Houndtooth [17]

houndtooth [17]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - cw: see masterlist - 15.6k words

Houndtooth [17]

Ghost keeps his crosshairs on you like you’re his target. His infrared vision tracks you like prey, he follows your heat signal amongst the sea of cold-blooded vermin that infest your home. 

He keeps his post as you instructed him to. Settled into character by following your orders, as obediently a member of your guard would have. In truth, it wasn’t as much an order as a meek request - that he remain hovering at the perimeter, hidden by shadow. Such a thing comes to him innately, ghost that he is. 

His mastery of stealth is tested, though, as he watches you drift between your dead husband’s many comrades. You fawn at them with a well-trained domesticity, jittery hands politely interlocked in front of you as you accept their sneering condolences with saccharine gratitude. Pointedly ignoring how their pig eyes fondle you, how they exchange glances with each other as though sharing the same thought when you pass them by. 

He knows what thoughts they share. 

He can see it in their greasy smiles and their ruddy necks. Frothy-mouthed at the sight of you, so vulnerable and sweet. No husband in sight. 

None of them are accompanied by their own wives. And they do have wives, near all of them do; Ghost knows each of them by full name and date of birth by virtue of his mission dossier. Instead their women have been left tucked away and out of sight, not here to survey how lecherously their husbands covet the fresh widow. 

The thought alone makes his temples hot and his jaw tight. He remembers the words of your supposed ally; once the boys get their hands on her . Was this the very thing he was referring to? An army of war profiteers swarming the mansion of their late leader so they can take turns with his dowager? 

You shouldn’t have worn that fucking dress. 

He’s sure you chose it thinking it was unappealing; severe and structured, coating you in black fabric from clavicle to ankle. You couldn’t see it from behind, could you? 

He could have demanded that you wear something else, when he found you stooped in front of your mirror. Ordered that you should shove on black slacks and a bulky coat, maybe a thick scarf for good measure. But the longer he looks at you, the more apparent it becomes that his instruction that you wear nothing pretty was inherently unachievable. No amount of hideous clothing could conceal an artless beauty as preternatural as yours. You are an ineluctable magnet for gluttonous eyes, and magnetise you do. 

The men you aren’t talking to look at you still, even as they are engaged in droning conversation with one another, glasses of liquor and cigars between their turgid fingers. The entire affair strikes him more as a dinner party than a funeral, and he supposes he should have expected that. They’ll all be celebrating the usurpation of a leader who clung to his power far longer than he deserved. 

The usurper himself is yet to arrive, and you seem as potently aware of that fact as Ghost is. 

You’re petrified of him. Makarov. Whatever the cretin has done to you, or threatened to, Ghost needn’t know. He can guess well enough. Every utterance of the name turns your skin grey and your lips dry. 

Your nervous eyes flit to the entrance of your mansion every odd moment, and occasionally you’ll meet Ghost’s glare between the gaps of your guests. You give him glittering stares, swollen with pleas he cannot grant you. Little thing. He can’t jeopardise the mission at hand to offer you comfort. 

When a stern knock on the front door echoes out from the foyer, your chary head perks up and you freeze on your feet. He can see you trembling from here. You know who knocked. 

The fucking bastard could just as easily open the unlocked door, march into the heart of your home unimpeded and announce his arrival to all of his sycophantic subordinates. Instead, he chooses to knock. To lure the grieving hostess away from the crowd that might witness him. Away from your only protector.

You hesitate before you retreat from whatever foul conversation you were trapped in, eyes wide and twitching. It takes you a moment to summon the bravery, and you offer an apologetic smile to the pig in front of you before retreating towards the exit. 

You pat down your dress as you leave the room to let in the dog, and you disappear through the archway. 

Out of his sightline. 

Houndtooth [17]

In the humming quiet of the foyer, you can hear every machination under your skin. 

The thunder of your arteries, the buzzing of the fire in your nerves, the squeaking of your grinding teeth. You can feel the panic in every muscle, the needles, the venom leaking between sinews. 

The front door is solid black, though it may as well be transparent. You can see the silhouette of the man as clearly as you can feel him there. His coldness trickles under the gap in the door and makes you bristle. You don’t want to open the door. 

You don’t want to open the door, but he knocks again. 

Three gentle knocks, intentionally soft - because he knows you are standing there. He’s simply waiting. Maybe he wants to see how long it takes you to overcome the terror that keeps you there. Maybe, the longer you take, the wider his grin. The sharper his teeth. 

He finds amusement in your terror. He always has. 

When your numb fingers curl around the handle of the door, reluctantly peeling it open to reveal him, he is already smiling. 

He stands with his feet apart in suede oxfords, his hands courteously held together in front of the buttons of his suit jacket. His head already bowed to address you, with the thick tendons in his icy neck pulled tight. The vein that bulges in the centre of his forehead passes through his curled brows, a marker of the feral rabidity that thumps under his skin and collects in the corners of his pointed mouth. He’s riddled with it. Sadism exudes from him like radiation. You can smell it, taste it; metallic and hard, as he tilts his head and awaits your greeting. 

A henchman stands behind him, black bulletproof vest tight over his dark blazer. You can see the pistol tucked in a front strap, and he hovers behind his master with the stiff obedience of a muzzled doberman. You wouldn’t expect Vladimir to venture anywhere without his myrmidons, so it surprises you to see only one of them. He mustn’t believe he needs any more protection than that. You are no threat to him.  

