Latest Posts by endymi0ns - Page 2
Nightmares
call me easily amused but i still think it's so funny to go "who said that" after saying something wildly horny
Ghost in reader's Ring doorbell camera at like 3am just standing there silently for a minute before saying some weird shit like "your headlights are still on. you should come turn them off." meanwhile it's pitch black behind him.
sex that feels like a murder attempt
Smoke and Mirror🪞
🌘Night routine: act 1
“I think you’re very likable, Simon.”
The man in the skull mask instantly jerks his gaze up to connect with the other man’s face, as if it’ll be obvious he was just joking.
Ghost’s therapist looks evenly back at him, blinking innocently.
“What,” the masked man finally grits, annoyed that he won’t even acknowledge the joke.
“You’ve convinced yourself that you’re scary enough to keep people from wanting to get to know you. I hate to tell you this, but it’s not working. I’ve liked you from the first session.”
The masked man glares down at his own scarred fingers, entwining them slightly atop his knees. “You’re paid to like people.”
“Something I find interesting about you is that you have, by your own words, a little gaggle of people in your life who won’t leave you alone. Follow you around everywhere, talk to you when they don’t have to, support you when you need it. What do you think is more likely, that lightning has struck you that many times, or that you might be a little bit likable?”
Ghost sits with that for a minute in silence, trying to manufacture a scenario in his own mind where different kinds of lightning just happen to strike the same spot, purely by nature of the infinite possibilities of the universe.
“I don’t like you,” he finally tells his kneecaps.
The therapist inwardly smiles. There it is again.
jeans ghost 🤲
😠.
💀💭🧼 (uncensored ghussy on my twt 😔)
Some more ghostprice for brenna! Thanks for waiting 😮💨⚡️
It was a long day...
simon doesn't indulge much in pet names. he would call you love often, you know like every other British person.
you don't mind because you love using pet names on him. babe is what you use most of the time. calling him baby and sweetheart works too. he'll appreciate any name you used on him. though you used pookie on him one time when you were feeling mischievous and in return he just gave you a nasty side-eye with a raised eyebrow, silently asking what the fuck did you just called me?
but in the rare times when you are cocooned by the blankets and simon's arms wrapped around you, when you are feeling a tad bit emotional you would say his name in a whispered voice like it's the most sacred thing. it's a reminder that he trusts you enough to tell his name. a proof of your hard work peeling off layer after layer of him.
this girl must have pussy like a pizza bc Everytime she fucks me I have little seizures
something something pre-negotiated cnc scene with gaz where you go for a hike and he's waiting for you with his ghillie suit on, taking you entirely by surprise as he drags you into the bushes, holding his hand over your mouth so as not to alert the passing hikers as he fucks you on the ground, completely camouflaged underneath him
All I need is for someone to gently cup my face and tell me I'm not as doomed as I feel.
Simon Riley who loves his wife so much he travels back in time to try and make his younger self hook up with her sooner. Conveniently forgot that he was pretending to hate her for the first year or two of their working together when he bullies her into a closet and tells her he loves her.
Ghost Lets You Help (18+)
Pairing: Simon Riley/Fem Reader/Johnny MacTavish Content Warnings: Oral (m-receiving), nutting onto partner’s body, she/her Reader, Reader’s hair is long enough to be gripped in someone’s hand Word Count: 3.4k
Service Dog Johnny Part 17 (full part list here)
“How often do you jerk off?”
Your boyfriend’s fingers halt their up and down movement across your lower back, and you quickly tack on, “You don’t have to answer that, I’m just nosy, and I like you a lot.”
Simon huffs in amusement. “At home, or when I’m working?”
“At home, I guess.”
“Ehh… Just about every day.”
Your mouth pops open in surprise, because you don’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t that. He’s with you nearly every minute when you’re both home, and he’s certainly never given any indication of needing to sneak off to take care of something.
But really, is it that surprising? You know first hand that he’s quite functional.
“Hmm,” you reply finally. “You’re a really interesting person.”
“It’s not that interesting.”
“Mmm… disagree. I have way more questions now.”
He turns his head to get a look at you, resting in bed with your cheek smushed into the crook of his shoulder. “Like what?”
“Like… have you jerked off today?”
“No.” His hand begins to move again, steadily smoothing against the worn fabric of your sleep shirt.
“Would you ever want… help?” You ask casually, smiling at him. “Just like, for fun. Like a quick, wham bam… here’s my hand.”
You expect him to laugh at your little joke, but instead Simon makes that grumble in his throat that means he’s uncomfortable, and stares up at the shadowy ceiling. “It’s… ahh. It’s not easy… well, it’s a problem, having things done, sort of, to me.”
“Gotcha, okay.” Your reassurance is automatic, but you still lay there against his side for a minute with your heart clenching, wishing the worst things the world has to offer on whoever caused this.
You know you should probably end the conversation there and not push him, but you can’t help asking, “What about if you were controlling it? No pressure of course, I’m just troubleshooting. Do you think it would be easier if you were the one just like… fucking my mouth?”
He takes a deep breath and slides his free hand down his face, like he’s really considering it. “Maybe.”
You contain your smile to a mere tenth of what it wants to be, and add, “Well, if you ever feel like experimenting, I would really, really like to do that. And you know we could stop whenever you need.”
“You’d want to do that?” He finally glances at you, frowning slightly like he thinks you’re lying.
“Yes! Oh my god.” You sit up in your excitement, beaming down at him. “That would be so fun.”
He assesses you like this is all new information to him. Like he never even imagined that you’d be practically creaming yourself at the chance to get him in your mouth, no matter how it happens. You’d absolutely give him that control, you’d let him fuck your face for as long as he wants if it means you get a taste of his pleasure.
“You’d like that,” he muses finally.
Please, please, god, PLEASE.
“Mhmm,” you reply with a heavy dose of faux nonchalance, so he’ll feel like he’s allowed to say no.
His eyes flick to the clock on the nightstand. There’s still some time left before you usually go to bed.
“Would you do it with the lights off?”
“Of course,” you beam. “I’m up for anything.”
“All the lights,” he reinforces sternly, as if that could possibly matter.
“Baby. You’re gonna get me excited.”
He throws his legs over the side of the bed and stays there for a minute stretching his neck out, while you remain where you are, vibrating with anticipation. Finally he sighs and glances over his shoulder at you. “Suppose you’re allowed to get excited.”
Just like that, it’s settled.
Gleefully you spring into action to do the necessary bedtime things, scrubbing over your teeth and washing your face. When you meet him back in the bedroom, he’s for some reason staring down at a pillow that’s lying on the floor.
“What are you doing?” you ask.
“Err… you’ll be on your knees, yeah? Would a pillow be wobbly, or?…”
This is really happening.
“Carpet’s fine,” you assure him, scooping up the pillow and tossing it back on the bed. “It’s plenty soft, and also I don’t care.”
“Hmm.”
Ignoring you entirely, he starts stalking around the room, running his fingers over the locks on the windows and unplugging anything with a little glowing light.
You do the only thing that’s really your job, and strip your clothes off, because surely he’ll want to look a little before the lights go out. And since he’s still meticulously getting the blackout curtains to stay as closed as they can go, you begin to plan the scene.
If he’s going to be the one fucking your mouth, if you aren’t allowed to move at all, you’re going to want something for support. The obvious thing is the bed, so you test it by getting to the floor and slipping your feet into the space under the bed frame. This could work. You have the soft edge of the mattress to lean your back against now, and it’ll be relatively comfy to give a blowjob like this.
Your mind only focuses back to the present when Simon comes to a stop some paces away, tracing your body with his eyes.
“Is this okay?” you ask.
“Mhmm.” His hand comes to rest on the doorknob as his gaze floats up to your face.
