Reblog To Tie Up The Person You Reblogged This From In The Forest During A Full Moon For A Werewolf Pack

if you can’t eat hairy pussy ur a coward & that’s on u

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I’m reaching out to ask for your help in sharing my family’s story. 🙏🏼

Could you please reblog my pinned post or contribute $10 to help us rebuild our lives and secure the care my baby, Adam, urgently needs?

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..

werewolf partner that takes delight in trying to pull their knot out before it’s deflated just so that you feel how massive it is

predator animal falling in love with prey animal. You really love to see it.

My first post so i’m so sorry if it sucks :(

Basically the gist of this is that I’ve been collecting imagines in my drafts of Roomate!Simon Riley x F!Reader and all of a sudden this actual full blown fic happened. So yeah, welcome to Roomate!Simon Riley taking your virginity.

Warnings: Minor DNI 18+, Oral F!Receiving, Fingering, Unprotected P in V (wrap it before you tap it folks), Size kink if you put on glasses and squint, an over usage of the word baby, attagirl, etc. (i like pet names), possibly dirty talking i dunno, no use of Y/N, tried super hard not to describe what exactly you were wearing or looked like so, um talk of shitty guys, virginity taking (obvi), mentions of overstimulation but it’s not a big part or nothin, I don’t know what else but if I’m missing something I apologize!

P.S. this was supposed to be dirtier but i don’t know what happened. Simon just became a whore for your pussy.

Word count: 4k and some change

Roommate!Simon Riley who finally gets to fuck you

He knew you were a virgin, you’d told him in a game of truth or dare during a particularly bad storm. The power was out, you’d had some wine, it wasn’t like he’d care anyway, but he did. He thought about it every night when he was alone, hand wrapped around his aching cock as he fantasized milking you dry.

And now, here you were, splayed out in front of him.

It was accidental. You’d just gone on your fifth absolutely atrocious date of the month and walked into the apartment practically sobbing. Ghost pried and pried until you told him what had happened.

“He kept feeding me alcohol and I didn’t care cause I just wanted to fucking do something, anything.”

He’d furrowed his brows, hanging your jacket on its hooks. “What do you mean, do something?”

“I’m so tired of being the only fucking girl that’s a virgin. It’s humiliating. The second a guy finds out they just fucking drop me like some bitch ass pussy.” You always had a potty mouth when you were angry. He normally found it funny, cute even, but all it did right then was make his heart clench. “And of course he was getting me tipsy so it slipped out and he literally said ‘fuck, why’d you have to say that,’ then told me to ‘please get out of his car.’ He said he didn’t want that to be on his conscience, that it wasn’t his responsibility. Like how is that even fair to me?”

He tried to open his mouth to console you, to try and make things better, but his dick was getting harder by the minute and you just kept rambling.

“All I want is for someone to want me. To want to touch me and for just a minute I wanna feel something, I wanna feel good.” You were too worked up to feel embarrassed, but the shame was there, rearing its ugly head and leaving you a weeping mess.

“I’m sorry, I-you don’t need to know this.” Little did you know he was standing there with the world’s biggest boner. He tried to be chivalrous, took your purse and sat it on the table and grabbed you an ice-cold bottle of water, he let you cry and rant while the whole time all he could think about was fucking that virgin cunt senseless until you were writhing on the bed screaming his name.

“Maybe it’s my fault ya know,” He froze at that, snapping back to reality. “I mean I’m the one who decided to keep myself pure or whatever the fuck you wanna call it. Maybe I’m too needy now or too desperate. Maybe I need to just give up and back off and accept the fact that I’m forever and always going to be-” He couldn’t stand it anymore. In three quick steps he was rounding the table and by your side, grasping your face and placing hungry lips against your own.

He pulled you flush against him, taking satisfaction in the way you yelped at the feeling of his bulge against your lower stomach. He kissed you fervently, tongue absolutely stealing the breath from your lungs and leaving your body limp. It was like a starving man having his first meal. His grip on your hip was rough as he squeezed the skin, no doubt leaving marks, while his other hand was behind your head, holding you close to him until he was satisfied.

Eventually, when you were shoving your hands against his chest, he pulled back, gasping into your mouth. His forehead laid against yours, eyes closing as he heaved in greedy gulps of air.

“Stop. fucking. talking.” The next kiss was soft, thumb rubbing circles where the bruises would form. “ ‘m gonna take care of you okay,” Another soft kiss. “Gonna give you exactly what you need, yeah?

The air is knocked out of your lungs and all you can do is nod. He bites your bottom lip at your lack of noise, hand moving down to paw at your ass. “Use your fucking words.”

“Yeah-yes.”

“Attagirl.” Both hands were on your thighs now, tugging you up and forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He’s kissing you again, moving swiftly down the hall to his room. You’re not as quick as him, inexperienced lips moving slower around his mouth, and your trembling hands grasping at his neck and jawline.

He practically kicks the door down, slamming it shut with his foot before laying you down softly against the bed. “Gonna take these off,”

Another nod, heat pooling in your stomach at the deep, desperate rasp in his voice. He works quick, and by the time your bottoms are off, the nerves begin to kick in. Your breathing grows uneven when he reaches for your underwear.

“Anybody ever touched your pussy before, baby?” He knew you were a virgin, but that didn’t mean you hadn’t played around before.

“Just-just me.” He can feel the precum dripping from his throbbing cock.

“Fuck don’t say that to me.” He closes his eyes, groaning as he hooks his fingers into the waistline of your panties and pulling them off your body. He doesn’t throw them down with your pants, instead he sticks them in his back pocket, fingers rubbing the cotton back and forth at the feeling of the slick coating their inside. He starts kissing up your legs, hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide as his warm lips leave open-mouthed kisses against the inner part of your knees.

You’re not breathing at this point, instead just gripping the sheets in silent anticipation. You thought you’d be more excited, but instead there’s just anxiety and insecurity coating every part of your body.

He can feel the tension in your thighs, can feel it even more as he runs his hands up to your stomach, kneading the soft skin of your belly. “Relax sweet’art, got nothing to be scared of.”

His lips are now just above your pussy, tongue swooping down to run across your clit. You’d touched yourself before, you knew what it felt like, but this was different, very very different.

He groans at your soft whimper, moving down toward your wet slit and beginning to kiss there too.

“Fuck can you just-just do it.” You’re rubbing your hands down your face at this point, trying to fight away the roaming thoughts as the warmth of his tongue teases your pussy lips.

“Gotta take my time, get you opened up.”

“But-”

He looks up, eyes soft and filled with understanding. “Jus’ trust me.” He squeezes your skin for emphasis, smiling that familiar smile and easing some of the stress in your gut. You’re now able to recognize the intense heat pooling there.

Once his tongue finally starts moving inside and his nose begins bumping your clit, your head falls back on the bed, quiet mewls coming from your trembling lips.

He didn’t like that you were so quiet, no, he wanted to hear you fucking sing.

“C’mon baby, tell me what you need. Lemme help.” You wanted to, but the problem was, you yourself had no idea what it was that you needed him to do.

“I don’t know-I just-I don’t know.”

He kept lapping anyway, moving up to sucking your clit. That pulled a sound from you, one he’d never heard before. He loved it.

“B-better, that’s better.”

Your fingers were grasping onto whatever they could find, the pillow, the sheets, your own top, but you still weren’t where he wanted you to be.

