Simon Doesn't Indulge Much In Pet Names. He Would Call You Love Often, You Know Like Every Other British

my brain rumbles with johnny mactavish a/b/o thoughts

medically discharged alpha johnny with an overgrown beard who relocates to a farm in the highlands in frustration, angry that he’s physically inept now, bullet to the head ruining some of his motor functions, fucks with his memory.

and you, the omega who moved into the abandoned neighboring farmhouse a few weeks ago, stopping by to introduce yourself— asking him if he has any tips on fixing the barbed fencing around your property.

and yeah, his hands shake in uncoordinated movements these days, and he has a hard time judging distance and picking out the right words— but there’s a deep ache in him that he can’t forget.

and he knows of it as clear as he breathes, damaged brain all but likened to a discussion about the weather.

he remembers the sweetness of an omega on his tongue, and you’re right in front of him.

Guilty By Association Commission from the very sweet and patient @soleilak

You (Callsign: Giggles, Gigs for short) are a medic on temporary assignment with the 141. The only problem? You're a former member of Graves' Shadow Company.

Content: Injury, angst, power imbalance, fingering and oral (reader receiving)

“Get your arse in gear, Gigs!”

Already exhausted and aching, the rough bark of your temporary captain urges your heavy feet faster. Gunfire sprays all around – you’re so addled you can’t tell if it’s enemy or friendly. All you know are your orders, a cry of survival in the uneven pounding of your heart. A bullet plows into the ground dangerously close to your foot.

Just a few meters ahead, Gaz curses and tumbles to the ground, hat lost. It’s not even a decision to alter your course. You can’t tell instantly what the damage is; if he’s been hit or just tripped. So you tuck and dive, grabbing an arm and leg as your back rolls across his chest. The momentum gets the two of you up and moving again, adrenaline taking the edge off his weight.

“Get us to the trees and I can run again!” he shouts in your ear.

You settle your blurry vision on the forest line ahead. Blessed cover – and your extraction point just a mile further. Goal set, you push through the pain of bruised ribs, a wrenched arm, and the ricochet of a bullet across your thigh. You wheeze your way well past the tree line, weaving between trunks until Kyle’s palm smacks at your side.

“We’re good, we’re good,” he says.

You grunt as you set him down, give him the quickest onceover in the history of medics. His calf is bleeding, just above the tops of his boots. It’s an ugly wound; it’ll need packing – but he can survive until exfil.

“Where the fuck are you two?!” Price growls through your headset.

Kyle pats your shoulder and takes off again, only the slightest limp indicating his injury. You grit your teeth and try to follow his example.

No one helps you into the chopper when you’re the last on the ladder. You’re not surprised, but it still stings. Salt on the day’s wounds.

Once the heli is up in the air, you scoot over to help Kyle with the wound on his calf. It’s almost hypnotic, the press-wind-press-wind of packing the deep gouge. Almost like unspooling your own tension through the care of a teammate. Every inch of bandage seems to amplify your own pains, though, as the mission high ebbs.

You hurt.

When Kyle’s done, you sit back a bit to assess him for any other wounds. The twitch of his mouth and slight bob of his head tells you he’s sorted, though – and it’s more thanks than you usually get.

“Where the hell were you?” Price demands.

“I got held up, sir,” you admit. Had been ambushed by two men you thought were on another floor. Bad luck, that. Or just poor preparation on your part. Your side twinges as you ease yourself into a seat. “Won’t happen again.”

Price grunts, mollified. “See that it doesn’t.”

You get maybe thirty seconds of peace before Soap’s voice cuts through the tentative peace.

“Gonnae take care o’ that or keep bleedin’ all over Nik’s seat?” he teases. Or at least it would be, if not for the sharp glint in his eyes.

What’s that saying about sins of the father? Well, Phillip Graves was definitely not your father, nor was General Shepherd – though he was old enough to be. In their absence, it seems you’re paying for their crimes regardless.

“Right,” you sigh, tearing off the bottom of your shirt, “sorry, Nik.”

“Just stay alive to clean it up, eh?” he replies jovially.

It’s not much of a joke, but you laugh anyway. You don’t live up to your callsign much nowadays, so you’ll take the levity when you can.

You tie off the makeshift bandage with a grunt and lean your head back, too uncomfortable to doze off.

At least the infirmary is a friendly sight. The staff are always grateful for an extra set of hands – even if they once belonged to a Shadow. And you have a lot of time to help since you’re not encouraged (never mind invited) to any non-professional activities with the 141. Working with the nurses during all that extra time has gained you some friends at least.

Dana is on call when you limp in. She fusses about you looking like the walking dead – then goes on to tell regale you with details from her current first-time watch of the show. The stream of words soothes you in the quiet little treatment room.

“Think we need an x-ray, dove?” she asks, prodding at your already discolored ribs.

“Wouldn’t help,” you sigh, “we can just wrap ‘em and call it.”

“Alright, dear, but you know what to do if it gets worse.”

“’Course,” you answer, summoning a grin, “can’t be keelin’ over before your nephew leaves that tart.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started – you know what she said at Sunday dinner?”

You giggle through her undoubtedly embellished story until she gets to your thigh – and the terrible bandaging.

“A piece of your shirt,” she scolds.

“My bag was too far, and my ribs hurt,” you complain.

“And what are all those big burly men for then, eh?” she huffs.

You shake your head. “I can’t ask them to help.”

Dana scowls past your hip. “Just because you’re the medic—”

“Pardon.”

You jolt in surprise at Captain Price in the doorway. Christ, he takes up the breadth of it too, shoulders brushing the jamb on either side. Even mission-dirty and stern-looking, he’s a hell of a welcome sight – though an unexpected one.

You try to sit up at some semblance of attention, but he waves you off. Can’t say you’re not grateful, unable to help wincing as you lie back.

You don’t notice him pause as Dana washes the wound, too busy sucking air through your nose.

“What’s… the damage?” he asks carefully.

You open your mouth to answer, but Dana beats you to it.

“Contused ribs, sprained shoulder, and a bullet wound to the thigh,” she rattles off. You’re always impressed by the undercurrent of disapproval and accusation she manages to weave into each word. “Not to mention dehydration and sleep deprivation. You’ve been staying up again, haven’t you?”

You clear your throat and turn your eyes skywards. “Oh, look at the ceiling. What a lovely ceiling.”

She clicks her tongue and begins packing the wound as you had for Gaz.

“Bullet wound?” Price asks sharply. Your eyes flick guiltily to him. “Why the hell am I hearing about this now?”

“It’s just a graze, sir,” you reply. “Sergeant Garrick’s was worse.”

His jaw does that thing you secretly (ashamedly) drool over, where it tightens and jumps. You know it’s not good but hey, silver linings right?

He doesn’t ream you out though. Just crosses his burly arms and lets out a long, heavy breath. You’re… not really sure what that means.

“Debrief at 0700 tomorrow, Gigs,” he says, voice unusually subdued.

“Yessir,” you reply dutifully.

As always, a strange mix of relief and disappointment twists in your chest as he walks away. Talking to him is a bit like being under a microscope – if that microscope was ready to brand you a low-down, no-good, dirty, rotten traitor at the first hint of suspicious activity.