“You locked the front door, I saw.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t move though, and you can practically see him second guessing it through his unfocused expression. He won’t be able to relax unless he knows for sure.
“Go ahead and check,” you concede, “we have time.”
Instantly he’s out the door. You let your head fall back on the bed, smiling to yourself as you rest there for a moment. You stroke your hands down your stomach just to feel the softness of your own skin, and then squeeze your breasts.
The last person who touched you was Johnny. He’s gone tonight, had to do a nighttime shooting qualification at work, so you won’t see him until hopefully tomorrow.
What would he think, if he knew this was about to happen? Would he worry about Simon? Maybe feel like you’re pushing him too fast? It was just a couple of days ago that you were biting Johnny’s head off about feeling unwanted, and now you’re experimenting without him again.
Your hands drop off your body as soon as the door opens. You blink up at your boyfriend who’s now towering over you, a completely different person than he was a few minutes ago.
He must have satisfied every bug in his brain, because the curtains are now the farthest thing from his mind. His eyes are liquid darkness, roving over your bare skin as he reaches behind his neck to strip his shirt over his head. He doesn’t even fold it, just wads it up and tosses it on the bed without a glance.
“You ready?” you ask innocently, shivering a little.
“Yep.”
“Okay.” Your gaze wanders down to the situation in his pants, and you realize your mistake. “You’re more like, here, aren’t you?” You readjust, getting to your full height on your knees instead of sitting.
“I think so.”
You put your elbows behind you to prop you up on the bed, and surreptitiously watch him cross the room to turn off the lamp
Click.
And then it’s real.
The first thing you notice is that he did an excellent job of killing every light. There’s fucking nothing, not even the clock display to orient you to your surroundings. Granted, your eyes haven’t adjusted yet, but it’s basically pitch black, which means he has a good chance of going through with this.
Which means—
He’s quiet, as he usually is. It’s only his unavoidable weight, and the creak of old floorboards that allows you to sense that he’s come back to you. Your body awakens with the awareness of proximity, excitement and arousal, and for some reason a little bit of fear, which doesn’t seem to diminish the other two.
Your name comes out of his chest, slow and deep, and right in front of you.
“Yeah, baby,” you whisper, feeling more vulnerable in the darkness, because you can’t anticipate the first place he’ll touch you.
It’s your chin. His familiar hand finds your face, and then you’ve got a palm holding each of your cheeks. Thumbs you can’t see brush across your temples, careful fingers tuck your hair behind your ears. His hands are steady as they repeat the motion, stroking the edges of your face to pet your hair out of the way. Again. Again. Gentle fingers of a patient man.
You keep your eyes lifted as if you can see him, relaxing your body and allowing him to tilt your head back a little. Your hair gets methodically gathered into one of his hands, and then held firmly like that, in a way that makes you anticipate your mouth getting soon filled.
But he releases it, as if he was just testing the option. His hands slip back around to your face, cupping the underside of your jaw and curling around your nape.
“You're safe,” he tells you, for some reason.
“I know.”
His methodical breathing is all you hear as his thumb sweeps the length of your cheekbone, slowly, like he’s touching something valuable. And his other thumb finds the seam of your lips, coaxing them open with a little pressure.
You stay soft for him while he pushes that digit past your teeth, keeping your mouth relaxed as he lets it rest on your tongue. You wait like that, letting him feel how warm and pliant your mouth is, just breathing through your nose as he caresses your face in the darkness. What a good girl you are, his thumb seems to say, skimming the tips of your lashes when you blink. So well behaved for me.
He never loses contact, even when his hand retreats from your mouth. He keeps the back of your skull resting in the cradle of his wide palm while he gets himself ready. That soft rustle of fabric shoots a thrill down your spine, has you lifting your chin a little to straighten out your throat.
Then something warm and a little sticky kisses up against your lips, and the man you love breathes a quiet, “Open.”
Against the blanket, your fingers curl in pleasure while he eases himself into your mouth. He presses just the tip in, and then pulls back out a little, repeating the motion. It’s like he’s sampling the way it feels sliding across your tongue, so you stick it out for him to play with, just past your lower lip. He feels you do that, you can tell by the appreciative breath he lets out. He likes it. He likes picturing you here, patiently waiting with your tongue out, letting him rub his leaking tip up and down it.
It’s so good. Your eyes drift closed on their own, mentally slipping into the skin of someone who deserves this kind of attention. You take an ungodly amount of pleasure in being toyed with like this — the slow, systematic breaking down of your psyche until all you are is a craving. A bone deep, unending ripple of want that registers your mouth as the natural place for his cock. He gets to come home now, pushing inside you and finding relief in the same act that’s getting you slick between your legs.
You’re not sure if he does it like this on purpose to get you worked up. You’re not sure that it matters.
“Show me how deep I can go so it’s still comfortable.” His thumb presses down on your jaw, guiding you to open wider. “This is important to me.”
Oh. Okay. Obediently you reach out and find his thigh with your hand, relaxing your mouth as he begins to push himself inside it. A happy, breathy noise leaves you when you finally feel it the way you’re meant to, finally get your mouth full of that fundamental piece of him.
He doesn’t pause, just carefully pushes inside until he reaches the line of your gag reflex, and you offer some resistance on his leg to let him know.
“Fuck, alright. Yeah, alright.” His breathing is ragged between words. “Christ, you sound so pretty.”
Yeah, you’re too aroused to really hold back at this point. As he begins to slowly thrust into your mouth, you thank him for it with soft, needy throat noises. He keeps one hand around your jaw and feeds you his cock to exactly where you showed him, and it feels divine.
You're not sure if it’s intentional, but he never fully pulls out. He never gives you a chance to collect yourself or swallow, just keeps filling your mouth until you’re no longer anxious about it ending before you’re ready. You’re dazed and content, drooling around him and communicating exactly how much you’re enjoying yourself, through every soft moan and whimper. Your lips are wet from the mess of spit and precum gathering in your mouth, and you’re getting so turned on that you swear there’s a faint sensation of something dripping down the inner crease of your thigh.
Maybe you like this a lot. Maybe you enjoy the way your jaw aches with how thick he is. Maybe you’re glad this is lasting a lot longer than the other time, because there’s nothing that compares to getting on your knees for someone who loves you the way he does.
“Don’t want to— Can I cum on you?”
Like he’s just remembered that you can’t talk with your mouth full, Simon quickly pulls out and stays there, holding your face and catching his breath.
“Yeah, of course,” you say after a quick swallow. “Maybe don’t get it in my hair if you can help it.”
“I won’t.”
He gathers your hair again in his shaking hand, and this time he uses it to hold your head steady while he sinks himself all the way to your throat.
It has you grabbing onto the blanket while you fight back the urge to gag. You just weren’t prepared for that, hadn’t given yourself time to relax into it after he was so insistent earlier about not going too deep. One more thrust and you can’t help the way your throat constricts, the wet sputter you do when you can’t quite accommodate him.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasps, nearly scraping himself on your front teeth in his haste to pull out. “M’sorry. Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” You lift your hand to his wrist, finding his fingers with yours and wrapping around them to make sure he doesn’t let go of your hair. “You’re alright.”
His voice still has a frantic edge. “Didn’t mean to. That wasn’t on purpose.”
“I know, baby,” you assure him, slow and calm. “Take a breath, we’re okay.”
You’re rewarded with a deep inhale and exhale from somewhere above you. Then a steady, “You’re alright?”
“Yep, I’m doing great.” You sink down the side of the bed, letting your ass rest on your feet, and draping your head back on the edge of the mattress. “And you know what?”
“What?” His fingers shift in your hair, but he doesn’t let go, so you stroke your fingers down to his wrist.
“My tits are really soft,” you tell him, letting your smile warm the words.
There’s only a beat of silence, and then a little amused huff for you. “Are they, now?”
“Mhmm. You can see for yourself, if you want.”