“Breathe,” He mumbles the words against your core, leaving you shivering. “You ever had your fingers inside you?”

You’d tried once or twice, but it never felt right, just too uncomfortable and too hard to try more than a few minutes. “Yes.” The weight of your honesty lays heavy on your shoulders. “I didn’t like it.”

He was lazily kissing your clit, leaving strained whines coming from your throat. “Gimme your hands.” You obeyed immediately, letting him take your fingers and guide them to his hair. “I’m gonna try, if you don’t like it, you tell me and I’ll stop right then.”

“Okay,” Your voice is weak, nerves making your body feel on fire. You awaited the uncomfortable intrusion, but instead just felt his mouth again. Felt his lips wrapping around your clit, felt his tongue gathering your slick and spreading it wherever he pleased. It made you forget, only for a moment, made your body relax and fingers go lax on his scalp.

He took that opportunity to put a finger in. His were so much bigger and wider than yours, and that once uncomfortable feeling now kind of hurt.

You couldn’t help but hiss, fingernails scratching at his scalp, but you didn’t tell him to stop, and so he didn’t. He kept scissoring you, until eventually the feeling of his finger was more pleasurable than anything. He could sense the relaxation in the walls of your pussy and in turn added another. This time you let out a moan, hips now grinding up to try and get more from him.

“Attagirl,” He whispered softly, curling his fingers in this spot you’d never even known existed.

Now you were fucking singing.

He moaned in response, who wouldn’t want this right in front of them?

“S-Simon.” You’re saying his name, pleading whines coming from your lips. There was a tightening in your belly you’d only felt a few times before, almost like this coil that could snap at any given moment.

He was a feral man now. Fingers squelching in and out of your wet folds, tongue going down on your clit like it was a fucking ice cream cone. Round and around in circles, sucking, biting, kissing, the mixture of that and the movement of his fingers had you writhing, cunt making movie-style noises as your orgasm grew closer and closer.

He could feel your walls start to flutter around him and knew you were almost there. Just a little more.

“Fuck fuckkk Simon,” He’d added a third finger, doing what you thought was filling you to the brim. You tugged, hard, on his hair, pushing his face down as far into your pussy as it could go.

Suddenly that coil snapped, and you let out a to-loud moan, chanting his name like a mantra in between shallow breaths.

“Simon.” Your voice was high pitched and needy, whimpers coming loose as your body shivered with overstimulation.

Simon, Simon, Simon, Simon. He could cum in his pants at the simple sound of your voice.

“Please oh god please, st-” He pulled away immediately, licking up every drop of release you’d given him and letting it rest on his lips. You didn’t have to tell him twice, if you were done then he could be done too, despite how badly he wanted to keep his mouth on your pussy for the rest of his life. The sounds you made, the way you smelled, his dick twitched in response.

“Did so fucking good for me. Sweetest pussy I ever tasted.” He kissed his way up your body, loving the aftershocks that shook your limbs.

He pushed up your shirt with his nose, slipping deft fingers beneath the top and slipping it over your head.

“C’mon, come back to me now.” He was kissing your lips softly, rubbing the sides of your waist to draw you back to reality.

“M’here.”

“Yeah baby, there we go.” He was caressing your skin, drawing you back to his face, his body, back to every part of his being that you felt you were truly seeing for the first time.

“You’re beautiful,” Your voice was a soft whisper as you reached your fingers up to trace his face.

He couldn’t help but to smile, seeing you like this, eyes lidded and face flushed with the post-orgasm glaze, it made him want to fuck you over and over for the rest of his life, but with it there was also a dull ache inside to think that maybe you’d let somebody else see you this way.

“I’m glad it’s you,” Your words make him choke on his breath, the thoughts reeling in his brain pausing for a split second. “I wouldn’t-It couldn’t have been anyone else. Only you.”

Ghost blinked slowly, turning your speech in circles over and over until it made him nauseous. “Glad I can be of assistance.”

“No, no Simon, it's more than that. I only want it to be you.” His lips turned to meet the palm of your hand as he peppered kisses down your wrist, eventually coming back around to touch your lips. He shoves his nose against yours, one hand moving to grab ahold of your face.

“Always gonna be me.” A small kiss as his free hand fumbles for his belt. “‘M always gonna take care of you, always gonna look out for ya.” He was kicking his jeans off now, bulge more prominent within the tight strain of his boxers. “Nobody’s ever gonna touch you again, nobody but me.”

You nod, squeezing his neck softly as you bring his head down to meet yours. “I love you,” The words have been said a million times before. After his deployments, a long day, in between stirring dinner on the stove. You’d both been saying it all along, but no one was brave enough to admit that it was more than surface level, more than just three words in the dictionary.

He found his tongue heavy, brain completely empty as he watched your every move. “Yeah love,” Finally he could speak, he could speak as his fingers unhooked your bra. He could speak as he wanted to see every single part of you, wanted to see you bare and vulnerable in front of him, and then he wanted to hold you like that until you felt like nothing would ever hurt you again. “I love you too.”

You slammed your lips into his as he removed his boxers, his cock standing strong and proud, the red tip leaking precum.

The nerves were back, stomach and pussy tensing at the mere thought of him trying to put it inside you. You didn’t know what the average penis looked like, but his looked fucking big.

Simon could sense the anxiety, could see it as your eyes grew wide and as your forehead creased with worry. “Relax, breathe.” He lifted your legs to rest against his hips, one hand beginning to line up his cock between your folds.

“Simon,”

“If you want to stop, we’ll stop, I promise.”

“No, I-no.”

He kissed you softly, dropping his length to grab your hand and place it against his bicep. “You hold that and you don’t let go. You can squeeze, claw, bite, whatever you need to do, you got it?”

“Yeah,” It was a whimper, a whisper in the wind.

“Look at me alright, keep those pretty eyes on me.” He started to push in, slowly, but the stretch of just his tip already had you crying, eyebrows pinched up and body so tense it felt like you could be snapped in half.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, you gotta-you gotta relax baby, just-nngh-just breathe.” His eyes were shut too, the feeling of your tight fucking pussy and nails clawing at his arms like he was a scratching post had him so worked up he swore he wouldn’t even last a minute.

“You can keep going, just keep going please.” Your voice was trembling, eyes pouring out tears as he pushed in a little further. He was barely halfway inside and already his orgasm was right there in front of him.

“Ta-mm-Talk to me baby. Tell me about-tell me about your favorite song.”

You laughed slightly, the sting starting to make way for pleasure. “You know my favorite song.” Each word was strained, but it was there, and you were pushing through.

“Okay then-fuck baby I can’t-you’re so fucking tight, you gotta ease up. Squeezing me so hard I’m gonna bust like a fucking twelve year old in a sock.”

The moment you giggled he sheathed himself in fully, laying his forehead against yours when you let out a pained cry. “I know, I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He was peppering your face with kisses, trying not to moan as loud as fucking possible. He hated that you were in so much pain, hated that he could feel cool liquid between your thighs that was anything but arousal.

“It’s alright, you’re alright, it’s gonna get better, just try to -mm-” He whimpered unintentionally, and it sent something ablaze inside your stomach.

It took a moment, but, eventually, it stopped hurting so badly, and you were able to open your eyes, removing your nails from his arm only to leave deep indents that had even drawn blood. “There ya go, fuck yeah baby, there ya go.”

“You can-ah-you can move.” He was frantically rubbing your skin with his hands, kissing everywhere his mouth would reach.