You get it, you do. Graves and Shadow Company tried to kill Soap and Ghost, Los Vaqueros, and committed unspeakable atrocities. As much history as you had with him, he deserved what came to him, and Shepherd will deserve the same when he’s found.

Not that your hands were clean before Las Almas, but you drew the line when the orders came. Couldn’t bear to detain or shoot the friends you’d made in Los Vaqueros, or join the hunting party for Soap and Ghost. You’d been labelled a turncoat by your own teammates, thrown into a cell to be “court-martialed.”

Kate Laswell coming to your rescue was a second chance, a small-time miracle that you’ve been determined to earn ever since. In your more pathetic moments, usually in the small, dark, lonely hours of sleepless nights, you wonder how much it will take. How long you’ll be guilty by association.

At least this isn’t shaping up to be one of those nights. You’re half asleep by the time Dana sends you off, arm chilly from the IV fluids she bullied you into. For once, you might get a few decent hours.

Your second surprise of the night comes just outside your barracks door. Soap is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, head back and eyes closed. Awake, though. His index finger is tapping a steady but rapid pace on his bicep.

“Soap?” you say, alerting him. “Did you… need me for something? You’re not injured, are you?”

He straightens up, drops his arms to his side. You pause a noticeable distance away, uncertainty leashing you to the safety of space. Not that you feel threatened. His posture is the loosest it’s been around you since… well, since before Las Almas went to hell.

“’Course no’, I woulda – tha’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh…” You process the strange wording. “Why are you here, then?”

He shifts his weight, a little line appearing between his brows as he seems to gather himself.

“I’m here to apologize.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Look, what I said during exfil – it was bang outta order. You’ve been nothin’ but good to us ‘n I’m still holdin’ on to old shite.”

You shift, adjust the stupid flimsy sling for your sore shoulder. “It’s… not that old,” you reason, “and I don’t blame you, either. Not after everything.”

“Still, ya did the right thing back then – and ya’ve proven yourself half a dozen times over, besides. I’ve got no reason to treat you like an enemy.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. It feels like you’ve swallowed a grenade; any moment the pin is going to come out and an explosion of gory emotion will splatter the walls.

“Thanks, Soap.”

He grunts something about “not thanking him” and ducks his head, shuffling past you.

“Seriously,” you say, voice strained from keeping it even. “I really appreciate it.”

He pauses, gives you a genuinely kind look. “Rest up, lass.”

It’s the best you’ve slept in a long while – after you cry into your pillow, that is.

At 0700 the next day, you’re in Price’s office, sore but in high spirits. Gaz sat next to you and Soap said good morning at breakfast. Even Ghost seemed less frosty than usual, grunting at you in acknowledgement when you’d sat down.

Of course, the good luck couldn’t last.

The debrief itself is fine. You speak when it’s your turn, listen when it isn’t. About as normal as it gets for a special ops squad.

It’s as the rest of the task force is filing out the door that the other shoe drops.

“Gigs, a word,” Price calls.

You freeze mid-step, shoot Gaz a panicky glance. He glances over your shoulder, snorts, and pats your arm in solidarity. Not as helpful as he thinks.

With a deep breath, you pivot back around. The door closes behind you with a damning click. You can’t even hide your hands behind your back to fidget at parade rest – your arm needs to stay in the sling for the rest of the day.

“We need to discuss yesterday,” Price says, palms flat on his desk.

You tilt your head. Wasn’t that what the debrief was for?

“Sir?” you ask. “If I – did I do something wrong?”

He deflates a bit, big shoulders dropping before he pushes himself up and rounds the desk.

“No, you’re not in trouble,” he explains, “but I have concerns.”

When he gestures for you to take one of the visitor seats, you do. You’re a bit surprised when he takes the other – though you can’t help an appreciative glance while his attention is elsewhere. He practically dwarfs the stupid little chair, and the way he spreads his thighs trying to get comfortable…

“Concerns, sir?” you parrot, trying to corral your scrambled braincells.

“What you said in the infirmary,” he begins, expression solemn, “is that really how you feel?”

“What I said…?” You try to recall anything of note from last night, but most of what came out of your mouth is a blur at best. “What did I say?”

He leans forward, lacing his scarred fingers together. You try not to stare, though the way he rubs at the knuckle of one thumb with the other is distracting. It’s an unusual gesture for the disciplined, determined man you’ve been honored to call captain for months now.

“That you can’t ask us to help you.”

A block of ice drops into your stomach.

“That’s not – I know you guys would help me if I needed it,” you hurry to say.

He gives you a long look. “Then why don’t you ever ask? You were shot and didn’t say a bloody thing.”

You shift, unable to meet his eyes. Can’t find the words to answer. It’s not that you didn’t think you could ask. It just didn’t feel right with the bad blood between you, Soap, and Ghost. Besides, you’re the medic, you’re supposed to be the one fixing everyone else – not the other way around. What use are you otherwise?

You try to explain this to Price, but you sense (from the grim set to his handsome features) that it’s not helping.

“I’ve been a shite captain to you, haven’t I?” he sighs.

You jump. “No, sir! You’re a great captain. I trust you with my life.”

He chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor. Sounds almost self-deprecating.

“I’ve not done a bloody thing to earn it.”

You shake your head. “Sir, you’ve kept me alive for months now. That’s plenty.”

Beyond that, he’s always been fair with you. Doesn’t give you shit assignments or the most dangerous roles in missions. Always makes sure you’re alive and accounted for. Calls you out for mistakes and faults, sure, but it’s for the sake of you and everyone else. He’s been just as ready to pat your shoulder for a clever maneuver or praise a good shot.

“You know damn well it’s not,” he scolds.

You huff, almost amused. “Sir, with all due respect, get off the cross we need the wood.”

His eyebrows jump up nearly to his hairline. Normally, you wouldn’t dream of being so cavalier with Price of all people. Soap’s truce last night gives you the confidence to continue.

“I know you didn’t trust me as a former Shadow at first,” you say, “but you looked out for me anyway. After the first few missions… it seemed like things evened out.”

He sighs and sits back, running a hand down his face.

“Laswell vouched for you – it’s the only reason I didn’t send you right back on that plane,” he admits. A small but genuine smile curls his mouth. “And then you put your life on the line for my boys time and time again.”

You mirror him, the tension in your shoulders easing away with each word.

“I knew things weren’t great with the others, but I thought it was best if I kept out of it. Let you lot sort it out so long as you all cooperated when it mattered,” he continues. “I didn’t realize how bad it got, and that’s on me. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head and lightly tap your boot against his. “It wasn’t the wrong call, sir. I think things are going to get better from here on out.”

He hums, eyes searching your gentle smile for any hint of insincerity. But you believe it, and it must show, because his eyes crinkle as he smiles back.

“Speaking of better,” he says, clearing his throat. “Mind if I take a look at those ribs? Dana had some choice words for me this morning.”

You giggle and tug your shirt from your waistband, hiking the hem up high to show the reddish-purple mottling all over your left side. Price makes a noise of sympathy, easing out of his chair to the carpeted floor. On his knees, he inches closer, leaning in to inspect the damage.