Your mouth is dry, full of chalk that grits between your teeth, and you can’t even part your lips to utter a word. You aren’t sure how to greet him, now. If you had Victor at your side, you’d have called him Vladimir, as he did. What is he to you, now? Should you address him as sir? 

“Госпожа Захаева. Рада снова тебя видеть.” Mrs. Zakhaev. Lovely to see you again.

Your jaw tightens. His voice, still, turns you to ice - brittle enough to shatter, translucent enough to expose the trembling obeisance he exhumes from the deepest parts of you. 

Mrs. Zakhaev. Not once has he called you that. No, you had always been Девчонка . Girl. Or simply you, with a snap of fingers or a gesture in his direction. 

His politeness is as clear and sharp as glass - he is mocking you with it. Only now are you Victor’s wife, a missus, with your husband dead. Only as a widow are you granted that reverence. 

You swallow. It takes a shaky breath before you can bring yourself to speak. “Добрый вечер.” Good evening. 

He lowers his head in feigned respect. “My condolences, ” he says, rich with derision and a thick Soviet accent. “We lost him so suddenly. You must be devastated.” 

Facetiousness drips from every word. 

You nod tensely. “Thank you.”  

A pallid hand crosses the space between you, then, and his palm lands unabashedly on your cheek. 

You immediately flinch - his palm stings against your skin as though barbed, and the alarm it rings claws down the back of your neck, makes every one of your little hairs stand on end. His calloused thumb brushes towards the corner of your mouth, as if accidental - but the black gleam in his eyes makes plain his glee. 

“Бедняжка.” Poor thing, he murmurs. “It must be so frightening to be alone.” 

The tips of his heavy fingers press into the hollows of your cheekbone and temple, close to your ear, and you can hear his pulse through your skull. It is deathly slow. 

You struggle between agreeing with him to appease him, or feigning confidence to spite him. He is right - it is terrifying. It is so, because of him; and he knows that as well as you do. 

You only nod, again. Pleasant and quiet. 

He gives you a pout, a mask of pity, before his rough hand slithers behind your neck and under your hair, and he reels you towards him. Your heart thunders to resist him but your body does not obey, and you acquiesce as immediately as he had grabbed you. He wraps his other arm around your shoulders, and with his chin atop your head, he holds you firm against his body. A hug, if you could ever call it that. 

Even an act as innocent and well-meaning as an embrace is tainted by ridicule. He knows you abhor his touch with every cell that you consist of, as much as he knows how desperately you avoid displeasing him. 

You feel his breathing in your hair, acidic, it makes your scalp sting. 

“Ax, моя дорогая.” Ah, my dear, he says deeply. “You won’t be alone anymore.” 

He says it like a threat, and it is one. 

Eyes wide and dry, you stare into the individual fibers of his powder-blue shirt. He smells of cheap tobacco and gunpowder, with an edge of chemical sweetness, aspartame. 

As you breathe him in, your dreaded fate begins to settle in the pits of you. Edges towards certainty. 

Maybe he’ll claim you as your husband did. Maybe you are to be passed on to your husband’s successor as though you had been left in his will. An heirloom, too feckless to be left without reins, too precious to be left for someone undeserving. 

You envision such an outcome if your efforts to thwart him are to fail, if Simon breaks his promise and abandons both you and his mission, and you are left to fend for yourself among the carnivores.

Vladimir would not play the same role as your husband; demanding but patient, hungry but restrained. He wouldn’t offer you kindnesses or feign any form of compassion, beyond the rotten affection that cloaks his depravity. He’ll play with you as though his toy until he grows bored, and it would not take him long to do so. 

Perhaps you were foolish to ever imagine a reality where you escape. The world beyond the one you have come to know has slipped into obscurity, after all - so out of reach that you have begun to forget what it looks like. 

He pulls back from you with a pleased sigh, and his hands settle at each side of your head, fingers weaved into the hair behind your ears. His stare is hard and intruding, heterochromic eyes bite at you wherever on you they land. Body, lips, eyes. Even the act of perceiving you is as violating as his touch. 

“Grief doesn’t suit you,” he remarks, glower intruding. “Not with those eyes.” 

An insult and compliment in the same breath, though you cannot fathom that he might be attempting to ingratiate himself. Worse, that he’s bemoaning your dour expression. Next he’ll ask you to smile. 

“Do you miss him yet?” He asks coldly, after a beat.

The smugness in his expression tells you that there isn’t a correct answer to his question. It seems to you a trap, so you do not answer. But a blink, or a shift in your gaze, or a quirk in your lip, evidently answers it for you; because he grins. 

“Mh, милая Мия.” Mh, dear Mia, he drones. “It’s no secret that you never loved him. You have nothing to prove to me.” 

“Of course I loved him.” You dispute, briefly compelled not to let his ego be sated by such a presumption.

A huff of laughter escapes his nostrils. 

“You did?” He questions candidly, though the vein that splits his forehead protrudes with the words. “Are you sure?” 

You can read the shift underneath his smile. How it mutates from artificial pleasantry to true malice. The joy he takes in tormenting you oozes from his pores and between his teeth. You can see in his eyes exactly what he is thinking about, what he is ecstatic to remind you of; he needn’t even say it. 

“Yes,” you utter, because you know that is the answer he wants. 

“Even after all that you did for me?” 

Your blood pools at your feet, and his thumbs stroke the prickling skin of your cheeks with tangible satisfaction. You want to look away from him, at your feet, at the sky - anything to conceal the grimace that knits in your face. Instead, you deferentially hold his gaze; eager to ensure he doesn’t feel compelled to elaborate, to remind you in any greater detail, of the whims you were given no choice but to indulge. 