“You sure, love are you sure?” He was a writhing mess on top of you, legs trembling along with his arm as he tried to hold himself up. You just felt so good, so warm.

“Y-yeah. Please.” The first thrust was excruciating, leaving you groaning against his lips, but the next one was better, and then better and better and better.

Now you were moaning, singing like the songbird he knew you were. “Fuck yeah baby-jus’ like that, keeping squeezing me like that.”

His voice, so high-pitched and needy, unlike anything you’d ever heard him say. It had you practically yelling with pleasure. He was moving too slowly, it was agonizing the way you were feeling.

“More Si-I need more, please.” He whimpered at your words, hooking his arms underneath your knees and pushing them up to your chest. He started pounding into you, hitting this sweet spot over and over again.

“Oh my god Simonnn, Simon, Simon,” There it was again.

“Ohhhh baby oh baby keep singing, fuck, keeping singing songbird.”

He swore he’d never had pussy this good in his life, and it was his, all his. No woman had ever made him whine like a needy teenager, never made him beg for release because of how badly he just wanted to fill you to the brim with his fucking cum.

“‘M close, I’m so close fuck,” He couldn’t help how fast his orgasm built up. You just took him so well, so warm and soft.

You were getting there, that coil coming back more intensely than last time, but you knew he wouldn’t last that long. “Go ahead Simon-you can-you can cum honey. Please, please cum inside me.”

With a grunt he stopped, absolutely losing his shit inside of you as he shook with the force of his orgasm, moaning so loudly into your ear it made them ring. He was getting after shocks himself, twitching on top of you as it hit him full force.

“Oh god oh god oh god,” He was chanting your name now. The sound made you whine as you laid there, cold and throbbing with need. When he caught his breath, he sat up, kissing your lips tenderly.

“C’mere.” With a whimper he turned over onto his back, leaving your walls wrapped around him.

“Fucking use me baby, do what you need, I got you.” You’d never ridden anything before, had not a single idea how to even begin, but he grabbed your hips, guiding you up and down.

“Set your own pace, do what feels good.” You nodded, closing your eyes as you bounced up and down, rolling your hips forward which drew a porn-worthy moan from your chest.

Ghost threw his head back, thumb fumbling to rub your clit. “Attagirl, you fucking ride my dick baby.” Every time he spoke to you, you could feel your pussy clench, and it’d clench tight. You knew this because every time it did, Ghost would whimper so loudly you swore he was a wounded puppy.

You’d never heard noises like this, never heard of another man being so obsessed with a pussy like this. He wouldn’t stop talking about it, mumbling beneath his breath as you continued to ride him.

You finally found a solid rhythm, and when Ghost began putting pressure on your puffy clit you swore you saw stars.

“Fuck Simon, oh fuck I’m so close,”

“Yeah I know I know, just let it go baby, let it happen.” One more roll of your hips and you were falling forward, clenching around him so tightly he came again. You were both moaning, loudly, bodies trembling against each other as you came down from your highs.

It took you longer, mind fuzzy as you grew more and more sensitive by the second. Ghost noticed the difference in your sounds and pulled out, lifting your hips and laying them back down against his pelvis.

His hands started rubbing up and down your back, soothing the vibrating skin. He was planting kisses all over your face, nuzzling his nose into your hair.

“Did so good for me, so so good.”

You couldn’t help but smile, fingers moving to prod at the fingernail indents on his arm. “‘M sorry.”

“Nah, don’t ever fucking apologize for that.” You closed your eyes as his gruff, burly tone came out of hiding, the deep baritone sending shivers down your spine.

“Is that-was I-” You could feel your brain whirring with a million thoughts, and even though you knew none of them were true, you couldn’t help but feel a pit forming in your stomach anyway.

“What?” His tone was tender, one hand moving up to caress your cheeks.

A part of you wanted to spill every thought you were thinking, let him know every doubt and every worry, but the other part of you wanted to keep this sacred, to keep it this beautiful fever dream that could never be tainted.

“C’mon love, talk to me.”

You heaved in a deep breath, angling your head to look up at him. He met your eyes immediately, holding your face to stay staring at him.

“Was that okay?” You watched as confusion etched into his features.

“I don’t know what you mean baby.”

“Was I-ugh-I’ve never done this before okay I don’t-I didn’t even suck your dick.”

Now he was really confused. “This isn’t about me, this was about taking care of you.”

“Yeah but every time-”

“If you’re gonna say some stupid shit about another guy I’m gonna lose my mind alright. Are you seriously sitting here right now and telling me that you’ve been sucking dick and not once have they got you off?”

You shrug, shame flushing your cheeks and making you turn away, but his grip was strong, keeping you facing him.

“Sweet’art you were fucking perfect. Did you not hear me?”

A shy smile tries to sneak through. “I did but-”

“Nobody’s ever made me feel that way, nobody.”

You let out a sigh, laying back down into his warm skin. “I just don’t want you to get bored Simon.”

The belly laugh that escaped was nothing like you’d ever heard from him before. It shook your body, the loud, deep rumble of a snicker echoing off the walls.

“Bloody fucking hell, I’ve lived with you for four years, if I was bored love, I’d be long fucking gone.” He grunted when you slapped him on the chest, holding his hands up in surrender.

“No need to be sassy Riley.”

“ ‘M sorry, ‘m sorry,” He was showering you with kisses again, fingers trying to tickle your sides.

“Ow ow, no no no, I’m to sore, Simon fucking Riley!” He was chuckling again, rolling you over so you were on your back once more.

He wanted to slot himself inside you again, feel your warmth resting around his cock, but he opted instead to just hold you, to listen to what you had to say rather than combat it with sex.

“Listen here Riley. I’m being serious, okay.”

“ ‘m all ears baby.”

There was a fuzzy feeling in your stomach but you pushed it aside, trying to form the courage to draw out your words. “This was amazing, and I’d do it over and over again, but I can’t-if you don’t wanna be with me I need to know. I can’t do the friends with benefits thing okay, it’s not-I don’t have that in me.”

You opened you mouth to speak, and he could see the downward spiral lighting a fire inside your eyes.

“Listen to me and listen to me good. I have spent the last four years thinking about spending the next four years with you. I wake up and I think about you, I go to bed and I think about you. I dream about you, everyone at work fucking hates me cause all I do is talk about you. You’re everything I have. I fucking love you, more than anything on this Earth I love you. You hearin’ me?” His words were firm, tucking themselves inside your heart and making their own home there.

It was all you’d ever wanted to hear from him, all you ever needed.

You took a moment to analyze his features, the scrunch of his eyebrows, the softness laid in his eyes, he was everything. With a shake of your head, you kissed him ever so softly. “Yeah, I hear you.”

He broke out into a wide smile, lips landing on yours tenderly. It wasn’t a feverish need this time, just one person melding with the other until you felt whole again, complete.

He stopped only to breathe, pushing a sweaty strand of hair out of your eyes. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” You agreed, blinking lidded eyes as he stood up and lifted your weak body from the bed.

“Not a thing I wouldn’t do for you, you know that right?”

“Yeah Riley,” You touched his scruff, four years worth of evidence to his words flashing through your mind. “I know.”

Its a great day to be a puppy boy, didn't realise how much we're sought-after 😫🔥

Gahhh, I LOVE PUPPY BOYS!!! GAHHH

You're all so fucking cute, I am grabbing you and leashing you and then slamming cock into every hole you have.