There’s barely a second of hesitation before you hear his knees pop, and then feel that familiar hand tracing down your collarbone to find your breast. “Mmm. You’re right.”
Your evil plan is working. “Check the other one too, just to be sure.”
Simon only stops long enough to do another deep breath, then wraps his hand around your other breast, squeezing it gently. “Yeah. Fuckin’ nice.”
Time to get him what he needs.
“So I have these nice soft titties right here for you, right? I think you should cum on them.”
His next breath is choppy and delicious, as he runs his fingertips down the swell of your breast and fiddles with your nipple.
“I think they would look extra pretty,” you purr at him, “with a little decoration.”
His hand leaves your skin then, and the air is so quiet that you can hear him stroking himself with your spit remaining on him. You sigh happily, letting him hold your head out of the way by your hair, so your face won’t get dirty in a minute when he cums.
“I love your voice,” he whispers. “That little high note you do at the end of a breath, when you’re… like this.”
“Wet?” You playfully whisper back.
“Are you wet, darling?”
Your thighs seem to flex together on their own accord. “Uh huh.”
The slick sounds pause for a beat, and then he says, “Can I feel?”
Oh, fuck. You’re definitely going to have to get your toy out after this. “Yeah, baby.”
He doesn’t let go of your hair, just reaches down with his free hand to find your thighs. You spread your knees apart on the carpet and marvel at the lack of hesitation, as he runs his fingertips up and down the outside of your pussy.
“Jesus bloody fucking Christ.”
“I’m having a great time,” you laugh, keeping your hips as still as possible so he remains in control of the contact.
“You are, aren’t you?”
“Mmm, yeah.” His fingers are still stroking your soaked pussy, so you turn your head a little to kiss his wrist. “I like this, baby.”
He’s collecting your wetness, you finally realize. He gets his palm nice and slick with it, and then gets back to his feet, and starts jerking off with your arousal.
You close your eyes and let yourself picture it, how he’s standing now with your knees between his legs. You do your best to push your tits out so they’ll get the bulk of the exterior decorating, and just relax there and let him hear your happy, horny breaths.
His choked curse is the only warning you get before something warm and sticky hits your chest. You smile to yourself while he works himself through that orgasm, painting you with his pleasure because for some reason he’d rather do this than shoot it down your throat.
You don’t mind, not really. You’re pretty sure it’s not a humiliation thing for him, and it’s easy enough to get cleaned up afterwards. Once his breathing has started to level out and his grip in your hair loosens, you reach up and swipe a little bit of cum off your breast. In the pitch black, he doesn’t see you suck it off your finger.
His recovery is much better this time. Maybe it’s the fact that you didn’t actually fuck, or maybe it’s because he’s processed the initial hurdle already, but he never goes nonverbal. He ends up wiping you down with his own shirt so the lights can stay off, and then he holds you in his arms while you make yourself cum with your vibrator.
Simon reaches down to your wrist and encourages you to keep your toy on your clit while you whine and gasp through the overstimulation after your orgasm. He makes you promise not to stop before he releases your hand to play with your nipple.
“Just a little longer,” he whispers, stroking his thumb over the sensitive point. “I know you can do it.”
He’s right. It only takes a few more minutes before you’re shaking, jerking the toy away and squeezing your thighs together through the rushing in your ears.
You’re limp after that, merely a jellyfish washed up on the beach. Simon thinks it’s funny, keeps lifting your wrist in the air and then letting it flop to the mattress. He can’t even see it, but finds it entertaining all the same.
“Simon?” You whisper after a few sleepy kisses.
“Hmm?”
“What do you think about clearing out the guest bedroom, and putting a bed in there for Johnny when he spends the night?”
Your boyfriend tugs affectionately at a lock of your hair. “I think that’s a bloody good idea.”
Next Part coming soon
Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop
just his girl being so attracted to simon and him not understanding it. (18+)
i mean like...he's never had a girlfriend like this. he's never even had a girlfriend, period, not really, not anyone he's seen more than once, not one that he's known long enough to remember her name.
he just doesn't get it. whenever he comes into your vicinity, he can see the sparkle in your eyes. the smile that graces your face, the way your expression lights up, the way your body moves on its own just to get closer to him.
he wonders if he lets you because of the sick satisfaction he feels. to be the center of your attention, it makes him feel so fucking special, so important. another man can look at you the same way, but he knows your cunt will be dry. but when he looks at you that way, he can see the way your legs squeeze together, and he loves knowing that if he flipped up the hem of your skirt, you'd be so sticky and practically drooling there, all for him.
he doesn't think himself very attractive. he's had his fair share of one night stands, but the way you keen for him makes him so hungry. he loves hearing you whine when he grabs your ass, loves feeling you drip onto his fingers when he kisses you after a long day, loves the way that nothing else will ever make you smile the way he can when he touches your face.
"i love you so much," you whisper, and he has to look away or else he'll groan.
"i missed you," you whimper after he's been away for a long time, and he has to bite back the tremble in his lip because fuck, he missed you, too.
"you're so big, baby," you whine, and he can't help the way he chubs up immediately as you feel up his thick biceps, along his pecs, over the warm layer of fat around his solid middle. you can cum so fast just riding his big thigh, hell--you can cum by yourself just looking at him. he's so hot to you, so handsome, even if he doesn't take his mask off or any of his clothes, because you love him so much, and his eyes are sometimes all you need to feel enough. and fuck if that isn't the biggest ego boost, seeing his girl's pussy creaming just by fixating on the flex of his big hand.
his confidence is so puffed whenever he's around you. he gets goosebumps whenever your eyes are on him. even now, it's been years with you, and you still make him feel like the hottest guy in the room with the way your eyes look him up and down.
you're his perfect girl. his best prize. he doesn't understand how he ever got you, how he ever reeled you in, but there isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't understand how undeserving he is of you and how incredibly lucky he is. it makes him selfish. he has you, and he can't lose you, so fuck how he has to keep you, cause he will. and he thinks you like that, too.
he thinks you like the way he fondles you under your skirt in a crowded place. he thinks you like the way he fucks, deep thrusts as he grips your face and murmurs mine, mine, mine between low groans and fingerprint bruises. he thinks you like the way he hovers, glaring at anyone that looks your way and devouring you in a grocery store parking lot because the cashier at the till looked at your legs for just a second too long, and need ta remind ya who ya belong to, pet.
you were wet anyways, he had worn short sleeves that day, and your eyes hadn't left his tattoo sleeve since he came out of the shower. so wet, ruining those panties, his favorite little black pair with the skull print pattern along the band.
dripping, creamy, pulsing little cunt that is all his. hadn't so much as even touched you yet, and here you are, drooling so sweet. he just didn't want to waste the meal.
baby blues
John Price + the panic of fatherhood x reader
pregnancy. babies. soft. sappy. angsty. slight allusions to rough sex. John being possessive and smitten. allusions to childhood trauma. the fear of children is somehow more potent than the fear of god. girl dad John. mentions of Price's divorce lmao
Most assume he'd take to fatherhood like he'd been born for the role; handcrafted to cradle a swaddled babe in his arms. The perfect father figure. But as he hovers over your sleeping form, the little bundle nestled in the sleepy bracket of your arms, he's overcome with a sense of dread that punches hard enough to shatter bone.
The reality is this: Price doesn't understand kids. He wants them. Covets them with a viciousness that almost immediately sets alarm bells off in the heads of those who were opposed to the idea of children, parenthood. Giving birth. But when it comes to being a dad, a role model, an effigy to siphon wisdom and knowledge off of, he flounders. Hesitates.
All he has as an idea of fatherhood is bruises laughed off by the neighbours as him being a clumsy boy. A man who drank in the living room, silent in his fury, his belligerence, until something—anything, really—set him off. He always seemed like he was itching for a reason to punish.