“How’d this happen?” he asks, voice lowering.

His fingertips skim over the edges of the bruises, featherlight. Your voice gets strangled in your throat as tingles race across your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Um, hostile kicked me. A lot.”

His eyes flick up to yours, hard as ice. “Dead?”

“Yessir.”

His gaze softens, a proud, smug quirk to his lips. “Atta girl.”

You can’t fully suppress a shiver. It’s not just the gentle, considerate touches. It’s the purring praise from a man you’ve admired and harbored a sizeable crush on.

“Cold?” he asks.

This is your chance to wave it off. To pretend you are not so inappropriately infatuated with a man you thought only tolerated you until a minute ago. A little white lie, you could smooth your shirt back down, and be on your way.

But you don’t want to do that. Not really.

And from the way his pupils are slowly, steadily subsuming his irises, neither does he.

“No, sir,” you whisper.

His slow exhale caresses across your tender ribs.

“Then would you be comfortable if I checked on your ‘little graze’ as well?” It’s a tease, but also a genuine check of your boundaries. Another out, freely and openly given, that only solidifies your resolve to see where he’s going with this.

“Yessir,” you answer, shifting to get at your belt.

Price tsks, though, big hands spreading across each thigh and urging you down again.

“Now, now, don’t aggravate that shoulder,” he murmurs. “Let me help like a good captain.”

You swallow back an embarrassing noise as deft hands unbuckle your belt, thumb the button of your pants open, and drag the zipper down tooth by tooth. His thick, warm forearms rest on your thighs the entire time, keep them spread to accommodate his wide shoulders. He’s in no rush to continue his “checkup,” toying along the length of your waistband before easing it down.

“Lift up for me, darling, there we are,” he murmurs. You gasp softly as his palms brush your ass while sliding your pants down. Then outright squeak as he squeezes a cheek in each hand, a low noise of admiration rumbling in his throat.

“Gorgeous girl,” he chuckles. “Gorgeous arse.”

Your face feels hot as he tugs your pants down to your ankles, though the square of gauze and tape on the back of your thigh is long revealed. It takes conscious effort not to squirm under his hot gaze, praying a wet spot isn’t already visible on your panties.

“Let’s just get this one free…” He works the pantleg over your boot, leaving the other pooled around the laces. “Now then.”

You bite into your lip as he hauls your calf up into his shoulder, propping your leg up to get a clear view of your thigh.

“Not bled through,” he notes, tracing the neat edges of the medical tape. “You’ve been taking good care of it. Well done.”

You can’t help the little twitch that evokes, your whole body reacting to the deep timbre of his voice. He’s not oblivious to his effect on you, a glint in his eye as his bristly jaw brushes the inside of your knee.

“T-told you, it wasn’t too bad,” you manage weakly.

He hums and your pussy clenches helplessly around nothing. His eyes flick down and you know it’s all over.

“And what about this, hm?” he asks. You whimper as his thumb skims the lace edge of your panties. “Have you been taking care of this?”

Flustered and yet so, so turned on, you can only shake your head. He coos in mock disappointment, rubbing slow circles across your labia, closer and closer to where you’re aching and needy.

“It’s alright sergeant,” he soothes, “your captain will take care of you.”

Except he only rubs you through your panties A maddening pressure back and forth along the wet seam of your cunt, never delving deeper. You break down in hardly any time at all.

“Sir, please,” you whine, wriggling. He’s quick to brace you still again, leisurely movements never faltering.

“Please what, darling?” he teases.

“I-I need…” You whimper with embarrassment, squeezing your eyes shut. “I need you to take care of me, please, captain.”

He practically growls as he tears through the hip of your panties, tossing them aside in a sodden heap on the ground. With two fingers, he parts your labia, eyes hungrily drinking in the cream shimmering between them.

“All this and I’ve barely touched you,” he rasps, awed.

You nearly sob with desperation for something, anything. He shushes your fussy little noises with his thumb, dipping into the pool of slick at your entrance. Gets the pad soaked before drawing a line up to your swollen, sensitive clit. Your mouth falls open as he starts drawing tight, firm circles over that bundle of nerves.

He treats your body and your pleasure with all the confidence and competence you’ve come to expect of John Price. It takes shockingly little time for him to learn just how to press, how fast to rub, the patterns and circuits that get your legs shaking. And that’s before he twists his wrist and sinks a finger inside you.

“Practically sucking me in, love,” he murmurs, petting at your walls. You shudder and wordlessly beg for more, rocking your hips. “Need another already, greedy girl?”

He doesn’t even wait for your nod before stuffing you with another, curling and scissoring, exploring. You keen as he finds a sweet, sensitive spot inside you and begins toying with it, his thumb still swiping relentlessly at your clit.

He settles into a rhythm that has you moaning and keening, the heel of your boot digging into his shoulder blade. All the while he showers you in praise and encouragement, the dirtiest compliments that make you clench down tightly on his hand. Your body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending lit up with pleasure.

It’s builds and builds and builds, never quite cresting. You’re near tears when you moan his name, trying to find some leverage or angle to finally tip you over the edge.

“Do you need to cum, doll?”

“Yes, yes,” you cry, “please, sir, I wanna cum for you. Please, I’m s-so close.”

He hums, bracing your thigh with his free hand as he leans in. Your foggy brain doesn’t have enough time to process before he latches onto your clit and a third finger bullies into you. You wail. Your thigh twinges from the dull pressure of his shoulder, but the slight pain only adds a delicious edge to the pleasure.

His tongue swipes across your puffy clit once, twice, three times and you’re gone. You gush all over his hand, his beard, onto the chair. Your hips jerk as he works you over, fingers abusing your g-spot relentlessly despite how tightly you clamp down. Your body feels nuclear, nerves popping like firecrackers.

He only relents when the waves of ecstasy threaten to drown you in overstimulation. He eases his fingers from your twitchy hole, making room for him to lick you clean. It’s loud and obscene, yet there’s no room left for embarrassment anymore. You shiver and pant in the aftermath, your body unravelling into a puddle.

“Wh-what about you?” you ask as he begins straightening out your clothes. There’s an absolutely delectable-looking bulge in his fatigues that you’re dying to get your tongue on.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “If you want more –” (“I do.”) “- then you’ll have to wait until you’re healed up. Non-negotiable.”

You try to pout, but the effort is thwarted when he chucks you gently under the chin.

“C’mon, let’s have a lie down.”

He steadies you as you wobble to the couch off to the side, lying down first and letting you cuddle up between his legs. It’s a comfort more than you would have expected from a clandestine little triste, but you should know better than to doubt your captain. Head resting on his chest, you let yourself drift for a while, lulled by his fingers carding through your hair.

“Price…?” you ask after a while.

“Hm?”

“You didn’t do this just to… I dunno, make up for something, right?”

He huffs. “No, sweetheart. I’ve been arse over teakettle for a while. Staring like a complete muppet when you train.”

You hide a grin against his collarbone. “Good. I thought I’d have to start making things up for you to owe me.”

His chuckle rocks through you, and for the first time in a while, it feels a bit like home.

the floorboards creak under his weight, his knees burning n his joints aching from the weight of his muscles being pressed against the hardwood.