Gahhh, I need to put my gock in a puppy boys cunt right nowww, gahhh. They are infecting my mind

genuinely fucked up that if i want to interact with someone online i have to say words and have a conversation instead of just mashing my face against them like a cat

God damn this was 1000% better than I expected! Great job as usual ♥️

attached | ghost x f!reader

i have no idea what it is that binds us together. but it doesn't really matter.

type: one-shot (8.4k)

cw: zombie apocalypse au, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, dark!reader, reader described as curvy/plus-sized + has hair long enough to braid, graphic depictions of violence + murder + gore, depictions of suicidal thoughts + intentions (no actual action), mentions of depression + sadness + loneliness, depictions of assault + harassment (not by ghost), horror movie vibes, unprotected piv, allusions to baby trapping, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), 18+

Death can be a curious thing. It used to be something definitive. Exact. It used to mean the end of something.

No, now it's a beginning. Not a sweet beginning, but a beginning nonetheless. It turns a new tide. Reactivates cells that were once dead. Sparks nerves that used to be dormant, that used to be dark. It makes muscles move even when they aren't supposed to. Brain-dead, but still hungry.

He hasn't been able to understand the phenomenon quite yet. He's tried. He's picked up a few books and tried to do his own research, but it's difficult when there is no way for him to view the cellular structure of it all on a micro-level. He cannot see the way it grows or how it takes over. He hasn't been able to figure out what techniques it uses to keep a body awake even when the central organs no longer function the way they're supposed to. What keeps it moving? What keeps the feet running and the stomach hungry and the saliva warm?

Why is it that when he plunges his blade through its heart, it still kicks? The brain is its engine, as with his own body, but this is different. The brain runs even when it has lost its necessary components. Blood circulation, oxygen, the things it needs to thrive; but this state of being is not like his own. It doesn't need the same things it used to need because its purpose is not to keep a body running. Its purpose is to eat. To infect. And that is all.

He likes to play games these days. He has a lucky silver euro, one he pried off the dead body of someone that he hated. He spit on that body before raiding his pockets. He hated that fucking brute; he disgraced the style of wearing a mask by using a fucking t-shirt instead. Perhaps Austria is a beautiful country, but it certainly produced one of the most unlikable of men. He thinks even if the world was still right-side up, he would've killed him anyway. The only thing useful about him was that he was carrying a few extra magazines and this coin in his front pocket.

Every morning, when he wakes up, he makes whatever will happen that day a game. If the coin lands on heads, he gets to kill himself today. If it lands on tails, he has to endure 24 more hours before he can play again. The rules are simple. The game is easy. Everyone knows how to play it, but not everyone will like to win it.

Today, he decides to do something different. Today, he decides if he wins, he will wait another day. He has never won this game; he decides if he can't win it, he'll manipulate it until he gets what he wants.

It hits the table with a light clink. It rattles around in a few circles before settling, and when he leans back in his chair, he sighs. He knows what it will be even without looking, but he looks anyway. When he sees the carved outline of its face-side up, his eyes flash. He won.

He never wins.

Something is keeping him here. He chooses not to ask questions. There isn't anyone to ask anyways. No one answers when he speaks. He doesn't think there is anyone left to listen.

If someone would ask him why he doesn't just put the muzzle to his temple and pull the trigger, he would just say that it was because that was how the game is played. Those are the rules. He can't try unless that's what it tells him to do. There is no fun in cheating the game; it wouldn't be proper, it wouldn't be correct. It would be grounds for disqualification, and that just wouldn't do, not for him.

He has to do things the right way. Always. It's how you keep order in a world that has none left. It's how you maintain structure even without the lines drawn in the sand. This is the way things are done; God is not waiting at the end of a very long staircase, He is rattling that coin on the table and waiting for Ghost to take a peek.

He thinks it keeps landing on tails because perhaps God is tired of playing this game with him; Ghost has never been surprised. He will always be ready for disappointment. Giving a gift is no fun when the recipient simply receives it.

It landed on heads today. He won the game. He tried to play it differently, but someone won't let him.

There's snow on the ground this morning. It snowed all night, coating the ground in a few inches of powdery ice. He looks away from the window and back towards the mirror, continue to run the razor over his head. His blonde hair falls in clumps in the sink. He keeps it neat and short, close to the head, and then he does the same with his face. He cuts the stubble close, keeping his face clean, but it doesn't wipe away the rest of his face, the things he can't just cut away. The scars, the ridges, the skin that closed over wounds angry and white and uneven. He can see his teeth through the broken skin above his lip, the yellowing of them now that he only brushes them a few times a week with his lack of proper toothpaste, and he grimaces when he sees the new red spots of raised skin left behind from the dirty mask he wears now. He dips his toothbrush into his bottle of water before brushing, careful to scrub his gums properly before spitting into the sink.

When he finishes, he makes his way back into the bedroom to get dressed. He did the washing yesterday; he found a creek only half frozen over, and he made use of the bar soap he keeps and managed to clean off most of his clothes. He feels a little better slipping into his cargos now that they aren't drenched in sweat or dirt. He tucks a long-sleeve into his pants before putting a thick windbreaker on over it, but he finally feels complete once he slips his mask on over his face. In the mirror, he adjusts it, making the skull straight, and he blinks back at himself. The mask does more than just hide him from the dead.

It keeps the living walking a careful circle around him, and he wants to keep it that way. He hasn't spoken to a single person since it began. He stopped counting the days once his boots ran out of space for notches. Anyone he sees now, he scares them off with one look, or he puts them down before they can take a step closer to finding out if he's real or not.

He doesn't take chances. He has always had a special skill, being able to sniff out the bullshit before it begins. He leans into it now, and it isn't a bullet wasted if it stops the chaos before it can wind up.

He still wears his tactical gear. He can't part with it. His holsters have not failed him, still buckled around his thighs. His vest is still strapped on, and without it, he feels naked. He has long since discarded of the Union Jack patch on his chest; there is no king nor country anymore. They are colors in different shapes, and they mean nothing now; they were buried a long time ago.

His backpack feels light. He's running out of bullets, and he doesn't like how it feels. Nowadays, he has to go further and further to get what he needs, and recently, he's taken to picking up everything and simply moving to make the trips all the easier with no home to go back to.

It's not all that different to the life he had before. He never stayed in one place too long then either. He signed the shortest leases, and he would move once it was up, never lingering and never buying more things than he could carry in the back of his truck. His memories are in his head and nowhere else. He keeps no trinkets. He saves no pictures. There is nothing from the old life that needs to be brought into the new. He shifts between both lives, one foot in the past and one in the future, and he thinks that's what really makes him live up to his name.

He's a Ghost. A drifter. Standing between two places at the same time, not knowing which to stay in and which to leave. It would hurt, if he was really human inside, if he could feel anything at all.

But he's not. His insides are nothing but organic matter. His head is a clock, ticking, counting down, but he's not aware of when it runs out.

He digs the heel of his boot into the snow to gauge the depth. It barely comes up over his toes. He huffs a little before taking a peek at the map tucked into his vest. He had circled a place just north, a main street he is hoping will have a stash of things he will need.

Ammunition. Weapons. Food. Water. A new book, for fuck's sake, maybe a Sudoku puzzle that isn't already scribbled into.