He opens his maw to speak, but something catches his eye, and his stare shifts upwards to something behind you. 

You are as yet uncertain what or who has drawn his attention, but his rough hands slip from your cheeks and fall to your shoulders. 

“Mh,” he grunts through pursed lips, as he straightens his back. “Она ведь все еще держит своих собак при себе, да?” Still keeps her hounds with her, eh?  

It is apparent he is not addressing you, so you turn as much as his grip allows you to; to your surprise, a constraining hand drops from your shoulder, and you are free to see who had approached from behind you. 

Your protector. 

Masked and severe, he stands tall, arms locked militaristically behind his back. He utters not a word, but you see his chest rise and fall, controlled but bordering on detonation. His eyes catch the shine of the porchlight through the gap in his mask, but his glare does not fall on you. He keeps it pinned on the man whose other hand still lingers on you. 

Vladimir only grins. A smile that twitches, tips between intrigue and genuine humour. His imposing touch abandons you, then, as he steps cavalierly towards your mercenary. 

“Ты та самая тихая. Сергей упомянул вас.” You’re the quiet one. Sergei mentioned you. 

Riley doesn’t nod, doesn’t waver, doesn’t move his boots from where they are planted on the floor. Offers no acknowledgement of the man approaching him beyond the pointed stare that follows his every movement. 

“Спокойно.” Take it easy, Vladimir teases as he stands beside your guard, patting him with a firm hand on his opposite shoulder. “Я буду вести себя хорошо.” I’ll behave myself. 

He holds Riley’s cloaked gaze for a noticeable beat. A second longer than would otherwise be natural. Your breath catches in your throat. Is he trying to get a better look? Might he recognise the soldier if he looks too closely? 

With a dismissive nod and an affable pat on the shoulder, Vladimir struts past him and ventures towards the hallway, armed dog in pursuit. As familiar with your home as you are - if not more so - he disappears into the reception room to announce his arrival to his new subordinates. 

Like a boot had been lifted from your ribs, a rush of air erupts from your chest the moment he is out of sight and earshot. Your blood turns runny with the transient relief, and you suddenly feel as though you had stood up too fast; knees and hands shaky, you see stars when you blink. Wiping your hair back from your face with clammy palms, you attempt to settle your ravaged heart by breathing deeply and staring knives into the tiled floor. 

The skin he had marred with his touch burns and itches, and you wish you could peel it off from the flesh beneath it. You imagine burrowing your fingernails into your scalp and picking the leather loose from your skull, flaying your skin off by the seams. Maybe they’d leave you alone, once your exterior is shed. What would be left? 

“You’re alright,” comes a grumbling whisper, from the shadow you had forgotten was standing there. 

Your eyes flit to meet his, and you abruptly feel the ground beneath your feet again. His shoulders have softened, his hands hang relaxedly from his tactical vest, and you are alone in the foyer with him. 

Not a query into your state of mind, but a stern reminder. You’re alright . You can almost believe it while you have him within sight. 

Foolish of him to come to the door to check on you, because none of your husband’s mercenaries would have shown that level of devotion. But you were grateful that he had frightened off the wolf, if only for the briefest moment. You might have thanked him if he weren’t the one to force you into this predicament, into the arms of the very man who you’d rather cut your hands off than spend more than an hour with. 

How much had he seen? How much had he heard? 

You wonder how long he had been standing there, watching as your husband’s rival caressed you with his pretend affection, listening as he mocked you with his own transgressions. You shrivel up like a raisin at the thought of him witnessing any of it, sucked dry by shame and an overwhelming desire to hide from every pair of eyes that has ever looked at you. 

“Yeah?” Your protector presses, and you blink at him. 

You nod, and sigh sharply, attempting to regain some lost composure. You have an objective, you remind yourself. You just have to make it through the evening. You only have to fawn enough to get something, anything useful.

“I’m fine.” You insist, as you begin your march deeper into the hallway.

Houndtooth [17]

Ghost looks past you as you brush around him in a hurry, and he leaves a few bloated seconds before he brings himself to follow you. 

There’s a line to toe in his donned role as a paid bodyguard, between loyal dedication and professional apathy. He finds it difficult to strike the balance, having only ever swung to either extreme of the pendulum. He knows that he has leaned too far towards the former, by stalking you, and only you. By unintentionally keeping his vigilant attention on you, and not on the many targets that surround you. By all but threatening the only target that matters to him for daring to lay a finger on you. Despite his decades of experience, of trained resilience, of pure stoicism - it is only growing more challenging to suppress the compulsion. 

Worsened by your present company, threats around every corner and through every door, is the urge to fulfil the role of guard dog in every sense of the term - only he cannot bark, and he cannot bite. Muzzled by duty. 

Your potent fear of Makarov is not without cause. 

He is more verminous in person than through a screen or a scope. Somehow more feral, more crooked, more rat-like in his features than any blurry CCTV image could ever have accurately depicted. He reeks of malignant pride, and it filled the room like putrid smoke the moment you opened the door to let him in.  

What sadistic conceit made him confident enough to touch you? Audacious enough to hold you?

His hands seemed to find purchase on your skin with a borderline familiarity, an intimacy that appeared habitual rather than a cautious venture into uncharted territory. 

Ghost’s stomach wrings at the thought of it. 

Organs twist and shudder with a fury only worsened by the need to force it down. It pushes against the inside of his ribs, rises in his throat - and all he can do is swallow it, and tighten his knuckles to keep himself stable. 