And god, was he ever fucking good at it.
If anger issues are hereditary, then Price picked up the generational slack of his seething ancestors.
It's this, and the plethora of scars and burns that decorate his skin (well hidden, tucked away like a dirty secret because if Old Man Price was anything, it certainly wasn't stupid; he knows how to hide the ugliness of himself away, and how to turn a boy into a punching bag without causing too much damage, too much alarm) that make him ache something fierce when he sees his chubby little child for the first time.
Price doesn't know how to be gentle. All he has are worn, rough hands and a constant stench of smoke. A voice that makes grown men tremble. An ire unmatched thus far in his life.
Until you. Little spitfire. His hellion. You stood on the tips of your toes just to tell him off for being a stubborn pig! and then taught him how to hold you. How to be tender. But even now, he can see the wear on your skin from his bites. His propensity for violence that he morphs into desire. Into lust.
How is he supposed to be a dad when he's this caustic? This mean?
The answer doesn't come. All he gets is the rhythmic sigh of your breath as you sleep, well and truly exhausted after giving birth to their child. All alone. A constant in your lives, it seems. Aloneness. His work takes him away, throws him into dangerous situations. And you carry the brunt of it.
It caused the rupture of his first marriage and is a needling fear he carried with him when you started pursuing him some odd years ago. To think that he'd be standing here now, gazing down at you with your heavy eyes and your soft cheeks, rounded with the additional weight you gained during your early trimesters. A plushness he's trying to keep on you for good—all softened edges, flesh that gives when he touches you, marshmallows out between his fingers when he squeezes.
You look good like this. Motherhood, despite your misgivings (it took three years of him hinting and hounding you before you'd relented with a sure, what's the worst that could happen? We're terrible parents and raise a terrible kid? Or we end up the catalyst for a list of psychological issues and get reamed out during their therapy sessions later on in life?), suits you. Fits you like a glove.
A fact you'd been quietly overwhelmed by in the first few months, grieving the loss of something he couldn't ever understand, or experience. A piece of yourself morphing into the mother that raised you. A kaleidoscope of feelings that you choke on when he asks, unable to render them into coherent words.
But you're good at that, aren't you? Good at culling expectations, at superseding the limits others place on you. Even him.
Especially him.
When he'd said, don't know what you're gettin’ yourself into, love, you took it to the chin like he challenged you to a brawl, and set out to show him why you knew what this was, what he was, and why it didn't matter much.
Even now—
Giving birth all alone. Overcoming the isolation of being shackled to a man who married his post first. Sisterwife to his career. Second in all things.
Even this.
He was in Iceland when he got the call. Laswell, of all people, was on the other line telling him his own wife was in the delivery room. Water broke. Baby is on the way.
And you—
Don't worry, old man. Just do what needs to be done and we'll be waiting. Always.
—well. You certainly are. Alone in a hospital room with the curtains drawn to blot out the sun as you sleep, cradling this thing he made with his fingers shoved deep into your mouth, uttering foul under his breath as he crushed you to the bed, rutting you like an animal—the most tender he could ever be—and he's suddenly all too aware of his own inadequacies. His shortcomings. Failures.
He's not a dad. He's not the sort of man people think about when they think healthy father figure. He likes cigars and whiskey, and sometimes aches for a mission that will let him cut his knuckles on teeth—bloodletting; exorcising his demons out on the people he's sanctioned to kill. How is he supposed to guide a child when he threw a man over a railing without a second thought—
The bundle stirs. Wrinkled, red face scrunching up tight. Little thing is just like you, huh? All softness and give. All—
They cry, and it's shrill. Loud. It jars him.
Not the sound, but the anguish he feels piercing through his chest as they bellow out their confusion to the world, this lost little thing. Strapped with a father who was beaten black and blue and told to be a man when he cried.
But right now—anger is the furthest thing on his mind. He can't fathom that emotion when his child is whimpering in your arms, chubby little fingers grasping at the air. Seeking comfort.
Waking you feels cruel when you've spent the better part of two days awake. Four, really. You couldn't sleep when the contractions hit, wide-eyed and worried about everything. What if something went wrong? If they hated you? What if you hurt them—
Worries he tried to assuage, but couldn't deny he felt them, too.
All he knows how to do is hurt. But as he reaches down for this little thing squirming in your arms, he tells himself to be tender. To be the man his dad never was.
And they're soft. So fuckin’ soft. Tiny, too. His hands dwarf them, engulfing them completely. He tries to blame the way he trembles on the denial of nicotine for so long, but the mist in his eyes, and the burn in his throat, call him a liar. He doesn't know what to do. Even with all the hours spent thumbing through manuals and books and scoffing under his breath at the parenting courses you dragged him to (but paid rigid attention to every word the heavily bangled woman said to him), he feels lost. Unsure. The ground is shaky. Control slips. And that's maybe the crux of it all—
Babies can't be controlled. And it's the loss of this, what makes him whole, keeps him steady, that has him feeling rubber-limbed and fawn-like.
“Quiet, now,” he murmurs, and then winces at the rough drag of his voice in the silence of the room. Too firm, too forceful. All the gentleness he has in his bones was devoured by your greedy mouth when you cracked him open like the legs of a snow crab, marrow slurped up until he was hollow. Empty. His tenderness rests inside your belly. What else does he have to give—
But the warm bundle in his awkward, clumsy hold stops their shrill cries. A girl, he remembers you saying. Crying. Sobbing into the phone when he called, all ugly and gross. He heard you sniffle, snot undoubtedly dribbling from your nose as you wept to him about how fucking cute their baby was. Their little girl.
She's soft. Smells of a newborn, too—something powdery. Sweet. Warmed milk, fresh bread. The clinical books that made you squeamish, the ones that outlined every anatomical and chemical change to your body, mentioned that newborns smelled distinct to each parent. A phenomenon meant to encourage protection and bonding.
It made you shiver, muttering my little parasite under your breath, even as your hand curved possessively over your bulging belly.
He knows that's what this is. Chemical. His mind is evolving, shifting. Changing. And it's then that he feels something hot thicken in his throat. Something ugly, and bitter. The scars on his knuckles, the cigarette burns on his fingers are a sharp reminder of what his father felt and ignored.
He scoffs, then, irritated at himself. He's a grown man and still—
Still thinks of him.
“Won't be like that,” he says, still rough. Still firm. She blinks up at him, eyes rheumy and wide. “Not with you.”
Never. Never. He pins the word to his pericardium, letting it rot his tissue. He'd rather die, he thinks, than ever hurt this little girl. But despite that, he knows he will. Inevitably. Just like he does everything good—or bad—in his life. Leaching from the goodness of others, sucking them dry and letting them moulder. A disappointment everywhere except the battlefield where he screams himself hollow and rents the air with his ire. Incorrigible. Immovable. An object of cruelty. Unforgiving in all aspects. A curse that follows him home, into his marital bed when he pins you down, and makes you profess your love for the beast inside of him. Never satiated, never quelled, until you're shackled at his side. Tucked away from the world he knows is too cruel to people like you who end up a corpse he has to step over on his way for empty retribution.
He thinks, too, about all the ways he's going to ruin this chubby little thing in his arms, and wishes, suddenly, he was a better man.
“Gonna hate my fuckin' guts when you're sixteen, aren't you?” In response, this little thing just opens its red maw and blows bubbles. He huffs. “You're gonna be nothin’ but trouble, mm? Steal my car. Crash it because your mum's gonna teach you how to drive and she backed into the garage six times already. Gonna gang up on me. Both of you. Little nightmares.”