The forest gives him cover, so he sticks to it. Out in the open, he would stick out, dressed in all black. He keeps to the trees, ducking under the leaves and trying not to leave too much of a track behind. He doesn't plan on staying in that cabin again, but if he must, he doesn't want anyone seeing a way to come back to it.

The one thing he does appreciate about this new place is the quiet. It lingers, and it's calm, and when he breathes, the world breathes back. He feels like he had always been telling everyone to shut up, but now, his voice hasn't been used in months. Even when he passes other people, he doesn't speak to them. If they don't spot him, he keeps to the shadows, and if they do, they don't see him for long enough to know what hit them.

It's a good stash. The store had been rifled through by now, but in the office, there had been a nice drawer filled with supplies. A few boxes of ammunition, a revolver, and a new blade to stick in one of his boots. He picks up some other odds and ends. Batteries. A roll of yarn. A small sewing kit. A few pens. His backpack feels a little heavier, and it's a weight he appreciates when he makes his way back outside.

He sticks to the alleyways as he searches for the roof over his head for the night. He decides the cabin he slept in last night was too close to the road; if anyone was driving or following it, they could find that place too easily, and he wouldn't be able to sleep another night comfortably there knowing this truth.

He finds himself veering off road just enough. It's fucking cold, freezing, and he's grateful to the mask for helping him keep it together as he ducks under the wind and keeps an eye out for any nearby landmarks. Sometimes, on slow days like this, he would sit on a ridge and kill infected for sport. Practice focusing his sight, calculating the wind, keep his mind in check by hitting his targets and ridding the world of another one of those things.

There are different kinds of hunters out today.

He hears them before he sees them. He knows what kind they are when he hears their laughter. Low and untamed, sloppy and fucking messy. They always are. These kind spoil their treasures. They eat their food until it makes them sick, and then they do it all over again. They never learn their lesson.

When he settles his rifle down along a fallen tree, he eyes them through his scope. There are two of them. Both are fattened, with dark hair and lazy eyes, and they look greasy. Their clothes are in ruins, and their packs are light, and Ghost figures that they look enough alike to be perhaps brothers, or maybe cousins. Their smiles are equally as sadistic. The taller one tugs something along, and when Ghost aims the scope down a little, he sees her.

Her.

He's dragging her by her legs. She's kicking, but it's hard for her to do much when her arms and legs are bound by mismatched bits of fabric and rope. She's crying, that much is clear, squirming as she spits and gargles around the gag in her mouth as she tries to break free. She has heart, but she isn’t a fighter. If she was, she would’ve realized her teeth could snap that fabric of her gag, and she would know that the knot they’ve tied succumbs easily to upwards pressure.

He follows them. They keep going, dragging you and laughing as they make it to a makeshift camp hidden amongst a clearing. There's a few tents set up, a small dip in the earth to hold a campfire, and when they settle on tree trunks to sit, the smaller one takes a blade and cuts your gag off, leaning over you with a low chuckle. They mean to maim and to take and then to kill, and you know this when you look into his eyes.

"Hello, darling."

"Bite me."

He laughs again, dropping onto his knees over you, but when he gets close enough, you sit up with what little strength you have and bite him along his ear. The cartilage rips, and you tear half his ear off, and then he's scrambling off of you, screaming, holding the side of his head as he rolls around in circles in the snow. He colors it red, and you snarl with satisfaction. Ghost takes a deep breath in and lets it out shakily. The look in your eyes–he can taste that, roll it around on his tongue. You did not clock the poorly-tied knots, but you do see opportunity, and you are the kind to take it.

"You bitch!"

Just as the taller one is about to get on top of you, Ghost decides he's seen enough. He closes one eye, lines up the sight, and he lets out a cool breath as he drops the both of them within a second of each other. They fall easy; a bullet clean through the back of their heads, and now they're finally quiet again. They will not get up, either.

Your lip trembles as you look towards the trees. You watch as the leaves rustle, and when you see a man emerge from the thick of them, you start to cry. You think maybe you're seeing things; you must be so dehydrated, so hungry, that a reaper has come for you, and you are much deader than you thought.

The reaper stares down at you curiously. He swings his rifle over his shoulder, tilting his head to the side as he bends, getting a blade out of his boot before he cuts the restraints that bind you. He doesn’t hesitate when he does this; he does not deem you enough of a threat to keep you bound.

You sit up slowly, wiping your face, and when you meet his eyes, you're surprised to see how human they are. They're dark, but alive, and he has blonde lashes and pale skin underneath. He covers himself, but you can still see him. There's a man under there, not a reaper.

Just a man.

I hate men.

You shake off the rest of the restraints, turning your wrists and ankles and flexing your muscles for good measure. When you realize you are nothing but a little shaken up, you look back up. He's still staring at you, hard eyes lowered in a glare as he looks you over. He's sizing you up, maybe, deciding what to do with you. You meet his eyes one more time before gathering the saliva into your mouth and spitting onto the floor. It's a garbled mess of blood, from the flesh you had severed from that man.

He blinks slowly at that, makes some decision that he doesn’t voice out loud, and then he starts to walk away.

You stand on shaky legs, taking it as your cue. You watch as he rips open the flimsy tents that those men had left behind, and he's already grabbing backpacks and rifling through them for goods. He already starts filling his own vest and backpack with the things he finds; some flashlights, fishing line, more food and ammunition. You follow him, moving to the other tent beside it and starting to grab their things and toss them outside. You get to your knees and open the packs, laying out what you find carefully. They have interesting materials in here, ones you associate with explosives. C4. Lighters. Batteries. Wiring. You clench your jaw when you pull out the last box in the bag.

Condoms.

Bunch of pricks.

He finds your discoveries useful. He opens up an empty pack he found and fills it to the brim with supplies. When he zips it up, your stomach drops when you think he might toss it over his shoulder and leave. It only sinks for a moment before he turns the backpack around, holding it up for you.

You pause for a little and think. It only takes a few seconds for you to decide to stand up and slip your arms through the straps.

When he walks again, you follow.

The sun is setting by the time you find somewhere to sleep, but it looks like luxury to you. A quaint little brick house tucked between the hills, a ways from the road and positively hidden. He spotted it through his scope a few hours ago, and he made a beeline for it. It's difficult to keep up with him; he has incredible stamina and the longest legs. He moves like a ghost, too quiet for his own good. You would never know from looking at him how stealthy he could be. For such a huge man, you would never notice him before he could get the drop on you. It makes you conscious of your own steps and how loud they are, and you try to mimic the way he moves as you keep walking.

You don't know why, but you think he must be very pleased with how quiet you've gotten. You don't know why that fact pleases you, too.

He makes you stay outside when you arrive. He pulls a small handgun out of his backpack, and he checks the chamber before handing it to you. He clicks his tongue, forcing your eyes on his, and he puts a finger to his mask-covered lips, telling you to keep quiet. You take the gun from him, pointing it at the ground and holding it at your side, and he touches a knuckle under your chin before he twists a silencer onto his own gun.

You watch with rapt attention as he clears the house. His movements are quick and calculated, and he keeps low to the ground. It's mesmerizing. Big and capable, one with the shadows. The only thing you see in the dark is the white of the skull over his face, and if you didn't know it was him, you would think that you have just seen God.

But God isn't real. Apparently ghosts are.

He is back outside in less than ten minutes, nodding his head at you. You take it as your cue to come towards him, and you hand him the gun back when you pass him. You go into the house and immediately start to light some of the candles scattered around. You set your backpack down, rubbing your shoulders out, and you take a seat on the couch.