“baby,” his voice comes out low, but not low with its usual rasp and usual deep tone, its whispery and whiney. you can see the pout in his lips from where you sit at the edge of his bed, the slump of his broad shoulders, he looks so pathetically desperate.

“what is it, si? hm?” you cock your head at him, the gloss of your lips shining under the dim bedroom lights as they tug into a sweet unknowing smile.

he sighs, eyes slipping downward n he fidgets with his fingers softly fighting to come up with words. simon can feel his cheeks burn in a blush, embarrassment trickling into his bloodstream.

“give me something, anything,” he laughs, voice cracking under the need that stirs low in his stomach. “please, i need you.”

you nod slowly as if processing his sweet words, yet you know exactly what he deserves. and he’s not going to like it very much, but what comes easy? without pain there’s no pleasure.

“come here then, love.” you grin, eyes never leaving the big hunky man kneeling at the floor.

he’s a good boy, palms pressing against the wood as he crawls his way to you slowly. his knees drag the floor, neck arching to peer up at you as he continues his journey forward.

you can see the tendons in his neck stretch and flex, and with the way his lashes flutter you can’t help the excitement that fills your belly and soaks the cotton of your panties.

“right there’s perfect, honey,” n on command simon comes to a stop a couple feet in front of you, settling back on the heels of his feet as he watches you impatiently.

“unbuckle your belt.” he follows your instructions, hands pulling and tugging until he can feel the material hugging his hips untighten. “show me yourself.”

his jaw ticks as if he was shy, but course he listens and pulls his jeans under his ass letting his cock fall free and brush against the pretty blonde trail that lines under his bellybutton.

“being so good for me today,” you giggle softly letting the words hang in the air between the two of you. “touch yourself, simon.”

his smile from the sweet praise falls, brows falling into a deep furrow that wrinkles the skin between em. “w-what? no, no-”

“do it.” you warn slicing through his voice, the soft of your voice turning stern as your lips scowl ever so slightly.

his face reads nothing but disappointment but he’s a good boy n he’s going to listen no matter what, even if the night took a terrifically depressing turn of events for him.

his hand wraps around the length of himself slowly, shoulders dropping in a deep breath as his begins to stroke his cock slowly. he can’t help the way his skin warms under your eyes, this is deeply embarrassing, yet he complies and continues.

his free hand balls up against his thigh, eyes fluttering as he catches your gaze within his. his eyes flicker across your face, the pretty red of your lips, the lively look in your pretty eyes and its sad how he can already feel the twist of his stomach.

his stomach collapses, chest rumbling as a soft groan purrs off his lips. his head drops back slowly, eyes rolling into the back of his head. he’s been pent up all day and the feel of finally being able to get off has him folding.

you watch his hand speed up, pretty pearls of precum beading up at the angry red tip of his pretty cock. you unbutton your shirt slowly, the fat of your breasts concealed under the thin lace of your bra.

“look at me, simon.” you whisper and he complies, head falling forward wide eyes scanning down the tanned skin of your supple tits and the smooth skin of your belly.

his lips curl as he chokes out a sweet whimper that hits your ears and tickles in your lower stomach. “fu-huck… you look so beautiful.” his mind is all over the place, picturing and painting pictures that have his balls drawing up with an impending release.

“goddamnit, please, baby. help me,” his pretty begging makes you laugh softly, you can tell how close he’s getting, hand moving quickly against himself, from tip to base with soft squelches that follow his rapid hand.

you pull your bra under your tits, letting them spill out for his greedy eyes before you set your perfectly polished foot along the length of his flexing thigh. his fingers wrap around your ankle before you can feel his nails pierce through the skin, leaving small crescents in the wake.

“i’m so close, c’mon,” his words come out in a deep growl before they end in a pitch that heightens into a sweet whine. “let me cum, mama, please.”

you can’t say no to whiney begging that leaves his bitten lips, eyes darkening as you peer down into his flooding eyes, tears lining his waterline. “go on, baby, you gonna cum for me?” ⊹˚ ₊‧ 𝜗𝜚

think sum1 needs help… ✌️

hybrids. wool shearing. manipulation. brief cannibalism. referenced breeding. female anatomy.

farmer! price and his sheep girl. the most special of the flock — not only because you’re all woman beneath those patches of wool, or because your floppy ears and curly fringe compliment your face so well, but because you’re so docile and sweet and mouldable under his hand. give into his will better than any human can, eyes shiny and dumb. trusting, when he leads your friends away to the slaughter. and when he collects you afterward, sleeves sticky with blood, to feed you bits of juicy meat on his lap.

though you’re a vegetarian, why would you refuse him? he’s the best at taking care of you.

like during the draw of spring, frost thawing into beds of brown to make for mud that mats your wool. he’ll shear you last but most tenderly; hose you down in his yard, cooing as you bleat in the cold, and run the tool expertly along your trembling flesh. beneath your arms. around your neck. clipping so close to your ears that the sound scares you, and you struggle mildly in his embrace, which does nothing to shake him or the firm cage wrought around your limbs.

the shears trek downwards, your legs forcefully pried apart to expose your fluffy pussy and taint to be groomed. layers of wool stripped from you in pragmatic precision. his fingers do not wander as they shave your vulva, conforming smoothly to your plump bottom. working over your groin. though you wish them to, crying stupidly when he twists your swollen clit to make sure he gets the curls nested at its base.

but he’s the best at taking care of you, of all his animals, so he does not acquiesce and feed you his cock like you so beg. ain’t mating season yet, little lamb, he hums, tucking you into bed after moisturising your softened skin. for as long as you’re naked, wool-less, he lets you sleep indoors. on a real mattress, and not the hay one that would be bound to scratch you in the most vulnerable of places. you love the spring and summer months, if only for that.

(though the prospect of mating season ignites your cotton-tail, priming you for the crisp encroach of autumn. you know that, as the most special — his favourite — he won’t pair you with any old ram. none are good enough, he’ll reason. no seed ripe enough to fatten you up, but his.)

touch starved reader with an oral fixation x kidnapper!Simon who’s all punishment and no physical affection? Please Simon just a little kiss? with tongues? :( (i just wanna make out with this man while my heart aches for him)

by Allah, you people are dogs. i will write the filth as usual.

DEAD DOVE, 18+ | dubcon. kidnapping. mean!Simon. dom!Simon. masking corporal punishment as affection. kissing. size kink, size difference. some thigh riding. degradation + humiliation (verbal). non-con pet play. marking (heavyyyyyy mentions of Simon biting you like a chew toy). choking. daddy kink (but in the awful, demeaning way). manipulation. forced affection. coersion. forced/manufactured dependency. brief mention of Simon stepping on your back to hold you down so he can whip you w a cat o nine tails. yanno. the usual Friday night.

idk. there's something so hot about you, completely naked, riding Simon's clothed thigh as he holds you up by your neck. tongue out, desperate for a kiss while he just mocks you the whole time.

It's survival. 

At first.  