How often had the cretin broken past that boundary? How many times have those filthy fucking hands touched you? Your face, your neck, your shoulders? Where else have they dared to venture? 

The very end of your conversation bounces around the inside of his skull, on repeat, as he attempts to decipher what had been cryptically referred to. 

Even after all that you did for me. 

He creeps through the dark of the hallway, in pursuit of you, as the words ring in his ears. Perhaps it was a brazen and salacious reference to some sexual favours from your past, some lascivious orders he had made of you, some effort to make a cuckold of your husband. 

Did you fulfill those demands? Were you given a choice? He won’t ask, and he doesn’t want to know - but the imagined sight stains his vision all the same. Sees you on your knees in a shadowy corridor, sees you locked in a bathroom, sees the very same visceral reluctance printed on your face that he himself has grown so familiar with. Sees too the rabid grin stretched in the warlord’s thin lips, as he makes an unwilling adulteress out of you. 

Even after all that you did for me. 

As he approaches the open door into the kitchen, and sees the back of you, he grinds his teeth. What if Makarov referred to something else? Some unspoken agreement between the two of you? He imagines any number of conversations you might have had with him in the past; the closest comrade of your husband, after all. It stands to reason that he might also be a comrade of yours. Had you gotten a message to him through your friend, Vasiliev? Did you make a plan with him before Ghost had ever found you in your glistening castle? 

Had you lied to him? Are you in on all of it? 

Perhaps your proficiency in artificial personalities was even more effective than he had come to believe. That you had effectively wrapped him around your finger, had him feeling pity for you, manipulated him into caring more about your wellbeing than the outcome of his mission. 

Despite his ingrained scepticism, rooted in countless betrayals; he doesn’t believe that. 

You tip your head back as he comes to a stop in the entrance to the brightly lit kitchen, and it takes him a moment to see that you have knocked back a glass. Of gin, he discovers, made evident by the bottle of Bombay Sapphire that sits with its cap off on the counter in front of you.

“Don’t get drunk, for fuck’s sake,” he snaps, under his breath, once he notices there is nobody else in the kitchen with you. 

He sees you jolt in fright, before your head swivels hastily on your neck. Your body loosens when you see it is him and not one of your comrades, and you wipe your mouth with the heel of your palm.

“I’m not,” you whisper shakily. “Just - I just need a little.” 

“A little?” He scolds you, having watched you take easily three gulps of liquid before you put the glass down. 

Your eyes glisten with fearful shame as he approaches you. He can barely glance at you without being overcome with it, that guilt - you look at him with dewy eyes and his once rigid scruples crumble to his feet. 

Pathetic . 

“I can’t even-” You take a sharp breath and shake out your hands, as though treading water. “-I can’t even talk, I c-can’t even get words out around him. I need something. Just something to make me more, more-”

“Fine,” he hushes you, “It’s fine. Just that one glass, alright? Or you’ll fuck us both over.” 

You nod obsequiously, and as if to prove you mean it, you grab the metal cap and screw it back onto the bottle. 

He notices, then, the eerie silence that fills the bowels of the mansion where there had previously been the migraine-inducing chatter of more than a dozen men. 

“Where are they?” He murmurs discerningly, and you point towards the direction of the dining room. 

“They’re all in there,” you whisper. “He called them all in straight away.” 

He immediately moves towards their meeting room, situated around the corner, and keeps his body out of sight of the towering glass door. He can hear them, quiet Russian murmuring, just loud enough to make out a few words. 

With a gesture of his fingers he beckons you over, and you refuse, remaining frozen in place with wide eyes and a shaking head. Only with a second, more fervorous demand of his hand do you reluctantly tiptoe in his direction. 

He hovers a gloved finger over his lips, shushing you, and holds out a barring arm to keep you behind the corner. You look up at him with your lips sealed, unblinking and awaiting instruction. He cranes his head and holds his covered mouth beside your ear. 

“Listen,” he orders; a whisper so low it is barely a breath, directly into the cavern of your ear, and your warmth oozes through the knit of his mask. “Listen to everything they say, yeah? I’m going to check whatever they’ve left out here.” 

You remain dead still, and without a physical response, he insists; “Alright?” 

“Yes,” you breathe, with a feeble nod. 

“Good. Stay quiet.” 

He reels back from you, then, and turns away before the compulsion to remain and watch over you overtakes his drive to fulfil his mission. He almost succeeds, passing through the kitchen’s exit, before your soft whisper hooks him by the ankle and rivets him in place; 

“Be careful.”

He releases a ragged sigh. You are a winsome liability, aren’t you? 

He wishes, more than anything, that he could tuck you away - lock you in a cupboard, or a bunker, or ship you off in a helicopter - so that the risk of harm coming to you would cease from plaguing his every thought. He has one - one objective. His prescribed mission is not to keep you safe, not to hover behind you like a shadow, not to fight off the hounds that might want a taste of you. His task is to get his intel on the Ultranationalist’s imminent genocide, to prevent the deaths of tens, hundreds of thousands - and all he can think about, is you.

He turns his head, barely lets himself get a glimpse of you over his shoulder. He feels your eyes on his back, the claws of a cat scratching at the door to be let in. 

“I will,” he grumbles, faltering before he breaks free. 

You’ll be fine, he tells himself. He repeats it over as his distance from you stretches thin. You’ll be fine. 

Houndtooth [17]

Your stomach drops heavy once your protector leaves your line of sight.