It hits you then, the gravity of it all. Men are your captors, and then they are your savior. They'll never leave you alone. They'll never let you go. You were ruled by their iron fist in a previous life, and you will endure their wrath in this new one.

You start to cry. It's the first sound you've made since screaming. You cover your face with your hands, and you don't know why you feel safe enough to cry, but you do, and it comes out of you fast.

He tilts his head to the side as he watches you. It's a strange thing to see something so...alive. He's used to only seeing things moving that can't speak back to him. If he does see things alive, he puts them down as if they are rabid dogs.

He can't find it in himself to kill you. Something is so odd about it. About you.

Everything about today seems more than coincidence. He won the game today. And then he found you.

When he tries the sink in the bathroom, he's surprised to find it working. He grabs a bowl and fills it with water, and when he comes back into the living room, you are staring at one of the flickering candles blankly, shivering. You have stopped crying, but your face is still wet with fat, lingering tears.

It looks like you've been hit by a brick wall. Your hair is matted in places, in tangles. It’s in desperate need of a cut. It's stuck to your face around the perimeter, caked by sweat and mud and dried blood. Your clothes are in ruins; you wear a ripped jumper, thin jeans, and the soles of your boots are starting to fray and come off, and he can see where you've tried to mend them unsuccessfully with duct tape. You wear no jewelry, and your fingernails need to be cut. Those men have left marks on you, but those will fade.

He kneels in front of where you sit on the couch. Using a threadbare cloth, he dips it into the water and raises it to your face. You show no resistance. You let him wipe your face off, the tears, the dirt, the blood. It stains the cloth ugly, but you can't look at anything else except for his eyes.

They're so dark. Brown, like bark, like honey. You haven't spoken a word to him yet, but the silence is sort of bliss. All you can hear is the drip of the water when he rings out the cloth.

He helped you. He didn't have to. He could've kept walking, but he stayed with you. He didn't leave you. He could've walked away again, but he let you follow.

He isn't a good man. You know that. Anyone who has lasted this long isn't a good person. You've done the same. You've let it take you, once or twice, let the snarl in the back of your throat guide your hand. You've let the voices fester, let them eat at the acid in your stomach until they begged for more, and you won't admit it, but it felt good. Felt good to protect yourself. To rid the earth of something terrible. To say no.

He must understand that. He's decorated in its essence, the one of understanding, the one that says I know what it's like to take matters into your own hands, and he did it with you, too.

He's doing it now, cleaning you up, and you don't know him, or his face, or his name, but you'll try hard to give it back. To give him something. To tell him you are worthy and not useless. It doesn't show today, how far you've come, but you'll try.

"Thank you," you finally whisper. He's dragging the cloth over your bottom lip, and he blinks rapidly, as if a bit startled by hearing your voice. When you speak again, it's to tell him your name, and he thinks for a few moments before continuing, wiping under your jaw.

He doesn't sleep that night. He stares out the window, like a guard dog, and he lets the soft breaths of your sleep keep him awake.

The gas lighter on the stove still works. It takes a match to light it properly, but when the fire starts, you take some of the soup cans from your pack and make breakfast.

Your smile when he comes into the kitchen nearly blinds him. You look more rested than yesterday, and you ladle some soup into a bowl for him, setting it down at the table. He notices the two bowls, his and yours, and he notices that his bowl has more food.

It is then that he decides to keep you.

What he doesn't know is that you've decided the same. The world has thrown you the way out. A man, built like a bear, happy finger on the trigger and capable of getting you out of harm's way. You need to convince him that you are worthy. You need to convince him that you are valuable. A keepsake.

Men are what start wars, not what end them. Men are the cause of chaos and destruction, it is prevalent throughout history, and it is why you are here now, in a place that doesn’t exist, where people don’t breathe the same air anymore. A man thought himself correct, but he was wrong, and he didn’t listen when someone told him otherwise. They are the ones that take advantage of your vulnerability, and instead of trying to understand it, they use it to get what they want.

You can do the same.

You start by mending his clothes. He's laid some out to dry after washing, and you notice the tears in his shirts. When he comes back a little while later, with dinner hanging off his shoulder, you are seated on the couch, feet tucked under you, with a needle in your hand as you sew up one of his shirts.

You've bathed, found new clothes, warmer ones, and your hair is braided and off your face. He hates to say he prefers you a little dirty, but he likes this, too. A natural beauty. A soft face.

You make a real dinner that night. There's canned vegetables that you try to spruce up with the spices you find in the cupboards, but the real meal is the venison you're served. He butchers it outside like a professional, and he sears it on the stove with a perfect touch. When he feeds you that first bite, your mouth explodes with flavor. Your belly is full that evening, and when he blows out the candles for bed, he eats you out in the dark of the corner bedroom.

He's not sloppy like you thought he might be. Not overeager. He's easy with it, casual. Big hunk of a man smothered between your thighs, and he laves his tongue through your folds like his very own personal dessert. He drinks straight from the source, holy water spilling sweet between his teeth, and when he gets his tongue inside of you and holds it there, you nearly leave earth for somewhere else. You come like that, too, his filthy mouth sucking on your clit before he's slipping that tongue in you again, and you mewl against the bed as he tucks his hand under your ass and spreads you wider.

He tells you his name a few nights later. He doesn't speak, not ever, but when you're crying around his thick fingers, he whispers it against your ear.

"'s Simon," he growls, and you know what he means by that. He wants you to say it while you bounce on his fingers, when you rut against his thigh. He wants you to say his name when you're coming undone riding his face, when you're wetting his mask with your pussy and making him choke on your cum. Such a wet, sweet girl you are, and sometimes he skips wash day for his mask so he can shove it into his mouth and pant around it and taste you while he fucks his own fist.

It's insanity, he thinks, as he's cleaning his rifle. The idea of traditional. But it's what befallen him, what he sees all around him, and he tucks his index finger into a hole too small to pinch himself just to make sure he isn't living a dream. You're in the kitchen, mending more clothes, something warm boiling on the stove. There were seeds in the greenhouse, and you're saving them to plant in the spring, so for now, you make do with canned goods and whatever Simon hunts for during the day. You found books in the attic, and you read them at night, head in Simon's lap as he plays with your hair or rubs your sore ankles or cuts your nails. You're the only one that ever speaks; he hasn't said a word to you except for telling you his name, and you're content to be the only one that uses their voice.

He always listens. You told him one time that you loved the shade of green that the trees wore, and he came back one day with a sweatshirt of the same color for you. He noticed you trying to mend those terrible boots, and he found a new pair for you, your size this time, barely worn and fit for winter. He brings lots of things for you; books, clothes, even rocks sometimes, when he just thinks he found one that you might like.

You do like them. You have started filling a small bowl with the ones he brings, and he notices you rifling through it sometimes, just looking at them, and it makes his chest swell with pride.

Like giving a treat to a dog. Like giving him a fucking bone.

He teaches you how to shoot. You know how to pull a trigger, but that’s the extent of your expertise. He teaches you how to stand, how to turn the safety on and off, how to hold the gun between two hands so not even his own can take it away from you. He makes sounds when you please him. Hums low, lets out a soft breath, sucks in the air through his teeth. You can’t see his face, but the way he looks at you when you fire a bullet and knock bottles off their ledges, it warms you, all the way down your spine, reaching your toes. You want him to keep looking at you this way, so you try hard, and he notices.