He's not sure what else to say, and thinks, already, that he said too much. Bared his belly to her too soon. She'll have this memory, buried down in the deep recesses of her psyche of her father falling to pieces while he held her. An impossibility, he knows, but can't shake the feeling that this, in itself, is an epoch. A marker for what's to come. All the ugly, the hate. The screaming matches that make him curl his hand into fists as she levels his failures at him. Not to hit. Never to hit. But to stop the tremble that won't stop. That has already started. The shake in his joints that tell him to run before he hurts. Before he ruins this precious mass of his blood and your tissue in his arms.
“Gonna—” he isn't crying. Isn't. But there's a thickness in his throat as he thinks about how quickly she'll grow up. Age marked in the crows feet that gather around your eyes. The laugh lines. “Gonna be a fuckin' menace, and I'll—” he chokes, then, when she reaches up with a pudgy, red fist and snags the strap of his vest he didn't even bother taking off before he fled here. Fat, tiny fingers curling into the spot he grabs to ground himself from lashing out. “Fuck.”
He'd burn the world for her, he knows. Sacrifice everyone and everything just to keep her warm. Both of you. It begins and ends with this little thing that has your eyes and his nose.
But he doesn't know how to translate that into love. Into affection.
It comes out caustic. Abrasive. Possessive.
And he is.
Now that he has her in his hands he knows that nothing else will ever compare. That they'll never be empty because she'll always fit in his palms no matter how big she gets. There's only ever been enough space in his heart for you. Chiselled into with a fuckin’ pickaxe because you wouldn't wait for it to grow on its own.
But there's give, he realises. This domicile you carved yourself has a room attached. A place for her. And she fits like a glove. Sliding inside. Cocooned against his pulse.
He loves her. Endlessly. Forever. She deserves better. More.
But when he tells her this, she makes a noise and it sounds like a giggle.
“Laughin’ at me already, mm?”
She giggles again, and he likes that her laugh is a little ugly. A little mean.
“Scarin’ the wits outta me,” he confesses, shifting her weight as she occupies herself with the clasp of his vest, disinterested in the man that breaks into pieces around her now. “I don't know—fuck, I don't—”
You come to in a panic. It starts as a slow roll to the side before your eyes flash open, wide and furious even as sleep congeals in the corners, pawing at the empty spot where the lingering warmth of your child presses into your chest. Anger, fury, darkens over your brow, and the apoplectic rage that simmers in the gaps of your dread, your fostering panic, softens him. Makes him melt. The burn of your ire, your fear, liquifying his bones.
He falls in love with you a little bit more at that moment. When the snarl rucks your upper lip up, up, teeth bared to the world as you whip your head around in frantic, desperate dismay, searching for the little girl he knows you, too, will burn the world for.
“I've got her,” he says, whisper-soft and low. Cadence even, clear. Tries to quell the howl he can see hammering its fists against your throat before it rips from your lips and scorches the world around you in a hail of horrifying anguish. “She's safe.”
It says something when you immediately go still at the sound of his voice, muscles going lax, slack, as you slowly turn your head toward him, blinking against the fog clotting your vision. Something that cuts him to the core. Rents his chest in halves. One side for you, and the other for her. Nothing left to spare.
This feeling brimming in his chest sweetens when you startle at the sight of him, them, lashes shuttering like an old camera as if you were trying to sear the image in your head forever. Branded on the back of your eyelids. (A sentiment he knows all too well considering the stream of photos added to his camera roll of you and her nuzzled together.)
“You—” your voice catches, breaks from sleep. Fatigue. You swallow, slowly licking your lips. “When did you get in?”
Your eyes are glued to them. Unblinking. Widened with pure affection, the intensity of which makes him want to touch you, hold you.
“A few hours ago,” he murmurs, glancing down at his—
It cuts a jagged line through his chest. Knicks his bone with how deep it goes. False starts pressed tight to his heart.
—his daughter. Fuck’s sake.
He's choked. Strangled. Rendered mute, immobilised. It guts him, this. Daughter. The ring of it echoes in his head, filling the recesses of his mind. Embedding itself within his head. Congealed over. Fixed in place.
“I have a fuckin’ daughter,” he breathes at length, the air knocked from his lungs. He's not sure why this is what breaks him, but it does. And it's you, then, holding the fracturing pieces together, hands reaching out—in a startling mimicry of his daughter, and fuck, doesn't that just eviscerate him—and curling against the heaving brackets of his ribs, boxing him in.
“John,” you say, but your voice wobbles. Wavers. When he peels his eyes away from the sleepy yawn she lets out long enough to look at you, there's tears flooding your lashline. Threatening to break. “Fuck,” you say, crass and beautiful, and he's overcome with the urge to tuck you into his other arm, keep you both cradled in his hands. “Don't make me cry or my stitches will tug.”
“We've got a daughter,” he says again, just to hear it uttered aloud. We. Yours. His. It messes with him. Bludgeons into his core. “We've—”
“She's beautiful, isn't she?”
Your words shatter him, but the pinch of your hands on his waist keeps him from buckling.
“Yeah,” he rasps, voice thick. Ugly. It's mangled in his throat. All fractured and raw. “Just like her mother.”
He shows his affection in the burn of his embrace. In the way he holds you tight, refusing to let go. Keeps his words callous and firm. Soft utterances, declarations of love, tucked away in the sure, greedy way he clings to you in his sleep. Yields to you like no one else. Lets you in.
And he supposes he ought to say it more often if the way your face crinkles up just like his daughter when she cried, tears spilling over your rounded cheeks.
“Don't,” you heave, ugly and brittle, and he thinks you're the prettiest thing he'd ever seen in his life. “Don't or I'll rip my stitches—”
He huffs. Nods only once, and then steps toward you. “Do you want—?”
“Keep her for a little while,” you mutter, leaning back into the bed, eyes lidded by fond. So in love with him, the picture they paint, it's almost sickening. “She likes you.”
He snorts. “She's only three hours old. Give her time.”
You're quiet for a beat. Pensive. Mulling something over. It's never a good thing when you're silent, and the unease that grows in his belly is justified when you heave out a long, tired exhale through your nose.
The way you look at him is raw. “You're not your father, John.”
And isn't that just the worst lie he'd ever heard.
He scoffs, then. Shifts his weight, still cradling his daughter tight to his chest. “Mm, 'dunno about that.”
“I do.”
“Jus’—” leave it. Keep going. Keep feeding him lies as he stands here and pretends that he wasn't a horrible bastard for wanting this from you. From taking it. Strapping you with a man who's always, always, one foot out the door—
“No.” You say, soft and sure. “You're not him. I know you're not because you're still here.”
“So was he.”
You don't acknowledge the interruption. Content, it seems, to rattle off lies and half-truths into the stifling air. Your eyes close, the curve of your lashes leonine. Breathtaking.
“Do you want me to take her?” You ask instead of the multitude of things he can see piling behind your eyes. Some of the ugly. Jagged glass. Others powder soft.
He shakes his head. “You need your rest,” it's a half-truth. Fatigue clings to you still, swathed in the purpling of your skin. The slow, heavy blinks you take to try and fight the tug of an artificial sleep.
But the real reason is this:
He's just not ready to let her go.
Thinks, viciously, suddenly, that if he does, this moment built between them in budding, liquid blue will cease forever. Severed too soon. She'll carry the same resentment in her heart he feels for his own father, and he'll die in a shallow pit thinking about how badly he wanted just a second longer.
Generational, right? Trickle down hatred. Ancestral rage. It's what your grandma talks about sometimes over tea and fried bread, half disbelieving you brought a white man into her home, and making a show, a facade, of wisdom even though he spotted the how to raise a child notebook she hastily shoved into the kitchen drawer when you arrived. Taking over in place of your own mother, stepping up. And yet—
She just doesn't get it, you said, rubbing your hands over your belly when she steps away after another long-winded conversation about traditions, spirits, and dead languages. Raising a child like yours in a world like this. She's just. I don't know. Ignore her.