His return to the cold and clinical demeanour you knew best was jarring, but unsurprising. Perhaps it’s for the best, to imagine him a mercenary and not the man who has bared his face to you. His loyalties might be more plain, then. His motivations more in line with what you’d expect. You’ve paid him to protect you, and he’ll fulfill his contract as best as he is able. That’s the only level of devotion you have come to know. 

You don’t shift your feet from where they are planted, from where he had ordered you to stay. There is some reassurance to be found in explicit instruction. Ever since the first man arrived at your door, you have been nauseatingly adrift; as though you had suddenly forgotten what to say, how to act, beneath the looming fear that every word might make obvious your espionage. The stakes are now higher than your own self-preservation, for the first time in your life. You want to do right. You want to be good.

You know these men. You know how rarely they mean what they say, how often they hide secrets between their words. You know who you are to them. What you are. You know how they look at you, what they think of when they do. What they see. What they remember.

You wait by the corner, as still and silent as a gravestone, with your ear close to the wall. 

They speak in hushed baritones with one another, entirely in Russian, unaware of their eavesdropper. You focus your attention on each of the voices - most of which you recognise, and can distinguish - others, you cannot. 

“We had Konni do a thorough sweep of the entire estate once we sent her off. They found nothing.” Sergei, you determine. 

“Nothing? Fucking nothing, you say? Victor’s entire militia was wiped off the face of the earth - I don’t believe the men who did that left nothing behind.” 

The venom in that voice is potent even through the wall that blocks him from sight - Vladimir. 

“Nothing. No bullet casings that didn’t belong to the same guns the guards used. Even the boot marks were the same as their uniform.” 

A different man chimes in. “What, so one of the guards did it?” 

“No, fool. Someone with enough intel did this. It was well planned.” 

“It makes no sense to me. If all they wanted was to assassinate the bastard, why would they go to the effort of slaughtering an army of security?” 

You hear an irate groan from Makarov. “There was something else they wanted. Killing Victor does nothing. They’ll be as aware of that as we are.” 

“We found nothing to suggest Victor’s digital assets were compromised. It didn’t look like they even touched the vault.”  

“They didn’t kill every person on the property to get to one man. Your Konni friends found nothing because they are fucking inept. We’ll have the premises swept again by somebody competent.” 

“Fine. I’ll talk to Arkady.” 

“What, then? Who do you think it was?” 

“I have guesses,” Makarov seethes, and you can hear the signature drumming of his knuckles on the table. 

Another man, a voice you don’t recognise, addresses Sergei; “You got nothing else out of the girl?” 

Your ribs tighten at your mention. 

“She said they sounded Ukrainian. I don’t know. I don’t believe she has a clue.” 

“You’re soft on her, Sergei. You let her lie to you and you’re too stupid to tell.” 

“I made sure-”

“She knows you’re stupid, too. You saw the state of her. They were with her for a while. She will have heard more than their fucking accents.” 

“What do you want me to do? Torture the poor girl after she watched her husband die?” 

Then, a sudden yell. “Mia!” 

Your blood turns to lead, and you immediately back away from the door. Did Vladimir see you? Hear you? Was he calling you to enter, or expressing that you were to blame? 

On the tips of your toes, you silently retreat into the kitchen, lean against the counter so that it might appear to a spectator that you were busy with the dishes and not listening in on a confidential conversation. Your heartbeat shudders in your ears. Your knuckles turn white. 

The bellow thunders out once again, in English - for you. “Mia, come in here, now!” 

You feel fragile. You might faint. You stare at the knives in the knife block and imagine it might be easier for you to slice one of them through your own throat, than to be trapped in a room with those men again. You might have even gone through with such an ideation, if you hadn’t reminded yourself of the stakes that supersede your survival.  

It takes every weary synapse in your brain to force the movement of a single muscle, before you can begin to inch yourself in the direction of the dining room in earnest. Your body resents it with every fibre of its being. Your knees shiver with every step. 

You see them through the glass door before you open it. All leaned back in their chairs, surrounding the vast dining table in the centre of the room; Vladimir at the head, where he always wanted to sit. He glowers at you through the glass. Spots you even when you try to hide in the shadow. 

Meekly opening the door, the shrill squeak of the hinges echoes across the silent room, and all the heads turn on their necks to face you. Every set of beady eyes lands on you at once, and you can feel each of them; hot brands, sizzling and mean, on every part of you.

The air of the room is heavy and warm, reeks of cigar smoke and corked wine. You suck in a quivering breath, arms pinned to your side, as you wait for someone to speak. You can’t bring yourself to say the first word. 

“Shut the door,” Vladimir orders dryly, cigarette in his lips. 

You do as you’re told, and close the door with a heavy clunk. 

“Come here.” 

He beckons for you with two fingers. He watches you as intently as the others do, and their heads follow you as you carefully float closer to the table. You remain on the opposite side to the man who called for you, and hope he doesn’t demand you any closer. 

“The men who killed your beloved husband,” he begins, a tug in the corner of his mouth as he says the word. “Sergei tells me you think they were Ukrainian?” 

You chew your lip, near the point of drawing blood, before you can croak out a response. 

“Or Kastovian,” you utter. “I couldn’t - it sounded like Russian but I couldn’t understand what they were saying very well.” 

“Very well?” He interrogates, unrelenting. “Or not at all?” 

It takes you a moment to think of a lie on your feet. Who could the imaginary assassins have been? What do you imagine they might have said? What can you tell the men in front of you to goad them into spilling some information that they shouldn’t? 