A means of masking the innate horror of being stripped of your agency, your autonomy, by a man you barely even know. One you met once before (fate sealed), and now—outside of your apartment complex where he was idling by the foothold, smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the brick wall, head turned. Gaze narrowed as you approached. 

Waiting for someone, you assumed, thinking nothing else about the matter. 

Nothing else, except—

He looked familiar. You think you saw him before. He was staring at you. Hadn't stopped. Hasn't said a word, either. The silence was oppressive. Heavy. Your hands fumbled with the keys. Shaking. Trembling. 

He's pretty, you thought, suddenly. In the way car wrecks can sometimes be. Jarring and awful and hideous, but—

Mesmerising. 

Macabre. And that's what he is. Everything from the mask on his face (skulls, go figure), to the absurdity in his size, his width. The way space itself seemed to move around him, bending and distorting just to let him pass. His own gravitational pull. Magnetic. You feel it tugging on you as he pulls another lungful of smoke. Another. Another.  

(like an hourglass, a timebomb, almost. you wonder what will happen when it runs out—)

He gives you the creeps. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. A visceral sense of unease curdling in the pit of your belly as he keeps staring, staring. Eyes—crystalline under the broken headlamp, washout into crushed topaz—drilling into your back, sharp enough to flay skin. Everything inside of you says to run, but your key won't fit inside the lock. Won't—

Ever. 

And hindsight has always been a bitter thing, hasn't it? Cruel in her mockery. Had you known, then, that he wasn't a workman loitering by the complex, waiting for a friend; or a low-level drug dealer casting webs into the plum hewn aether, it might have saved you. Might have. 

Maybe. Because he was there, waiting for you, all along. 

Life has a funny way of paying back good deeds. All it took for your life to crumble down around you, rubble falling off of a shaking mountain, was kindness. Was seeing a large man in the pouring rain, already drenched. Black clothing sticking to the granite contours of his body, and offering sanctum in the shape of a rusting umbrella you found at a thrift store for three dollars. 

(“here,” you said, chipper. All smiles. “i live just down the street, and you look like you need it more than i do. do you want it?”

and he—

he simply stared. stared. his eyes liquid, molten, as they carelessly dropped, roaming down the length of your body at his own leisure. leering. assessing. it was odd. weird, but—

he huffed, then. seemingly satisfied by whatever you measured up to in his head. his neck lulled back, and he gazed at you from down the crooked length of his nose, tucked neatly away under the thick band of a facial mask. skulls. how could you be so stupid? 

slowly, like he was trying not to startle a mare, his gloved hand reached out, curling thick fingers around the hilt of it. he tugged once. in your stupor, you forgot to let go. embarrassment flooded in. he huffed again, quietly amused, as you untangled your numbed fingers from the umbrella. 

in your distraction, he moved closer. smelled of ash, of mildew. sweat and stale cigarettes. there was something predatory in the way he slipped through space. a preternatural quiet. an eerie stillness. 

you hadn't realised he was there, looming, until he rasped out, “more ‘n you could ever realise, pet.”

and you're sure why you do it. did it. but your hand slips into your shopping bag, eyes widen. heart thundering in your chest. 

“are you hungry? i, uh, i just bought some apples, um—”

his eyes are lavascapes. shackles. chains. “i could eat.”)

And now—

Forced to play this strange cat and mouse of his where he treats you like soot on the bottom of his shoe, and you pretend that it's affection. Love. How godless.  

Protection, he calls it. 

("mine," he whispers, orison soft, into your ear. "ain't go' nowhere else to go, do you, pet? world's big. would eat a small thing like you up. safer here. wit' me. only me.") 

You wonder what he'd do if you told him the biggest danger here was the madness nestled inside your head, the one that sometimes made you look at him like he was your salvation instead of the warden holding the end of your leash in a firm hand. Unyielding—like everything he does. Is. 

Withholding, too. Everything must be earned. Nothing given. Nothing handed out. And you know that this is a ploy, a tactic. Subterfuge meant to chisel into your sense of self, dehumanise you. Turn you into a simpering, obedient little doll for him to play with as he wishes. You know this, and yet—

It's survival, you promise yourself as he tugs on the hook latched to your collar, testing it for weakness. Survival, when his hands—bare, bare; warmed skin against skin, you could just weep—brush over your throat, nails skimming goosebumped flesh as he wedges one, then two inside, hirsute knuckles tickling your pulse. It tightens the collar to near choking. Intentional, you know. He likes it when you beg—for air, for food, water, him. 

Vile man. Awful. 

(You want to roll on your belly at his feet.)

This cold, cruel touch lights a fire under your skin. It's been months since he's last done so. Always wearing gloves when he has to. Using paddles, belts, when you misbehave. Never his bare hand. Not anymore. 

(“m’hand is for good girls,” he slurred, words merging, meshing together, painted with exertion. He wedged his boot against the small of your back, holding you down, and cracked the end of a cat over your bare ass, thighs. Unbothered by your howls, your screams, as the whip bit into your skin. You've never so much as been hit as a child for misbehaving, and now, as an adult, you have a madman standing over you, introducing you to something called a cat o’nine tails—a favourite in the army, lovie. “bad girls,” his boot pressed down harder, heel digging into your spine. “Bad girls get the whip—”)

Bad. Bad. Because you tried to run, to leave him. He dressed you up, called you Mrs Riley, and you—

Ducked out the back door when he turned away for a second. 

Stupid. It was poor timing. A test. He set you up, measuring your loyalty to him, your commitment, and you failed. Failed. 

(“this is what ‘appens when spoiled little cunts get their way too much. they act out, don't they? bitin’ the ‘and that feeds. you'll learn soon enough, though—”)

Ghost—sir, sir (master, maker, god; you'll call him anything he wants if he touches you again)—pulls his fingers away, depriving you of his touch once more. And it's all so stupid. So fundamentally wrong, deplorable, but you follow. Needy. Whining for it in the back of your throat. 

It's been months. Months without touch. Without sensation outside of leather lashing across your thighs, your ass; harsh, gloved fingers digging into your jaw, braced against the back of your head, as you swallow down his cock in an effort to prove to him you've been good. So good. Can be good. His good girl. 

You need to touch him. Need his touch. Ache for it, for something outside of this nook he placed you inside of, denied the privilege of living upstairs with him after you tried to escape. 

You want to. Badly. Your fingers twitch. Ghost sees it. Hums. 

“Need somethin', pet?” 

Your mouth is dry. You swallow. It burns. It hurts. “Yes—”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir—”

Behind the mask he's yet to take off for you fully, only ever hitching it under his chin to devour your cunt whenever you've been good, his jaw tightens, the fabric bunching up. 

You reel back from the look of sheer displeasure etching harsh lines into the hollow gaps of his eyes. Heart thundering. Stomach churning. 

“Mas—” he cuts you off with a soft sigh. Marked with his irritation. “D—dad—”

Dad. A new one. Daddy. He didn't seem like the sort to be into this type of play, not with his sardonic, deadpan eyes. His mockery. His dessicated humour, awful and biting. You'd have sooner expected him to laugh at you—in that slow, deep hum he gives; a little chuff, full of condescension and jeer—than to get off on it. On you, kneeling between his legs with your chin braced against his palm, mouth open, tongue out, as he fucks into the tight clench of his fist, groaning as you beg daddy to give you a taste. 