(He doesn't. But you don't have to know that.)
So. He clings to her a little tighter. Holds her a little firmer. Brings her close to his chest and hopes she can hear the echo of his heartbeat and know that this tired, old song is just for her.
(The heart itself for you—)
And maybe—
Maybe he's not quite ready to see you be a mother. Some perverse part of him is already trembling at the promise of watching you nurture and feed her, the tantalising whisper is enough to make the air in his lungs turn humid, sticky. Tar, you remind him sometimes, having seen the ugly spatter of black in the grainy photos the doctor in Hereford likes to shove at him. Never too late to reverse the damage, John.
Or maybe he wants you for himself just a moment longer. An hour. A day. When you're still you, shackled and bound to a man who reeks of stale tobacco, and started sneaking cigarettes in the dead of night like some pimply, awkward teenager when you first came to him, cheeks wet and eyes wild, and said:
“John, I'm—”
Pregnant.
He did it, of course. Put that baby in you. Made it with his teeth buried into your throat and your hips canting up to meet him, taking everything he had to offer. Animal aggression. Nothing tender in the way he chewed you up, made you beg him for it. But still—
Wanting and having are worlds apart, aren't they?
Faced with it, the consequences of his actions, he's at a standstill.
You hum, and when your eyes slide open, he feels the mallet against his head. Cracked open. You fossick about until you find what you're looking for. Cheeky fuckin’ thing—
“Fine. Just pull up a chair before you keel over, old man.”
“M’fine,” he grouses in that voice that serves as a dice roll between making you feel hot or homicidal depending on the mood he catches you in. Muttering something under your breath that sounds like a whispered plea for guidance (“tss, gimme strength.”)
But even with the waspish denial, he's inching closer to the spare chair left in the corner, looping his ankle around the leg to slide it closer. The squeal of rubber on aluminium makes him grimace, eyes darting down to his sleeping girl, nestled in his arms. Her brow pinches in the same way your grandma’s do when she's annoyed by the news. Her bingomates. The way he refuses her offering of burning tobacco and lemongrass whenever he goes away for a while, unable to really commit to this little, broken family that feels more like home than his own ever did.
(“aint my place,” he says, and she scoffs.
“fuck, s'matter wit’cha?” is her counter, the harsh line between her brows now perfectly superimposed on his daughter’s face. “tss. ain't yer place, eh. are you tryna piss me off? fuck, you make me mad—”)
He sees that spitting anger in you. Generational, he knows. The same inherited attitude his daughter will inevitably have. The one that singles him out as an outlier. Outnumbered. Three, now, to one—
There's got to be a reason why his chest bubbles, innervated by the thought of a Sunday dinner when she's old enough to watch her grandma make intricate bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and pins with thread and glass beads as you, her mother, cuss at the stove that doesn't burn as hot as it used to, flipping over golden dough in a sizzling pan.
Orange juice in old cups your grandma kept since the nineties. Something soft playing on the radio. The peeling, waterlogged wallpaper flakes off the wall when you slam the pan down too hard. The way the spill of the sun through the rusting window rents the room in half. Pale yellow and oak. Little orange blossoms in soft pink above the speckled granite countertops. Everything awash in a gossamer of sleepy-eyed affection.
Just like it is now. But—
He looks down at her, head full of lead. Cotton.
Complete, maybe.
“Don't know how to be a dad,” he confesses to you, and thinks of how much easier it is to slam a sledgehammer into a metal door than it is to peel back the veneer sometimes. “Don't want to mess up.”
“You'll be fine.”
The crinkle of the plastic mattress, the scratch of the sheets sliding across the bed is louder now than it was before. He cuts the gentle sounds with an abrading hum that clicks off his teeth.
“Get some sleep,” he says again instead of the awful truth that buoys in his throat. Things like you don't know and I tricked you this whole time into thinking I'm a good man and look what you’ve let me do to you. “You need it.”
Another noise. In his periphery, he watches you lean back against the upright pillows, lips parted on a soft sigh. He feels—
Small, then. An oxymoron considering he has to duck his head to get in and out of the room, towering over most he meets daily. But the inadequacies gut him. Vivisect him. He should be more comforting to you, he knows. This whole thing has been difficult. Tiresome. Cut into and having the life you grew inside of you cut out—
“Did good,” he rasps, still staring down at her even as he pulls the chair as close to your bed as he can get. “With her.”
You snort. It's inelegant. Ugly. Brittle, like you're holding back tears.
When he glances up, he finds that you are. “You're strong,” he adds, and knows he should have started with this first. “Doin’ this all on your own.”
“I had help.”
It's awkward trying to adjust himself in the seat with his daughter perched in his arms, but he finds a way. Settled, then, with her still sleeping away, he lifts his hand from her back, keeping her cradled in his arm with the other, and reaches for you.
The starchy sheets catch on the bramble of hair on his knuckles, the back of his hand, and the static jolts tickle against the rough scar tissue thickened over his knuckles, some still fresh, scabbed from the latest mission he'd been deployed to. You watch him, misty-eyed and tremulous, as he draws nearer, eyes flickering like a pendulum between the bundle nestled on the thick of his arm, to him, watching you back. Greedily taking in every spasm, every blink.
Something inside of him cracks. Softens. He thinks, breathless, that you've never been as beautiful to him as you are right now. Bubbles of snot in your nose. Eyes reddened, dropping from exhaustion. A dizzying mess. The sort that speaks of tireless work, of physicality. Muted pain brimming in the backs of your eyes when you pull on your stitches.
“Got a pretty wife,” he says, and it's not enough. He knows it isn't. Looks away before the fracture lilt to his tone breaks him in two. “And—” it's hard to say. He forces himself to. “And a beautiful daughter.”
The tears stream down your face at this quiet, clumsy admission.
“Don't—” you sniffle, hoarse. “Or I'll tear my stitches.”
“M’not doin' anythin’, love.”
“Fuck you, John—”
He leans back in his chair with a hum, eyes slipping shut. A brief respite amid the panic still clinging tight to his ribcage. “Love you too.”
It's quiet. Nothing but the soft drag of each breath his daughter takes, the tremulous sniffle you give as you try to dam the tears sliding down your cheeks. His heart hammering in his ears. He commits it all to memory. Glueing it to the fibrils of mind where it'll stay, embedded in tissue, for as long as he is of sound mind.
Much like the grainy, black-and-white ultrasounds stuffed in his breast pocket. Tucked inside the drawer of his desk where he keeps the pictures of you. Keepsakes he's unnecessarily possessive over, elbowing the rowdier men who try to needle him for sparse information on the little wife he hides at home and the baby they'll never meet. Something just for him. Unshareable to the rest of the world because they don't deserve you.
The feathered snores tell him you're finally asleep, and he thinks about resting for a moment as well—the bone-deep exhaustion he feels jetting from Iceland to home, to the hospital catches up to him with a vicious kick to temples—but the weight in his arm keeps him awake. Hyperviligent.
There's this urge clawing at him, making ruins of his chest, and he answers its worried insistence by opening his eyes just a sliver to stare down at the little bundle in his arms only to find she's staring back at him. Eyes wide. Comically too big for her chubby face.
She has your complexion, but his dark curls. Her eyes, though, are the perfect equilibrium between pools of sapphire, burnt blue, marbled with the dark gleam, that vibrant shade of yours that he's so fond of, the one that's often accompanied by a smart-ass remark. Seeing it gaze up at him with such incipient adoration knocks the air from his lungs. Has his heart shuddering in the brackets of his chest.
It's love, he thinks first. Instantaneous. Apodictic. And then, cold, callous—
Chemical.
Just to hurt himself, maybe. Just to let it cut deep. Scar. Because as he stares down at her, he knows it doesn't matter. No amount of hatred, of anger, will ever rip her away from him. His daughter. His family. His.