“They - there were a few words I understood, but, I d-didn’t know what they meant by them.” 

“Like what.” 

“They kept referring to, um, флешка - I think, is what they said. Like, a USB drive?” 

With every lie you utter, your adrenaline picks up threefold. You feel it buzzing in the tips of your fingers and prickling in your scalp. 

Vladimir shoots a pointed glare at Sergei, who adjusts his blazer instead of acknowledging the wordless accusation. 

“What else.” 

“I don’t - I’m not sure. I thought they might have said something about a - a warehouse. But I don’t know if I have the word right-”

“What was the word?” His vicious impatience cuts through the air like a knife, you feel the blade at your skin.  

“Завод.” Factory . 

You know the word. You’re pretending to be clueless. 

Vladimir slams the surface of the table with both hands - the startling bang makes you jump and sends a shockwave of fright from your chest to your extremities. 

He addresses Sergei in Russian with a renewed fury, and his eyes bulge with it; “Fucking idiot. You could have asked her this and we would have known forty-eight hours sooner.” 

Sergei rolls his eyes. “Give me a break. She was concussed when we found her.” 

“So they know about Mialstor?” A man whose face you recognise asks, and your ears perk. 

“How the fuck would they know about that?” Someone else. 

“Maybe we’ve got a leak to plug.” Another opines. 

Vladimir’s eyes return to you, then. Fixed and curious. “Remember anything else, девочка?” Girl?  

You exert every muscle to maintain some level of confidence in your character. A mournful widow, forced to remember the night her husband was slaughtered in her bed. At the notion you remember the true moment you lost him - the bullet shot through the back of his head, the seizing of his limbs once his skull was split open, the expression that remained in his vacant eyes once he was gone. You let the tears well. You let your feeble body tremble with its horror and grief. 

“Not - not much else,” you croak. “One h-hit me in the head - I didn’t wake up until they were all gone.” 

“Mh,” he ponders, dissatisfied. “Did he hit you hard?”

The blatant delight behind his question almost makes you wince, and you stumble on any words you try to give him. “I- I don’t - I suppose so-”

“More than once?” 

“I don’t know,” you answer eagerly, flustered, you feel the burning in your cheeks as the intensity of his barrage only tumefies, a blister ready to burst. 

“What do you think they did while you were out?” He drills. 

“I wasn’t-”

“Were your clothes on when you woke up, Mia?”

A snort blurts out from another man at the table, another whom you recognise. “Fuck’s sake, Vlad,” he chides, with a deeply ill-placed humour. “Victor’s only been gone a day.” 

Vladimir chortles, taking a drag of the stub of his cigarette, and it becomes evident he was hounding you more for his amusement than any hunt for information. 

“Didn’t stop him last time,” another says. 

The floor quakes beneath you. It might open up and swallow you whole. You hope it does. You hope they can’t see how you shake, how your eyes twitch, how your knees threaten to buckle as you listen to them joke about it - you must conceal it, because as far as they are aware, you cannot understand them. 

There’s a chorus of acrid laughter between the dogs as they reminisce on it. The few that weren’t there must have heard about it from the ones that were, because they laugh too. You wonder how detailed their descriptions were. How vivid their storytelling. 

Your eyes sting. 

“Give him another vodka and he’ll have her up on the table again.” 

More chuckling. 

“We don’t have the props for it this time.” 

“I’m sure we can find some. In the kitchen, I bet. You going to grab the cucumbers again, Vlad?”

“No, look at him. He’s still bitter he couldn’t get her to use the knife.” 

“No Victor to worry about this time, eh?” 

Your body is numb, your tongue is dry. Vladimir hasn’t taken his ferine eyes off of you for the duration of their perverted raillery. He simply wears a fading smirk, takes the odd puff of his wet cigarette, watching the minutiae of your expressions as if you’re as entertaining as a television. Glares at your terror and shame like it is pornography. 

You can see it in the pits of his predatory stare, that he knows you can glean the topic of their conversation. He wants you to know. He wants you to remember what you had devoted yourself to forgetting in the years since it had happened. What you had done before you knew you could refuse their demands, before you had the well-established status of a wife, before you understood you’d be stuck in their country for the remainder of your life. 

There was no refusing them, but they hadn’t needed to force you - nor to order you, nor to touch you at all. Not a hand was laid on you. No, you were so uncertain of your fate, that you did it willingly. 

Therein lies the root of Vladimir’s mirth. He calls you a whore with his mouth shut. He makes you remember all of it, at the funeral of the very man to whom you had feigned fidelity. The man who remained blissfully unaware that you had debased yourself in front of the comrades he worked with daily until his dying breath. 

The bile rises in your throat, and you spin urgently on your heel - rushing out of the room in hasty stride, retreating in the midst of their degenerate laughter. 

“She figured it out!” One hollers, and you leave the door ajar as you hurry into the kitchen. 

Panic and resentment swells hot and fiery under your skin, you feel close to bursting with it - every limb, every sinew of you writhes with the vicious humiliation that they have pumped you so full of. It is all such fun for them, endlessly entertaining to see how terrified they can make you, hilariously satisfying when you succumb to it. 

In your urgency you sweep the bottle of Bombay Sapphire from the counter, gripping it by the neck, and carting it with you as you march out of the kitchen. Flick off the cap as you storm down the corridor. Shove the open top between your lips, and suck down a hard mouthful. It makes you cough, but the harsh burn of its crawl down your throat is the only source of comfort you can find in your frenzy. You swallow another, and another. Maybe if you drink enough of it you might go to sleep and never wake up. 