It's gross. Disgusting. 

It's not done for anything else other than to humiliate you. To crush you under the heel of his boot—little bug—so that you will always know where your place is in this scenario. His little wife. Mother, mum—

He pulls on the leash, jerking you forward. Purrs, “good girl,” and then steps back, moving away from you. Cruel. Dismissive. You hate him, hate him—

(Need him so deeply. With every fibre of your being—)

You watch him as he goes, mourning the loss of his presence already, as he paces around your space, your cage. Broad shoulders barely fitting inside. Head ducking to avoid hitting his crown on the popcorn ceiling. It's strange seeing him here like this. Prowling. He usually comes when he wants you, when he needs to enact more merciless punishment on you for whatever perceived evils you committed (not greeting him with a kiss when he walked in, not letting him suffocate himself in your cunt when he had you sit on his face, not making him cum all over your face quick enough when you knew he had other engagements to get to—), or when he ruts, heavily, between your thighs, cold and detached. Seeking pleasure from your icy flesh, and giving nothing in return but white hot agony. 

Him here, idling in your presence, is revolutionary. 

“S–sir—?”

He hums, quiet. Sits in the chair as you gather the fragments of yourself littered on the ground. His mood is malleable, it seems. 

You push, fingertips sinking into the putty of his agreeable temperament. “Can I—”

You waver when his sharp eyes raze over your bare body—clothes are for good girls, after all—pupils sloshing over the edges, bleeding into midnight blue. 

Your body is a battlefield. Every inch of skin branded with his mark—pretty, thrawn rings of teeth tattooed in silver, haloed in black and red, desecrate your flesh: neck, collarbones, breasts, belly, thighs (a particular favourite of his), ass, mons; all bitten through, chewed up. It weeps when you move, has blood trickling down your skin. The cracking scabs make him coo, poor thing, all bloody fer me? and he licks at them, sucks, until only a pinkish wound in the mimesis of canines remains. 

Uprooted, turned into something new—

His chest expands when he settles his gaze on the sliver of space between your spread thighs. Concealed in tenebrous, hidden from his leering, lecherous view. He cocks his head, considers something unknown to you. His thoughts, his mind, worlds away. Untouchable. 

(only to bad girls, he’d snarled out when you asked why—)

“Testin’ my patience still?” He doesn't rip his gaze away from your cunt, speaks to it sometimes more than he speaks to you. “Thought this alone time might’a cleared your ‘ead.”

You flush. Embarrassment roiling through you. His displeasure is a palpable thing. Heavy. You hate the weight of it. 

“I need—I need you.”

Another toneless hum. “‘Course you do. Ain't got anyone else.”

He's awful. Hideous. You want to rip his tongue out of his mouth. “I—I want you. Please.”

Ghost doesn't answer. You stopped expecting him to a long time ago, his moods odd measures of ebbs and flows; passive and mild, cracking terrible, awful jokes as he strokes your back, hands riveted to your skin, and then biting and caustic the next. Pushing and pushing until you lash out, snap, so he has a reason to push you down, punished and smothered under his bulk, as he ruts into you like a beast, a man starved. Tells you it's for your own good. That you need him. Would be lost without him. 

Bludgeoning a hole into you wide enough for him to crawl inside of. Poisoning you from the inside out with the same nocuous rot that flows in his veins. 

Maybe that's been his agenda all along. Maybe. To make you want him as badly as he wanted you. Desperate, obsessive. Going so far as to follow you home, lost little mutt waiting in the shadows outside of your door until you threw him another bone. And when that didn't work, when the food stopped being enough—

He took you. Held you captive in his house deep in the wilderness. A place so endlessly green that you sometimes stare out at it—unfathomable sea of phalthos and jasper—and feel dizzy. You'll get lost out there—

just like he says. 

As he turns your obsecration over in his head, you wait, supplicant to this man as you rest on your knees. Pretty pet with a golden collar adorned in gems. 

Fitting, you find. With his head cradled against his thick knuckles, you can't help but shiver at the way he looks shrouded in the gloaming embers of a fading twilight. Leonine. A king perfectly at ease in this thick, caliginous atmosphere.

His eyes burn, magmatic, in the low light. Vats of endless ink. Black holes that will swallow you whole if you get too close. But he's poised. Contemplative. Assessing. 

And then grips the end of the leash tight in his other hand. Tugs.  

You obey the wordless command, crawling on your hands and knees to where he's spread out on the recliner. Laxed, dripping with a careless indifference as you wander to him, resting your chin on the spread of his knee. 

Looking up, up, at him, waiting. Wanting. 

There's so much of him—a fact that has been the catalyst to your downfall the moment you saw him standing under the awning; this massive creature. Thighs wider than the width of your body. Burly forearms. Broad shoulders. He's big. Indomitable. Thick, endlessly so. But there's a give to his body. Valleys of softness hiding corded muscle. Firm, but—

Your fingers sink into the soft give of his belly when you reach out, bracing against stomach. Pulling yourself further into the bracket of his spread thighs, inching closer to him. 

He meets your reverent stare, eyes liquid along his lower lash line.

“Thought you were gonna keep me waitin’ all night,” he muses, giving another pull on the leash. It destabilises you. Your nose bumps into his sternum, and you moan at the sting. 

There's a dissonance in the back of your head. A hairline fracture in the line that keeps a degree of separation between pleasure and pain. They meet against the crack in the divide, merging into a abysmal polyphony conducted by his hand. 

He watches, amused, as you whimper, sniffing harshly against the burn. It's not bleeding, and not broken—small mercies, you suppose—and you let it simmer into a dull ache as you slowly clamber into his lap.

Ghost leans back as you settle, greedily taking in the sight of your thighs stretched wide over his leg, cunt pressed, tight, against the rough scrape of his jeans. The touch burns. He hasn't touched your pussy in weeks—

“C’mon,” he urges, hand spanning the width of your lower back. Coaxing. “Show me ‘ow good you can be.”

It's all the permission you need. Slowly, slowly, your hips start to gyrate, dragging your slit over the coarse material. The friction is agony. You need more—

He draws his other hand up, curls it around your neck, forcing your head back, back. You gasp, staring at him, dizzy, from down the slope of your nose. The clasp of the collar digs into your skin. It hurts. It's too much. 

you don't want him to stop. 

His hand is huge. It spans the entire length of your neck, thumb to your pulse, pinky grazing the hollow of your throat. It forces you to lift your chin higher just to let him fit.

He likes it, too, you know. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of his bare hand, scarred and thick; dusted with a cropping of fine hairs along his scabbed knuckles, sitting against the whole of your throat. Swallowing you up. Can feel how much he enjoys the sheer depth between your sizes when his cock twitches, stiffening more

The look on his face is appraising, anatomising. There's a cold measure of distance in his gaze. A barren polynya. You want to cross it. Chart these untamed lands until they're deeply ingrained within your being. Cimmerian effigy burning to keep you warm. 

It's survival, you think, and arch into the palm of his hand. 

