the car. Opening the door for you, he gestures his head inside, hardly affected as your bothered stare bores into him. He gives no further explanation and while you don’t seem content by that decision, you accept it nonetheless. Entering the car, you keep your gaze straight ahead and a tight lipped expression on your face that conveys the depth of your displeasure. Simon shuts the door. Entering on his side and taking off to home, the car ride is submerged in the tension of your silence, one that he lets you sit in. 

You’ll talk when you’re ready. Or, so he hopes. 

-

Your mood is… pervasive. It follows and fills the entirety of your home like a slow rolling fog. Biting at ankles and hiding feet. Simon finds himself at a loss of where to step—not that he’s much good at navigating emotional waters in other circumstances, but this one is particularly jarring considering he didn’t really do anything. There’s nothing to apologize for, despite the nagging thought in his head that he probably should. 

(For what? He doesn’t know. And if you know that he doesn’t know what he’s saying sorry for then that runs the risk of making the situation even worse. Women.)

He leaves you be, despite the unending realization that he doesn’t like your silence. You move through the apartment like a phantom, from living room to bedroom to bathroom, quiet as you engage in the nightly routine. He passes by you on the way to the bathroom, but you seem almost conscious to avoid touching him in the cramped space—bypassing him where he fills the room with his presence, ducking under his arm and exiting the bathroom. He leaves the door open, a silent invitation to join him as he showers, but you don’t. 

Even as he settles into his side of the bed, you remain elsewhere. He keeps himself attuned to the sound of your movements, when you put your heels in the hallway closet, as you throw a load of laundry into the wash, as you brew a cup of tea and then drink it in the kitchen; He’s fixated on how much your displeasure makes you avoid him.

It’s when you’ve decided to do your skin care after your bath in the bathroom instead of on your vanity as usual that he’s decided he’s had enough. 

“Come here.” He calls for you and he hears you pause. A hesitation before you finally make a choice, face the music of your actions, the sound of your feet shuffling along tile before you emerge from the bathroom. Dressed in your nightgown, face fresh from makeup and wet with products, a small pout on your face as you meet his eyes. 

You wait for a moment before moving forward to him, coming around on his side of the bed and standing before him as he sits waiting for you. It was you that told him to never go to bed angry about an argument, he finds it rather ironic that when it's you that’s angry, your advice is one with the wind. 

“Don’t tell me you’re still worked up about it.” His hand lands on the outside of your thigh, gently stroking the exposed skin as he coaxes an answer from you.

You let out a heavy sigh before you sheepishly say, “She practically admitted that she was in love with you.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon huffs a breath of amusement, “When did she say that? I must not have been listening.”

“She said it in the way that girls do. Admitting it without admitting it. If you asked her out she would say yes.” There’s an earnesty in your eyes that he can’t place and he finds himself chuffed. 

His girl, his sweet girl, uncomfortable and bothered by her jealousy. 

“Good thing I don’t care to.” He says simply and your head tilts, still unsatisfied. 

“If the roles were reversed, you would have killed someone.”

And while he doesn’t deny it, it’s hard to imagine much of a labored reaction to it. The stray thought rolls around from time to time, the occasional wiggling insistence that you deserve better, but he’s much too selfish to let them fester for long. Truth be told, there are men better suited for you,—softer ones, men who are readily forthcoming with their thoughts, better equipped, more capable— this is a truth he recognizes. It’s not a defeating one though, if anything, it becomes a fortifying one. Festers toxically within him, a fermenting poison that bolsters him forward. There cannot be a man that infringes if you don’t notice them. 

Three fingers in your pretty pussy and heavy kissing on your neck works well enough to distract you from that particular truth. It would take quite a person to barge into Simon’s space and threaten his presence considering Simon does a good job of making sure there’s no reason for you to even look anywhere else. 

(And while this is true, let it be known that there is much more to the captured eye and long lasting relationship than a man’s pleasing of the carnal desire. But, these are truths that Simon refuses to attribute to himself, luxuries that he believes he is incapable of despite reality dictating otherwise. Despite your continued loyalty and affirmation to him asserting so.)