You’ll never be what he is, but the small victories are what have him chubbing up in his cargos and falling asleep between your thighs. You give, and he takes, and he keeps coming back for more.

He teaches you that distance is your strength. You aren’t like him; you aren’t built like a brick house, you won’t be bigger than a lot of your opponents. You need to keep them away from you, however you can. He makes you good with that gun because it’s your best chance, but in the even that you lose it or you run out of bullets, he shows you how to aim a hatchet so that the blade always lines up between someone’s shoulders.

The way you listen makes him salivate. The way you blink up at him and say yes, Simon and take his orders, it makes it difficult to keep away from you. 

Today marks two months in the house tucked on the hill. Simon hunts, and you cook, and you live in some sick, twisted housewife fantasy at the end of the fucking world. Simon provides, and you keep, and when the box of condoms falls out of your backpack one day, you glance at Simon for just a moment before he's on you.

It's animal, that first time. He tackles you practically onto the carpet of the living room, and he props you up onto your elbows and only pulls down your jeans enough that he can fit his cock between your thighs. You hear the tear of the condom wrapping, and then he's laying over your back, sinking to the base, cock nestled inside of you as he grips your throat gently and fucks you into the carpet. Poor beast, he's definitely going to need his knees massaged after this, but you can't think about that much when you're taking the fattest cock of your entire life and trying to survive underneath him. It's that fine line between pleasure and pain that you're desperate for, and you pull threads out of the carpet as you try to hang on and take it like a good girl.

You can hear his voice. It's low, and subtle, but he grunts with each agonizing thrust, hips snapping against your ass as he fucks you back onto him over and over and over again.

It's primal. Nasty. You wish he wasn't wearing a condom, you want him to be in your skin, you want him to fill you until you're full, let it spill over, and then do it all over again. You want him to bite into your throat and tear, and you want him to eat you and then put you back together, and then do it again and again and again.

"So big," you gasp, and he falters at that. You recognize it, the need for praise, and you latch onto it with claws and stay there. I need him to stay here with me. "So good...so good t-to me, Simon–"

He groans. It's music.

Keep me. Keep me. Keep me.

"Simon, please–" You scratch at his arm, not satisfied until you feel blood. When you break the skin, he laughs, a breathless laugh that has your eyes rolling back in your head as he shoves your face into the carpet and mounts you like a fucking horse. The deep slap, slap, slap of skin is enough to send you away, send you home, your mind foggy as your pussy squeezes him for all he's worth. The slick of the condom is pleasant, but you want it raw. You want every part of him carved into you, and you arch your back, suck him in, whine and cry and beg for him to just, "please, Simon, I need it, I need it."

"Need wot?"

The sound of his voice is whiplash. He hisses when he sinks deep, staying there, holding you at a sharp angle so he can knead your ass and watch it bounce back on him. He sucks on his teeth, and there's drool slipping out of your mouth. That accent, his voice, like velvet, from deep within his chest. You want to hear more of it.

"Be a man," you gasp. "Be a man, and fuck me."

He doesn't see the desperate look on your face when he slips out of you. He doesn't see the relief that washes over you when you hear the condom come off, latex crumbling as he tosses it, but he feels the warmth of your pretty pussy when he sinks back in, skin to skin, and feels you clench for dear fucking life.

"Fuckin' Christ," Simon groans, and you reach back for him, gripping his arms, forcing him to fall over on top of you. He settles with his elbows on either side of your head, and you bow your back and grip the carpet again as he fucks into you nice and slow, deep, fat head leaking precum and making you cry because finally, yes, please, this is it, what I want, I'll have you forever.

You're so pretty. Even in his past life, Simon never got to have anything pretty. He was too ugly, too big, too awkward. Any woman of good faith stayed 100 yards away, as if his mere presence was a warning alarm, some invisible radius that kept them away from him. He always thought it was for the better. He always thought good riddance, they shouldn't have me, I shouldn't have anyone. Not when only days before, he had tortured a Russian militant until he had no teeth and hung his severed fingers on twine around his own neck.

But you won't run away. He's given you opportunity. He's left the cottage and staked out the outside just to watch you, and all he sees is you moving between windows, shaking out the dust from old blankets and washing the dishes. All he sees is you sewing his clothes and cooking his food, and when he comes back inside, all he sees is your smile and your face and your pretty mouth that falls open when he makes you come all over his hand.

Now it's the end of the world, and he lets a coin flip decide whether or not he lives or dies. And even when he flips it now, it never agrees. When he asks to die, the coin tells him no. When he asks to live, it’s always interrupted by you.

Yes, it tells him. Yes, yes, yes, because it's been keeping him here, because it knows, because it saw, because he couldn't see both sides of the coin, but he can see it now, plain as day, and she's underneath him now, letting him inside, and she's begging him to come and to fill her up, and she's crying because he's such a big man, and she wants him everywhere and always and all at once, and Simon is nothing if he isn't an insatiable bastard that can finally be fucking selfish.

The way you say his name could make him move mountains. That soft breath you take. The falter of your voice. The whine. The world has gone quiet, but he'll make a new one, and he will leave it at your feet for you to step on or pick up.

Whichever you choose. You can do no wrong.

When he comes, he moans. Into your ear, he lets you hear him, lets you bask in his pleasure as he spurts hot inside of you, hauling you a little higher on your knees so he can make sure you come, too. He gives you the palm of his hand to grind on, fucking into you at the same time, humming deep when he feels you squeeze around him and shatter like glass.

He takes his mask off for the first time that night. You see his face, all of it, not just glimpses when he lifts it to eat or to drink, you see the whole thing. He has a terrible looking face. Something only a mother could love. Too old of scars to be from this new life. They slash across his brow, across his cheeks. He has a jagged nose, and the skin around his lips had been reconstructed poorly from however they had been slit.

He's a terrifying piece of flesh. He is surprised when you lean in and kiss him. He's even more surprised when you kick off your jeans, turn over, and fuck him again.

The mantra that sounds like mine repeats in his head over and over. He feels it, deep, warm and beating under his ribs alongside his heart that hasn't moved in a long while.

He found you in those woods, kicking amongst predators, and he took you home with him. Picked you up like a stray, fed you, clothed you, and now you've stayed. For a moment, he thought it wasn't real. Thought your full belly is what kept you here, the warm house. He didn't mind pretending, but he figured it wouldn't last.

He doesn't think that anymore. Not with the way you kiss his severed face. You nuzzle into it, cup his cheeks, and he finds it agony when you pull away.

He hovers now. In whatever room you are in, Simon must also be in it. If he leaves, he makes you board the doors, and you are only allowed to open them if he knocks in his special way. He tested you once, came back earlier than expected, and he was so pleased you did not open the door to his casual knock and only the special one that he made you come one, two, three times with your thighs locked around his face.

A terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

You're searching the greenhouse. Hoping to find some flower pots for the herb seeds you found, you're rummaging through the cabinets beside it. Your gun is sitting away from you, and although Simon would chastise you for this, you feel safe here, and it doesn't bother you.

It flings itself at you. It cries, what used to be a teenage girl, reaching for you because it wants a chunk of your softness, of the life you pump into the muscles that keep you running. You're protected by all the clothes you wear for the weather, and it is slow because of the cold freezing their rigid, dead bones, but it does not lessen the hunger, the fight, the determination to eat and spread.