You have to tell your guard dog what you’ve learned, first. You have to do something right, anything to make up for your complacency in your husband’s dreams of genocide, before you even think to check out early. 

You have to find him. 

Once you reach the foyer, though, you hear the beating of footsteps fast approaching, and your heart drops to your feet. 

A growl. “Where are you running?” 

Vladimir followed you. Sniffed after you like the bloodhound he is. 

Your body screams at you to run from him, but you only manage a few steps backward as though trudging through knee-deep tar - and before you can turn, he is two paces from you. 

There is no option but to surrender, then, and your bones turn soft. 

His hooks are in you before you utter a noise, thumb and forefingers digging into your cheeks as he drives you by the head - wrangles you against a wall, in the dark and silent hallway, out of earshot from anybody else in the building. 

You pant into his palm, eyes watering at the severity of his grip, brows knitted as you hold back the sob that nudges its way up your throat. 

“Why are you alive, Mia?” He snarls, his eyes as black as the shadow he hides in, as manic as a rabid dog. 

“W-what?” You groan, near a cry, dizzied by his question. 

He jolts you, a violent shove into the wall he has you pinned to, if only to make you squeak. “They killed everyone on that estate. Every single man. Even the dogs. But not you?” 

The sob you had been struggling to suppress leaps out from your teeth, you feel yourself begin to shrink. “I don’t unders-”

He moves his grasp from your face to your collarbone, hooking rough fingers into the slash neckline of your dress. With a violent yank he stretches down the hem, close to tearing the fabric - and reveals the plum and yellow bruising on your sternum, the ambiguous scrapes that speckle your skin. Utterly unnecessary, for whatever point he is attempting to make - there are plenty of visible bruises sprinkled over the parts of you not covered by fabric, and yet, he sought to reveal that one. 

“You want me to believe they kept you alive for what, for fun?” He seethes, and you feel the splatter of his saliva on your face with every consonant. “That they wouldn’t have finished you off once they were done with you?”

Every lie you might utter in your defense turns to mist in your mouth. You feel every tear he pulls in your story, excruciating as if it were your own skin. 

He stoops closer to you, mere inches between your face and his. “What did you do for them, hm? What did you bargain with?” 

Nothing you can say will do anything to help you, now. He isn’t interested in whatever excuse you spit out. He doesn’t care whether or not you are innocent. 

He is just playing with his food. 

He makes plain his appetite when he holds his face against yours, his carnivorous teeth grind against the shell of your ear. 

“What happened, Mia?” 

You shut your eyes, a reflex, some subconscious effort to hide from his bombardment of questions and his nauseating proximity - until a sudden release of pressure forces a torrent of air from between your teeth, and the claws that had nestled into your flesh you no longer restrain you. 

A shriek escapes you as your assailant is forcibly torn away by his collar, and he is tossed backward like a kicked dog. 

In the blurry dark you struggle to see who had broken you free, but you know who it is. You can hear his ragged breathing, you can hear the cracking of his knuckles as he reels back his elbow and wrenches his gloved hand into a stone fist. 

And while he still holds the Russian by the lapel of his jacket, he jettisons his clubbed hand into the centre of his face with such a force that the thwack of the collision cuts through the air like a gunshot, echoed by the splintering of bone under skin. A strike so brutal that your guard dog must have broken his own knuckles upon impact, and he almost follows his victim on his way down. 

But he catches himself with a boot, and towers unruffled over Vladimir, who tumbles hard into the opposite wall and only just prevents himself from collapsing onto the tiled floor. The black of his blood splatters the white wall behind him, and oozes from his nostrils, coating his lips. 

A turgid silence then settles like smoke. 

It fills up your lungs as you wait, deathly silent and pressing your back against the wall, for the impending eruption. A gunshot, a roar for backup, a retaliatory strike with a fist or a knife. You know well what the man is capable of. The lengths he will go to to punish any perceived profanation. A knife would be the most gentle, most charitable penalty, regardless of where he put it. 

Instead, Vladimir sniffs as he stands himself straight, propped up by the wall, swallowing the blood that pools in his mouth with a foul gulp. 

He glowers at you. Burrowing. Torture in itself, for many moments too long - to you, an eternity of silence within which he can wordlessly threaten you. You know the many fates that have befallen others, each more harrowing, more gut-wrenching than the last. Acid, fire, gas, steel. He makes you shrink, your eyes dry, and you look down from him on instinct. 

His glare then shifts to the man that had so violently come to your aid. There’s a glimmer of recognition in the hollows of his eyes. A quirk in the corner of his mouth. An unspoken understanding. 

He says nothing. You feel the weight of it in the pit of your stomach.

A brief grin stretches in his lips; blood filling every gap between his teeth, smile painted red. “Милая Миа.” Dear Mia, he coos. “Что ты наделала?” What have you done? 

“Get out,” you croak, voice breaking; the command tumbles from your mouth and surprises even yourself. Emboldened by the masked shadow that stands between him and yourself. 

His twitching smile returns for a single snicker, as though pleased with your brief retaliation. He waits, for a pregnant pause, before he decides to give you a single nod. 

“Victor left a lot of important things behind, mh?,” he says pointedly, with an uncanny smirk, as though he had said it to purposefully confound you. 