So, he says, “I know what’s mine, love.”

Something flickers in your eyes, then. You inch yourself closer to him, settling in the space of his spread legs, his hands soothing over the fat of your smooth thighs lovingly. The discomfort, the distaste, the jealousy, that poisoned your mood dissipates in a single second, replaced with something else the moment the word fell from his lips. 

Mine. 

It’s heat that swims within your gaze now, the same one that you gave him before the night was so rudely interrupted. 

“Well,” You say after a moment, voice sultry and low. Your hands lift to rest on Simon’s shoulders, your fingers gently tracing an electric pattern onto his bare skin. “Maybe I need a reminder of what’s mine.”

Simon’s eyes fill with an amusement that he doesn’t dare show on his face. He gives a gentle pat to your thigh, “I can help with that.”

Leaning back on the bed, he lays on the comforter with a confidence and satisfaction belonging to a king reaping the spoils of his war. He gestures you upward, beckoning you to straddle him. “C’mon then. Take what’s yours.”

He’s giving you the reins of direction, content to play the evening by your own rulebook. And while he’s happy to give you whatever it is you may ask for, he’s quite elated when your straddling efforts do not stop over his groin, but instead you shuffle up and up and up. Until you’re hovering just below his chin, the soft of your nightgown dancing across his jaw. Heat and determination settling in your eyes as you peer down at him in silent question. His answer is an eager one, his arms wrapping underneath your thighs and pulling you closer. 

He’s pleased to find that you’ve planned for this, or at the very least anticipated something, as beneath the nightgown, there’s no underwear. You pull the satin fabric up, letting it bunch around the spreading of your thighs and expose the stickied petals of your core to him further. You’re slick with anticipation above him and ready for his consumption. 

(And he’s beyond pleased, really. Ecstatic, more like. Desire coursing through him, heat flicking straight down to his groin as he practically salivates for you. The happiest Simon ever finds himself to be is on the receiving end of this kind of smothering affection, where he wants to be choked and starving for breath. Your thighs on either end of his face and his tongue straining for more.

And when you want it, too? He’s ready for death.)

Like a starving dog to a meal, he’s quick to get his first taste. He pulls your core down to his mouth and laps a wide lick through your folds, tip of his tongue tasting around your entrance and through until it reaches the hard pearl at the apex of your thighs. Your clit is budding with arousal and the taste of you blossoms in his mouth, and Simon becomes a man on a mission. Drinking in your essence, licking you at a steady pace as the wideness of his tongue stimulates you and his lips wrap around your clit with a hard suck. 

You whine above him, your hand immediately finding the close crop of his hair and pulling him upward and closer, if even possible. If anything, it presses him harder into you, your hips finding a rhythm of their own against his mouth as you grind a pressure against him and into you. The short stubble of his mouth rubs into the skin between your thighs and each pass of your clit against the tip of his tongue or the bump of his nose pulses a jolt through you. 

With your eyes closed in bliss and your hips picking up a rhythm against his mouth, you whine a delectable sound into the air, “Simon—”

Soon enough, Simon’s tongue stills entirely and his eyes remain fixated on you, letting you use him for your deserved pleasure. 

And he wants to tell you everything that races through his mind—how sexy you look grinding your cunt into his mouth, how delicious you taste, how fucking hard he is as you use him for your pleasure, a reminder to you both that his favorite place in the world is in between your legs— but all he can afford in this moment are his own hums of approval. His chin is coated in you, all he sees, tastes, and feels is you. His hands roam around the outside of your thighs, gripping the fat and delivering a harsh smack to your ass to encourage your riding. Another moan of his name tumbles from your mouth. 

There is a second in your using of his face where you hold him close to you, his nose pressed deep into your mound and he takes it as a sign for it to be his turn. He flicks his tongue quickly against your clit, his thumbs reaching around your thighs to split your folds wider for him. 