He holds you like a doll. One hand on your lower back, pressing your cunt to thigh. The other tightening around your throat. Bare skin against bare skin, and oh, you could just cry—

But this is not what you need. What you want. And he knows. He always does. Knows the inside of you like it's written down—inked on paper. Thumbs through the makeup of you, chapter by chapter, until no mystery remains. 

“Tell me what you need, pet. Beg for it.” 

“Let me—” his hands tighten, choking the air from your throat. Crushing your collar against your neck. “Lemme—kiss you, please, please—”

Tighter. Tighter. The world around you swims under a thin ocean. Phosphenes swim, untethered, in your periphery, ghosting along the curve of his shoulders. He might kill you yet. Keeping going, going, until those brittle, bird-like bones in your neck snap—

You'd let him, you think, muscles falling lax. Submissive. Just the way he says he likes even though you know he fucks you harder, touches you more, more, when you act out. Misbehave. 

“Kiss me?” He taunts, words abrasive. Strident. Scrubbing hard against your skin. “Ain't that jus’ the sweetest thing I ever ‘eard.” 

You burn, blister. “Please—”

“Reckon I ought to. Kissed your pretty cunt ‘fore I even kissed your lips, huh, pet?” 

Your chest folds over itself. Stomach knotting. Balling tight. Unease is a razor blade scraping your nerves. 

“Simon—”

“Ah, ah—” his hand tightens. Vicious. Chiding. “You ‘aven’t earned the privilege of sayin’ my name, ‘ave you? Cheeky thing. Might ‘ave to take a cane to you next.” 

“No, no, no—! I'm—”

“Sorry?” He mocks, cocking his head. Condescension drips from the corners of his eyes. 

“Please, sir—”

“Dad is gettin’ tired of this attitude of yours, pet—” his fingers dig into your skin, hard. Biting. A warning, you know. The blunt press of a blade to your jugular. But it thrums along the suture line to your desire, a wellspool of murk coiling low in your guts. You throb, cunt clenching down around nothing. Achingly empty. “Thought we got rid of it this time ‘round. Learned our lesson.”

The words are frank, prosaic. Had you any sense of self still malingering in the back of your head, you might have struck him for the blatant disrespect. But as you struggle to reach for it, pawing around in the vacuous abyss for any fragment of who you were before this, before him, you know—without any doubt—that none exists. Nothing. He’s too ingrained in your marrow, hewn into your skin. Copper sutures holding his filament within you. Cradled between your thighs, nestled in the rotting vacancy of your heart. 

He knows you. Every part—

“We did—we did, da—daddy, please—” 

It’s shallow. Muffled, like he’s trying to swallow it down, but you feel it rumble through his broad chest. A guttural sound. A groan. Drenched in pleasure, in want. So thick, you could almost taste it. 

He hides his need under a layer of derision. 

“Such a needy thing, ain't you? Desperate little slag like you wouldn't last out there, would you?” 

His hand digs into your hip, pushing you off of his thigh. Eyes skewering into the wet stain on his trousers. A huff spills out—the sound a near perfect mimicry of crushing charcoal in your hand. 

“No. You'd be eaten alive. Torn to pieces. World's too big for somethin' like you.”

Mindless, dazed, you nod. Arching into him. The leather leash snaps against your chest. “Yes, yes—”

His cock presses into your thigh, hard, fat. Your mouth waters. Drool dribbles down your chin. 

He smells of tinder when he leans in close, blood drenched words biting into your skin. “messy today, aren't you? Be lost without me. Tha’s why you wear a collar, isn't it?”

Pitifully, you nod. Eyes full of tears. Each word is a bludgeon into your resolve. Into your sense of self. 

But it earns you his affection, and his thumb presses into the corner of your mouth, unhinging your jaw until it falls open, lax. He holds you like that, mouth lax with his hand still around your neck. The other lifts away from your lips, goes to the thick band around the bridge of his nose, slips inside. 

There's no buildup to it. No lingering sense of anticipation. Practical, detached, he merely tugs it down, and lets it snap under his chin. 

Your breath is punched out of your lungs at the sight of him. Barefaced. Scarred. His nose is crooked; a jagged hook with scar tissue delineating the spots where it's been broken too many times. His lips are—

Full. 

Mangled. 

Scars run in thick slashes over them, denting the flesh in places. Burn marks line his pale flesh. Charcoal rubs into his eyes, highlighting the whites of his lashes against smeared soot. 

He's—

Pretty. 

Like a car crash. Calamity. The broken remains of a town after a hurricane, a tornado, ripped it apart. Ugly, brutal. His face looks like it's been mauled by a bear, a tiger. Scarred and hideous, and—

You shiver. His eyes drop, landing on your own lips. The soot on his brow flutters down, lands on his eyelashes when he lifts his brow up mockingly. Derision curdling an awful smirk on the corner of his mouth. Crooked. Like him. Like his teeth. His nose. His boxy jaw. His lips—

You kiss him. 

Can't help yourself, really. There's a pull. Gravitational. Magnetic. You need, need, to taste him. To quench this ache in your jaw that makes you want to wrap your tongue around something, play with it between your teeth. Soft and sweet—

Ghost's lips are plump beneath yours. The thick scar tissue is almost velveteen when it glides over your bottom lip. You moan into it, into the feeling; victory—however pyrrhic—swims like mercury in your veins. Finally. 

And he doesn't kiss you back. Doesn't make any effort to reciprocate at all, but he's not tense beneath you. Not stunned. Or reluctant. He’s pliant. Malleable. Agreeable, willing to let you devour his mouth, his taste, as much as you want. Doting. Letting you spoil yourself on him. With him.

Because you need him, don't you? 

Like the air you breathe. The food he gives you—apples, always, on rainy days; salmon and rice in a pretty bowl with your name etched into the porcelain—and the attention, the affection—

(suck my cock, pretty girl. don't make me put a gag on you—deeper, you can take it, can't you? take my fat cock all the way up inside your sweet little cunt—my pretty girl—)

—it’s all so divine. 

His hands on your body, your throat, spasm. Once. Just once. Against your leg, his cock twitches. Leaks prespend into the demin. You rut against his thigh, aching for it. Whimpering—

And then he's groaning into the kiss, snarling out your name until it wedges between your lungs, syphoned in from his scorching breath. Another brand in the shape of him. 

Ghost kisses the same way he eats—messy, sloppy; all teeth and tongue, and full pretty lips. Clumsy, like no one taught him how to properly hold his silverware and he's trying to mock what he saw on television. Brumish. A broken, contemptuous pastiche of sumptuosity. A starving dog, snarling around its plundered morsel. Protective. Possessive. 

It coils around you. Thick, smothering. 

He sucks your tongue into his mouth, catching it between his teeth. The sting brings tears to the corner of your eyes, and when you pry them open, you find him already staring at you (always, always, always—), lidded. Heavy pools of desire shaded in the brume of a winter dawn. A bonfire flickering in the distance of a whiteout. Sanctuary from the cold—

He seems to catch himself. Expression flickering. Warbling around the edges. It closes off in a blink. He pulls back. Locks into the ashlar veneer of this indifference he wears like a suit of armour. 