Before it can bite, the back of its head explodes. You close your mouth and shut your eyes as rancid brain matter splatters the white snow and you, and it is wrenched off of you immediately. Simon stands there, his pistol in hand, and you have never seen him quite so angry as he is right now.

His eyes are wild. He heaves under that tact vest, breathing hard, and his grip on the handgun shakes, so much that he has to shove it back into the holster at his thigh and lean over to pick you up off the ground.

He jostles you. Growls. Is nearly an animal himself as he shoves you up against the glass of the greenhouse and snarls.

"Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?!" Simon snaps. "Is y'r fuckin' head on?!"

It's so quiet in your head even as he yells. Your eyes tear, but not because you're upset. You reach out and cup his face gently, and he stops. Stops talking, just watches, just looks at you as he bends and leans his forehead against yours and squeezes you to his chest.

What is this thing you have? What have you become? What innate thing has festered between you? He’s gripping the edge of the glass so hard, you hear it crack under his hand. There is some kind of sick sense of devotion among you. Some kind of responsibility. He’s angry because something under his tongue tasted bitter when he saw you struggling. It won’t be this easy. He won’t make it this easy. If he doesn’t get to die, then neither do you, and he will make sure of that, because that is the only way this game can remain fair.

You never wander to the greenhouse again. He makes you promise (lest he wastes his cum between your thighs instead of inside you, that's it, promise me).

Another terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

They're wanderers. When they knock at the door, they don't use Simon's special knock, so you don't open it. Instead, you blow out the candles and hide, peeking at them from the fogged window in the attic.

They are men (you aren't surprised, they seem to be the only thing that survives nature's heavy hand). Cold. Shivering. One of them is bleeding, you can see it from the blood trail he leaves in the snow that seeps from somewhere under the hem of his jeans. The one uninjured tries to force his way through the door, but Simon added more deadbolts to it, and it doesn't give under his weak attempts. You trade your handgun for the rifle, aiming it at them. If they get through the door, maybe you can draw them back out, keep them away from the house.

You try to stay quiet, but the healthier one uses his body and a log of wood to get through. They're desperate, desperate enough to not care that breaking through the door cuts him severely, splits through his jacket. The second man limps behind him, getting inside, and you decide to put the rifle back.

You will stay quiet until Simon gets back. Your strength is not being a bulldozer, so you'll hide until he can be that for you. You steady your breathing; even if they make it to the attic, you won't go quietly. You tried that last time, and if it wasn't for Simon, you'd surely be naked and dead in that clearing that you were dragged to.

This time, if you go, you will take someone with you at least. Severed ears are not enough. You will not make them artists, you will make them forgettable and unrecognizable, and you will give back what they give you tenfold. Even if it kills you.

It takes them all night before they finally make it to the attic. They eat your food and take showers in your bathroom and stink up the living room, you can hear them. And when their bellies are full and their minds wander, you dread the pull of the attic door as he wrenches it open and the ladder falls.

You manage to kill one as he drags you out from the corner. He latches onto your ankle, and as he pulls, you put your finger on the trigger of your handgun, and you put one right between his eyes. The other takes advantage of your moment of pause, turning you over onto your stomach so hard the gun flies across the attic from your hand. He tosses you down from the attic, and you land on your side in the hallway, and you cry as you get to your elbows and crawl, trying to get to your feet, but he's larger than you.

He catches you in the kitchen. Slams you over the kitchen counter, using his weight to pin you down, but Simon taught you better than that. He taught you not to give in. He taught you not to give up. You think about him when your fingers find the discarded fork on the counter and you drive it right through his fucking eye.

You don't stop. You don't let his cries keep you from bringing your arm down again. And again. And again. You make his face your blank canvas, and you paint it with your anger. For every man that ever touched you. For every man that ever thought himself worthy to have you. For every man that tried to make your body his prize, you poke a thousand holes in him, and you scream with him as you do it until he can't scream anymore.

You're holding the fork and standing over him when Simon comes home. His handgun drawn, silent as he makes his way in, his body visibly relaxing when he sees you. He glances at the man at your feet, still alive, gurgling there, choking on his own blood as he tries to breathe through the holes that are scattered across his face and neck. You meet his eyes, and you smile. It's uncanny to do it now, but you are happy to see him.

"There's..." You sniffle, wiping your face with your sleeve. "There's another i-in the attic."

You don’t get to see him smile under the mask. You don’t hear the near purr that leaves him as he climbs the ladder and sees the perfect place you’ve left your mark. He’d frame it if it wouldn’t rot.

You twirl the fork in your hand before going to the sink, dropping it in there, and you close your eyes as you listen to Simon's footsteps as he goes into the attic. It takes him a little less than an hour to get the bodies out the back door, and when he comes back inside, you're already wiping up the floor in the kitchen.

There's nothing to talk about. This is normal. This is just another day. Tomorrow, you might have to do it again, and you'll still cook dinner after sunset and clean the kitchen like you're doing now and sit Simon on the edge of the bathtub and cut his hair.

Simon found chocolate on his trip today, and you make cake with it. You sit in his lap under the candlelight, and you feed each other, bite by bite, and you giggle when Simon gets it all over his lips.

You kiss him to clean it off, and then you reach for another bite of cake. There's some measure of satisfaction you feel when your tongue finds the dent in the fork prongs from when you used it earlier. The chocolate tastes better somehow. Sweeter.

You catch him in the morning, limbs tangled with yours under the sheets, flipping a coin. You smooth a hand over his thick chest, along his pudgy stomach, and you watch with him as the coin lands on the bedside table, falling flat.

It comes up tails.

He decides then that he doesn't have to flip it anymore. It's pointless. He asked for answers, and he got one.

You were not luck. You were fate. And because of it, the coin will always land the same way.

His thoughts are interrupted when you reach for the coin. You twirl it between your fingers, thinking. He doesn't see what you see, but that's okay. Maybe he'll let you play now. Some other game, a better one.

Heads or tails, win or lose, alive or dead. Either way, you are attached. Woven together, thread by thread. There are no vows to say in this new place, but you aren't tested by the same kinds of things. There is no law to keep two people together, no governing power of men that say if left is truly left and that right is really right.

You are drawn together by shared experiences. The same trauma. You won't leave each other not because you said you wouldn't leave, but because there is no one else in the world that has seen the same things you have seen and has done the same things you have done. There is no one else in the world that will forgive you for what you had to do to survive. That will love you not just in spite of it, but because of it, because you did what was necessary, and you are here now to learn a lesson and not suffer its consequences.

It's just a game. If you win, he wins. If you lose, he loses. If you're alive, he's alive.

And if you're dead, then he must be, too.

Honestly I've been obsessing over the concept of a butch lesbian werewolf who keeps me leashed to her pants belt-loop with a carabiner and chain.

Anon this isnane. you can't say these things to me.

absolutely you have to walk on your hands and knees while she tugs you around. imagine her reaching down absentmindedly to ruffle your hair while she talks to her packmates. If you start acting up she'll tug on your leash and choke you until you act right. Sometimes she'll clip your leash to a gate or better- let one of her werewolf friends watch over you while she goes to the bathroom or deals with something else. You'll be good for her even if she's not there right? you'll take care of her friends if they wanna play with you? come on be a good pup.

AHHHHHHHHHH I wanna be a puppy that a big werewolf butch drags around. :(