Like her mother. The root of it all. The catalyst. The start.
Shackled to this gaping chasm that devours endlessly, never satiated. Always starving.
Needy. Full of greed.
Because even now he covets. Craves. Muses to himself about how he can convince you to have another the moment the opportunity arises and you're healed. Whole. Aching for it.
He wasn't joking when he said he wanted a football team.
But for now—
The soft sighs you make in your sleep, ones that almost sound like his name, and the comforting weight of his daughter in his arms are enough to make the beast inside purr. Preening under its own conquest, its own victory of successfully turning your body into a home he can rest his weary head on. Sacrosanct.
He looks at her, then, and feels the dread ease into pride. Into elation. An emotion he knows should have come first, but it's here now, and that's all that really matters.
“Gonna be trouble,” he grouses, watching her pink mouth gape wide, blood-red maw grinning up at him in delirious glee only babies can imbue. Unhindered by the ruination of the world around them. Unfettered.
Something he couldn't protect you from, but knows you're both on the same wavelength when it comes to her. At all costs, you'd said, hand against the burgeoning swell. And he kissed you until he couldn't feel his lips anymore. Until all he tasted, all he knew, was the taste of you.
“Of the best kind, though, mm?”
In response, she coos. And he hews the sound into his chest where it sits beside the brand of when you first said, i love you, too, John.
So, he relaxes. Whispers soft, conspiratorily. "Think you might need'a brother, mm? What'd you say about that?"
And she giggles.
Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley / female reader - 18+ brief suggestive content
"Why are we stopping here?"
Vacation was great. It was everything you needed, he needed, a perfect slice of memories now engrained in his brain, moving pictures tucked away for him to think about when he's trying to fall asleep alone on a cold, threadbare safehouse mattress.
Not to mention the hundred photos he took of you in that bikini.
But now, it comes to an end. Now, he's about to blindside you with painful, shocking reality.
He didn’t plan it like this, not really. The town is outside of the place he chose for vacation, but not close enough that it’s in a travel path. It’s far enough away from town, tucked into grassy hill, but still close enough to civilization. He’s not a monster, after all. He knows you wouldn’t appreciate being cut off from the world.
Plus, Price and his wife live a few clicks to the east.
"Simon?" He finds your hand, shutting the passenger door and leading you to the walk. “What is this?”
The words stick in his throat, and you watch him warily. “It’s… let’s just go inside.” The keys feel like an anchor in his pocket.
“What?” Your face twists in confusion. “Go inside?” You let go of his hand, and the sapphire sparkles in the sunlight. He reaches out of instinct.
“Mama-“
“Don’t ‘mama’ me… tell me what is going on.” You shirk out of his grasp.
“This is our house.” Your jaw drops.
“What?!” You shriek. “Our what?”
“Our house. I bought it, for us. F'you, and Orion.” You're standing a pace away from him now, too far for comfort, shuddering. When you clap a hand over your heart, his body goes cold. Stress. Stress can exacerbate your condition. "I need to keep you safe."
"I... I don't know what to say. You bought a house without asking me?" You're waspish, and he's too fast for you, too tactical. You're in his arms in a second, his fingers pressed to the artery below your jaw. It's too fast.
"Take a deep breath." He murmurs. "Try to calm down, everything is going to be fine."
"No!" You jerk backwards and he lets you go, bereft at the loss of your warmth against his chest. "You don't just get to blindside me with this and then think everything is going to be fine."
"I know. 'm sorry. I just... I need to keep you safe, sweetheart. You and the baby. Your flat is great but-"
"But nothing." You hiss and stomp away, before turning back, slicing through the air with an open palm. "My flat is great. It's my home! Mine and Orion's." You sniffle. "I thought it was yours too." Fuck.
"It is. It has been. But it's not safe. It's too exposed, there's no security, your windows face the street. The neighborhood is too difficult to disappear into and away from. It's too populated."
"Gaz and Cami live there." Not for long. He doesn't tell you about Gaz's long term plans, the ones that involve a house just over the hill. He doesn't think it would do him any favors right now.
"Will you just come inside and look at it, at least?" You shake your head. "It's not a bad drive to the beach. You could take Orion as much as you want. Teach him to swim. We could take as many vacations as you want, as a family. Please, give it a chance. That's all I ask." You cross your arms over your chest, but after a minute, nod.
"Fine."
The house is a blank slate. He didn't have time to get anything done, but he tries to pitch it as a selling point. "You'd be able to do whatever you want." You raise an eyebrow.
"Like paint the kitchen pink?" He swallows.
"Sure." You're trying to test him, punish him, but he's not upset. He can already tell you're starting to entertain it all. The house is triple the size of your flat, with three bedrooms, a sizable kitchen, even a garden.
He follows you around, your finger trailing over the walls, window sills, trying to hold his tongue, allowing you space to work through it in your mind. "What if I have to go into the office?"
"You said you never go into the office. You're completely remote." You glare.
"And how are you going to get here? It's so far from your base."
"There's a small airport to the east. We'll get in and out that way. It will be quick."
"We?" Shit.
"Ah, Price and his wife live, kind of close by." You blink, and then laugh out loud.
"You've got to be kidding me. Is this your plan? Some sort of weird commune for special task force wives?" It's the first time you've said, called yourself his wife, and his cock swells beneath the zipper on his jeans, possessive instinct flowing freely. "Don't."
"Don't what."
"I know that look." Still, you don't move as he stalks closer, close enough you're backed up against the windowsill in the master bedroom.
"What look mama?"
"The caveman look you get. Me husband, you wife." You try to imitate his accent, and he chuckles.
"I love you." You roll your eyes.
"I'm pissed at you." There's fire in you, one that burns too bright to be quelled by most, but he's made it is business to know you so well, he can tell when there's something simmering beneath the surface.
"But you like it." Your skin is satin soft, and he strokes your cheek.
"I do. I'm really mad, but I do like it. You... you did a good job."
"Gonna forgive me?"
"Depends." You smirk. "Are you going to earn it?" He presses himself to the inside of your thigh.
"How can I do that?"
"Want to christen our new bedroom?"
something about ghost who sees you talking to another man and decides you don’t know how to behave, you’ve forgotten who you belong to, why are you letting another man encroach on ghost’s territory? so he buys you a collar. because if you’re going to act like an ungrateful mutt, he’s going to treat you like one. when he presents you with the thick leather item you laugh, a little bewildered. but he doesn’t laugh with you, and your bewilderment quickly turns to unease.
you’re joking, right? you ask nervously.
when i’m tellin’ a joke, you’ll know it, pet. now c’mere.
it’s just a little bit too tight, and the edges rub uncomfortably under your jaw and over your collarbone. ghost puts you on your knees and makes you hold his cock in your warm, waiting mouth the first time he catches you wiggling your fingers underneath the collar to try and give your raw skin some relief.
Staring problem
meaner than a junkyard dog
cw: dubcon, ghost being a creep, vague allusions to murder (maybe?)
simon who owns the local junkyard, always wearing a wifebeater and covered in grease, known as just about the meanest bastard you'll ever meet. he makes even the roughest guys at the dive bar in town shuffle uncomfortably when he shows up. takes a seat in the corner where a glass of whisky materializes in front of him, lights a cigarette, and glares. smoking inside was outlawed 27 years ago but nobody's going to tell him to put it out.
you manage to slip through the rusted chain-link gate on one of the rare days the junkyard is open for business - you don't want to be here, sun beating down relentlessly, gleaming on acres of exposed metal husks, but you're desperate. you need a part for your shitbox of a car and can't afford a real mechanic. one of the waitresses at work has a brother who is willing to do the work for cheap, if you can get your hands on the right part.
when you sheepishly approach simon where he stands on the back porch of his home/office (a beat down doublewide that's more rust than anything else), cigarette dangling between his scarred lips, he almost can't believe his luck. he's had plenty of things wander their way into his yard (there's a bone pile out back to prove it) but never anything as cute as you. flimsy tanktop and cutoff shorts, big doe eyes, paper clutched between perfectly manicured little fingers.
and when you stammer out your request, asking if he could just point you in the right direction, of course he offers to be your guide. it's easy to get lost out there, after all. he'd hate for you to spend all day wandering in this heat. and if there's a malicious glint in his eyes, you miss it, oblivious little thing. too focused on your task.
get in, get the part, get out.
so what if his hand brushes your ass a few times on the way there? you're certainly not going to say anything. no different than putting up with the creepy customers at work for a good tip, you tell yourself. this is important, you need your car. if you have to let the guy from the junkyard feel you up a little bit, so be it. you'll live.