And its direct pressure, a white heat that builds its blinding feeling into you. The repeated motion, the delightful jolts. It’s a rising tide, your orgasm on the precipice that when he dips his tongue in a quick second down to your opening, rubbing against the lit nerve endings then back to your clit, you twitch in shock. 

You try to stave yourself from the low burn that coils in your stomach, especially as you realize that almost two minutes have passed with you pressing Simon’s head into your core, and lift yourself—only to let him breathe, because really, he’s no use to you passed out— but he only yanks you back down. His mouth chasing your pussy, a disgruntled growl muffled against you. 

“Don’t fuckin’ move.”

He continues his ravaging. Tongue swirling up and down then side to side, repeated motions building you further along the precipice. Your breath quickens, and it’s harder to find air than it is to exhale it. Your head grows dizzy, lost in the clouds as the lack of air and Simon’s expertise in plucking you like a string escalates you higher and higher. Your thighs shake, the burn of their strain leaving you one step closer to collapsing and suffocating him.

And you try to compose yourself, but it’s Simon. Simon, who has studied your body and all of its idiosyncrasies. Simon, who takes such good care of you, loving you in ways that you hadn’t thought possible. Never one to speak but to show you what it meant to be devoted to, devoured whole, pedestalized and adored for simply being. Simon who never makes you want or question his intentions, a clear example lying in how he’s handled this evening. Your pity party stemmed not from any sense of disloyalty on his part, nor any inferiority to the waitress who ruined your date night, but instead comes from the unavoidable issue that your man, large and imposing as he is, is not invisible. He is looked at despite being trained to blend in, and he is both unfortunately and fortunately, a handsome man. And the disrespect a waitress showed you, that you’re quite disappointed to even be thinking of as you are in the midst of the throes of passion, was enough to have the entirety of your night off kilter. Insecurity about worth and beauty and unvoiced thoughts ringing loudly in your ear. 

But as Simon brings you to the brink of pure bliss, as he consumes you and looks up at you as though he wants to do more, it puts it all away. A glance downwards reveals that he’s already looking at you, blue eyes beckoning you further as he puts his all into tying your coil further.

It’s all you need for the final push.

You reach peak at that moment, coil snapping, flood rushing out of you as your body convulses under his ministrations. His forearms wind tightly around the plush of your thighs, his mouth moving in time with your jerking hips, hardly sparing you a moment to reach a plateau with the licking of his tongue. A low burn boils within you, guided by his tongue that has moved from its ferocious beckoning to languid strokes. 

Sweat pools on your lower back, cooling as the slow heat of your organs slowly comes down. A low whisper and beg for him to stop finally has him relinquishing his hold on you. You lift your lower half up and off of his face with a pleased sigh, but not before he follows you up once more, wrapping his lips around your folds for a harsh suck before he pulls away with a smack of his lips. 

His face glistens under the lowlights of your bedside lamp and his mouth pulls into a cocky slant, a happy tune to his words, “Better?”

You don’t have the heart to dignify him with a jest like you usually would. Instead you give him a tired nod, drunk from desire you lean down to capture his lips in a wet kiss. It’s sweet and slow, the meeting of your lips against his as you imbue as much love and gratitude to him as you possibly could. The taste of you melding from his tongue and onto yours. He trails his palms up the curve of your spine, rubbing a soothing stroke into your cooling skin.

You slump into his awaiting hold, your head falling into the crook of his neck as you depart from the kiss, desperate to be held by him, and he eagerly provides. Holding you tight to him, hardly upset that he strains tightly against his sleep pants and that your breaths begin to even out into a steady cadence from your place atop of him. He’ll get up to clean and take care of himself later. 

His girl was in need of a gentle reminder, and what is he if he’s not committed to doing just that?

 a/n: happy valentine's day! i am starting a series with this prompt of: between you and each of the cod men, which one of you is more likely to get jealous?

up next is johnny!

old drawings of ghost