But you saw it. It was there. Within reach—

“Need me, don't you?” He drawls, timber a needlepoint between cruelty and desire. Sultry, low. Husky. He knows what it does to you. How he can unravel you at the seams with just his voice alone. “Need me so fuckin’ much, pet. Would be lost without me—”

“Please, Simon,” you whisper, feather-soft. Cunt throbbing, pulsing. Needy. “Please—”

The strident reprimand for using his name doesn't come. His hand tightens around your throat, unconscious. A paroxysm that has pleasure carving itself down your spine, electric. 

“Come get it, then,” he rasps, voice wrecked. Raw. Curling at the edges, thickening his accent until the words elide. 

Hand to your throat, he drags you close. Closer still. Keeps you sat pretty on his lap as he pulls you in for a bruising, hungry kiss. Tongue shoving between your teeth when you gasp.

His kisses are always hungry, but this is different. Greedy. He devours you whole. Eats you alive. His hand falls to your lower back, holding you tight to his chest.

You moan into it, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Squeezing until your knuckles blanche, joints twinging in discomfort. 

After months of nothing, this alone is bliss. His taste soaking onto your tongue, drenching it in the bitter tang of sage, wheatgrass, and stale cigarettes. Intoxicating. It leaks into you, nocuous. Infects from the inside out. 

His plan coming to fruition, you think. What he sought out to do all along, ever since you wandered close to this untameable Tartarean guard, and offered yourself up to the jowls of a starving beast. 

He pulls away with a heavy breath, eyes charing around the edges; brittle briquette. 

“Gonna be a good girl from now on? Come upstairs, be a good mum for dad? Or am I gonna ‘ave to cane this—” his hand drops, grabbing a fistful of your ass in his hand, fingers digging into the skin between your cheeks. Possessive. It cracks like a whip down your nerves. “—tight lit’le arse?”

You shake your head instantly. Quickly. “I'll be good,” you whisper into his chin, tongue flicking out to lick across his scars. The dried sweat on his skin tastes briny. Reminds you of the ocean on a brumous November evening. The incipient yawn of a ravenous hurricane gathering its lot on the shore. 

Sirens blare in the distance. Fear curdles in your guts, sits heavy like a stone. An anchor. 

“So sweet f’me,” he mutters, words deepening as his head falls back, letting you pepper kisses across the underside of his jaw. Mouthing along the constellation of scars. His voice is rumble. It shivers across your lips, tongue. Shakes the marrow in your bones. “Better stay this way, pet.”

Into his pulse, you murmur, “I think you like it better when I’m bad.” 

You can feel the snarl brimming in the back of his throat. Your ass stings with the phantom burn of when he lashed out with the whip. It drags a whimper out from deep within your chest. 

His hand tightens around your neck. A warning. “Got some guests over f’dinner tonight. Would love to finally introduce them to my sweet little wife—” deft fingers slip across the dewy skin of your folds, knuckles grazing over your drenched hole. The touch makes you squirm. “But if you’re gonna be bad, then I’ll leave you locked up down ‘ere.”

“I’ll be good,” you swear, words a hushed breath over his jugular. His finger flattens, drawls soft, slow circles around your clit. “Ah, I’ll—I’ll be so, so good, Simon—”

“Good girls deserve rewards, don’t they?” His palm flexes possessively around your throat when you nip at old scar tissue. “Maybe I’ll let you sleep in our bed tonight instead of in your dog house. We can ‘ouse together. I’ll fuck you proper—” he roughly shoves two fingers into your hole, leering when you gasp, back arching in a bow. “Know this pretty pussy has been achin’ for me, ‘asn’t it? Gonna breed it full—”

There’s static in your head, ringing in your ear. The noise distorted, pulled underwater. You think you say something, plead—no, no, no, anything but that—but his hand tightens around your throat, fingers pushing up, up into you, notching against that spot inside that makes your head swim, your vision flicker. The abyssal chasm inside of you aches, rages; its waters swell, currents frothing, slamming against the ceiling of its iron prison, and—

Simon pulls away. Fingers stilling inside of you. No friction, no relief. Hypoxia renders the world silent. Muted. Held in stasis, stagnating at the edge of a gaping precipice he holds you over, secured by the fragile curve of your neck, fine bone china. 

Phosphenes swim by. The chossy wobbles.

This distance is agony. You need to be closer, closer, to crawl inside of him, to live in the brackets of his ribs, safe and protected from the world he warns you about. Stone cold. You mewl, whine—

“Gonna be my good little wife?”

Gasping with broken lungs, you nod. Nod, nod until you’re nauseous. Dizzy. Sick—

His spit cools on your lip. Your hackles raise, body shuddering in revulsion—some primal part rears, hisses it’s infectious. Wrong. Get rid of it—

“Not gonna run?”

Slowly, you lick your lips, catching his sickness on your tongue. Swallowing it down until it sinks like a stone to the bottom of your belly. Heavy, for such a small, damning thing. 

How absurd, you think. How absolutely mad. 

Then you whisper, paperthin, “kiss me again, please, Simon—”

And he moves. Liquid in the gloam. Made more for shadows, midnight, than for golden apricity, where the light is harsh on his face, unveiling ruins and ravines; monoliths meant to be paid tribute to in the dark. Your hands lift to his jaw when he moves in, catching your lips in a bruising, biting kiss. 

His touch is searing. Owning. He isn't laying claim: no, you're already his. 

It's possessive and angry. No finesse. All slate teeth and tender tongue. They slide together in a strange game; little fawn stupidly nipping at the tiger's heel. He lets you, groaning into your mouth when you arch back, hips pushing into his fingers, taking him deeper. A pale pantomime of what's to come when he lays you on his soft bed, sweet and divine, and buries himself deep. 

It should scare you. Ought to. And maybe it does. Survival, you think, but you still pull him closer. Deeper. Because it’s bliss, you find. The world around you falling dead. Silent. Pulled into a vacuum. Teetering on the edge of a black hole, event horizon. He drags you in. 

Simon hums, pulling you closer. Touching you—soft, sweet. Palms a gyve. Shackles, chains. His fingers lift from your neck, trailing down the slope of your throat until he reaches the golden loop of your collar's hook. His gaze glides, magmatic, down to where your leash dangles between your heaving breasts.

It's almost tender when he grabs it into his fist. When he pulls, pulls—

Your back arching. His fingers slipping deeper inside your cunt. Obedient little doll.

When he lifts his eyes, the look you find is hot enough to char bone. You taste blood in the back of your throat—

Into the seam of your mouth, he purrs, “good girl.”

—and you swallow it down with a moan. 

(after all, you know better than to run from starving dogs—)

someone send me their thoughts about ghost being a gross little perv 👀

how job hunting has me feeling rn

Steve Huston, 'Ghost Boxers'. 2010.

oi mate

ghost who’s cock is so big he sits in bed with you for hours, just rocking his hips happily back and forth as you watch your movie on the laptop just so you can learn to get used to the size of it.

‘s’just practice-‘ is always his excuse, and you can’t blame him. it does infact feel good when he just crumbles atop you and practically kills you with his big body, cock gently sheathing in and out of your cunt.

it’s easier to get used to, afterall.