(give an inch, take a mile, or however the saying goes.)
that's how you'd ended up bent over the hood of the car you were looking for, shorts and underwear tugged aside just enough for three thick fingers stuffed in your cunt down to the second knuckle. metal searing into your skin through the barely-there fabric of your tanktop.
you're perfectly pliant after that, easy to maneuver inside. bent over the table. flat on your back on the floor. face down in his bed.
when you wake up alone the next morning to the faint smell of dust and stale cigarettes his spend is still drying between your thighs. you turn over with some effort, sore all over, and spot something on the nightstand. your part.
it's a shame when, a month later, something else goes wrong with your car. and again a few weeks after that.
(so maybe simon is sabotaging your car, now. making sure you keep slinking back, tail between your legs. he has to make sure you keep coming back to him somehow. and if you'll get on your knees, or your back, for a few parts, he wonders, briefly, what you'd do for a whole car.)
Steve Huston, 'Ghost Boxers'. 2010.
Price, glancing out the window: “What’s wrong with Soap?”
Gaz: “Homesick.”
Ghost: “Dramatic.”
Soap on the windswept balcony, muttering under his breath: “No money, no family. Sixteen in the middle of Miami.”
If you have Spotify reblog this and tag what your number one song on your “on repeat” playlist is.
Simon "Ghost" Riley that likes to be pampered, to be taken care of and let me tell you, he's just so not used to it. He's never had anyone to really treat him anything close to good.
In all honesty, he genuinely thought it was fine, being alone. He's a solitary creature, as life taught him to be, and deep down he convinced himself it was best. It didn't matter if there was a small, minuscule, pained tug at his heart every time he thought about it.
What he didn't expect was to be whipped immediately, one glance into your eyes and he was a goner. It went against his reasoning, this instinct of his to have you, battling everything he's been trying to avoid at all costs. But that one glance, that small smile you gave him, and he just knew. And months of tedious yet slow opening up and trying not only for you, but for himself, Simon was yours somehow. Baffling as it was, he now had someone to go home to. A sweet angel that in no time he plans to up and move into that bare house he has and take care of. Only thing is, the man did not expect to be taken care of himself, as if he forgot that was an option.
The first few times you two dated, officially, as he had to clarify this wasn't what kids these days mean by "hanging out" or "talking to" or whatever the fuck Johnny and Kyle were babbling to him about their dating lives (it's dating or not, Simon likes things clear), the man was surprised by how sweet yet determined you were. "Can I hold your hand?" You asked him a little flustered, and this big boy almost stuttered. He found himself nodding while gulping before taking your hand in his, internally beating himself up for acting like such a... boy? Having a silly crush on a lovely sweetheart that made him nervous by just exiting around him.
God, it felt fantastic when he finally got to kiss you. Simon thought it was gonna be just a kiss, big fucking deal (he was trying to cope, his hands were sweaty but whatever, big deal), but the way you sighed and melted into him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck made him shudder. It ignited something in him and his heart tugged again, this time not painful but hopeful.
It was the way you touched his scarred face that really astonished him, especially the first night you spent in his house. Whatever movie you babbled about the last date, vampires or whatever, was now playing on his flat screen on the new profile he created for you on whatever screaming service Simon just bought just to watch it. Another tiny bit of you in his life, it seemed. Movie was fucking awful, truly, fucking dumb teenagers and vampires, but whatever, your boyfriend (bloody fucking hell it felt fantastic and scary to think that he's now yours officially) was determined to watch it even if he snorted and made fun of it every three seconds, yet having you giggle by his side made his cold heart warm up as it beat a thousand times per second. Once again, he found himself about to mock something jokingly when he turned to you, finding your beautiful eyes already on him, expression warm and relaxed.
"Come here." At that moment, Simon Riley realized he'd follow anything you'd order him, as his body moved without any thoughts, just closer to you. Like a stray dog that's learning what a home is, something he's never really had, and when your lips touched his cheek while caressing the other, the world slowed down.
Having you move closer to him, placing a leg over his, smiling at him sweetly while gently kissing the scar near his lower lip, all he could do was stare dumbly as his face felt on fire. Little did he know that his pale cheeks reddened so adorably that you started to giggle. God, he fucking loved that sound.
"Lay on me, c'mon." You ordered gently again, grabbing his calloused hands to tug him onto you as you laid down on your back. Simon knew he looked like an idiot in awe, very much aware he's always had a staring problem. But as he crawled gently over you, expecting you to push him off after abruptly changing your mind, all he could do was to look down into your cleavage and stare like a muppet. " 'S aight?" Being all he asked before hearing a nice hum, approval for him to lay on you.
That day, Simon learned what heaven is. Your fingers into his hair, slowly, gently playing with his dirty blond locks, his face in your soft tits, your voice oh-so clear as he pressed his ear into your torso, the slow rumble almost putting him to sleep while his eyes were focused on the silly movie. His arms were wrapped around you while he just laid down between your legs. His dumb jokes still delivered as he muffled them out lazily, getting you to laugh and make him smirk as you(r tits) jiggled under him, and his reward, because you're a fucking angel, of course, was a sweet kiss on his temple every single time. The man could be turning into a clown by the end of the night as long as you kissed him so tenderly.
You spoiled him too. How dare you, really? Bringing him sweets, asking him what he wants to eat, adjusting your schedule to fit his (man's off duty, he can camp outside your house and come in whenever you want him to, if you'd be willing, like a good obedient dog), just making him feel wanted. It was odd. And new. And addicting.
You cared. You cared for him. And in his wonky yet honest way, he cared too. Always making sure that you know he's somehow thinking of you. He wanted to try. He wanted to make sure you'll stick around. The military has taught this man a lot of things, and apart from his head-strong conviction that he indeed can do anything if he puts his mind to it, another was how to not fuck up something good, all through the hundreds of stories from many other soldiers about failed relationships. He knows all the perspectives, all the failures, all the erros and all the aftermaths, so he learned to listen and not blame, to pay attention, to be there even if he was half a world away. Simon is determined to keep you around, coming back to you battered, wounded, traumatized, exhausted, and is greeted with his angel, all ready to pick him up, wrap him in a warm blanket and fuss over his ass. He'd roll his eyes at you, but his emerging smile said it all.
His heart now tugs when he's about to pick his luggage, a duffle bag filled with essentials and nothing more. A week earlier than expected too, relief washing over his body like never before, knowing you're at home waiting for good news. And he's heading that way too, determined, unrelenting, head first, no thoughts. He's going home to you.
Home to warm, delicious food, instead of stale and plain. Home to sweet laughter and love, instead of orders barked and indifference. Home to his, your comfortable bed, arms and legs wrapped around each other, the plump delicious curves of your body pressed against his hardened one. Home to gentle, home to calm, home to soft, home to himself, home to everything. Home to his heart, that is tugging him closer and closer, where he left it with you.
I'm just gonna dump this here and leave. Not proofread because we're old and lazy here.
Simon "the most badass loser to ever exist" Riley