You do not blink as he steps around your protector, and brushes past you on his way to the front door. His gait utterly unaffected by the blow to the head,he stands tall and proud as always, as though he had not been struck at all, as though his nose weren’t shattered by a deserved fist. He adjusts his jacket as he opens the door, and cold air floods into the room. 

The clamour of the others crowding out of their meeting room echoes from down the hallway, too late to intervene, and you stay furtively silent, unmoving so as not to draw their attention. 

“What the fuck happened?” An approaching voice calls out, in Russian, and Vladimir looks up as he coolly sticks a cigarette in his teeth. 

He offers nothing but a shrug, and a dim smile. “We’ve outstayed our welcome.” 

Houndtooth [17]

You remain tucked against the wall behind you as the rest of your dismissed guests file out of the front door, murmuring spitefully after being ordered to leave by their superior. 

Ghost keeps his post steadfast, standing in front of you, a barricade; eyes following every one of the pigs as they are herded out before he follows behind the very last one. 

He slams shut the door the moment the last hoof is clear of the frame, and he locks the deadbolt with a clunk. Through the sliver of a window beside the door he watches them fill their black cars, listens to their engines churn, before they finally pull off in a convoy down the driveway, and their headlights disappear among the trees. 

He hears your mousy breathing in the subsequent silence. 

His back remains to you while he finds the right words to say, and it doesn’t take him long to determine there are none. An apology would fall on deaf ears. A check on your welfare would be salt in the wound. He left you alone with them, after all. Alone with the very creature you had warned him about so vociferously. What might he have done if Ghost had taken a minute longer to find you with him? 

Do you blame him as much as he blames himself? 

Once he turns to look at you, though, you have already wandered off down the hall; your faltering silhouette disappears into your empty kitchen. 

He could leave you be. He could, if he chose to, let you recover in solitude. He considers it as he unbuckles the straps of his cumbersome vest, pulls it over his head and dumps it on the tiles. As he unstraps the velcro bands of his gloves, plucking them off by his fingers and leaving them on the console table. Maybe you want nothing more than to be alone, than to curl up and hide from everyone who has assailed you. Himself included. 

What happened the last several times he left you by yourself, unguarded?

He isn’t ignorant of his selfishness when he chooses to follow you. 

He hears you pacing before he passes through the open door, hears your frenetic panting echoing from where you bite your nails by the island counter in the centre of the kitchen. 

You catch his eye and freeze in place. 

Before he can utter a word, you cock back your bottle of gin behind your head, clutching it by its neck. You catapult it at him without warning - it whistles as it barrels through the air, before it explodes against the top jamb of the doorway in an ear-splitting crash . He holds up a defensive arm and turns his head away, to protect himself from the shards of blue that spray out from the collision and the spiced liquor that rains down on him with it.  

He stills, utterly agog - you only glare at him, the dim downward light above you illuminates the bulging mania in your eyes. You radiate a fury that he never imagined you capable of, and he can feel the shuddering heat of it from where he stands. 

“You fucked us!” You roar, so ferociously that your once soft voice breaks in the strain. He can see it thundering in your temples, twitching in the tendons of your neck, red on your chest - a rage so harrowing it makes your eyes wet. 

“Did you hear me?” You shout. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” 

There’s nothing he can say, and nothing he wants to. He feels no compulsion to calm you down.

You storm towards him with heavy feet - plant both palms into his chest, and shove him backward with all of your might. He stumbles back a step, he offers you that, but he stands his ground. 

“You - you promised!” You wail, your broken expression shifting from wrath to heartache and back again. “You told me I could go home if I could get what you needed. You told me I could go home, and now you’ve fucking taken it away again. For fuck’s sake, you hit him! He knows, he knows , I have no chance, no chances left. You told him everything he needed to know and you didn’t even say anything!”

It is clear to him that his lack of reaction is only engorging your anger, but he doesn’t want to dampen it. 

He can’t bring himself to take it from you. 

“Are you fucking stupid? Are you? You - you - you’ve fucking killed us both! You gave away everything. You gave it away. You gave me up! What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

In the midst of your tirade he watches your arm wind up, and you swing it with a force, open palm smacking into the side of his face - hard enough to knock his head to the side, vicious enough to sting even through the knit of his mask. 

Your violence is almost a relief, to him - he cannot justify it. Have you ever, ever been given the chance? The space? The opportunity to erupt as viciously as you do now, without the dire retaliation that would inevitably follow? 

How many years worth of torment, hatred, agony, wrath have been packed so deep into you that they’ve been embedded into the very fibers of your being? How many years have you been forced to withstand the ever-building pressure, bursting at the seams with it? 

“You’re as pig-headed as the fucking rest of them. It was all your idea and now you’ve ruined it! I - I told you. I told you what fucking animals they were and you dragged me here anyway - now what? Are you going to punch every single one of them?”

In your fury you reach upwards and take the forehead of his mask in a tight fist - tearing it off his head in a single pull before savagely throwing it across the room. He remains stone-faced, he keeps his lips sealed, his hands by his side. He watches your every movement with heavy eyes. 

Your fiery glare scratches about his face now that you have forcibly exposed it, and after a blink, you truly succumb to your apoplexy. You slam your fists into his chest, another attempt to shove him, and he gives way to you with a step back. 

“You never think , are you even capable of forming a fucking thought? No, you just attack whoever or whatever gets in your way - anything you don’t like - just maul everything like you’re a fucking dog. You’re dogs. You’re all dogs!” 

Another shove, more flailing hands, he cedes to you under every attack. You force him backwards until his back hits the wall behind him, and you berate him still. 

“You - they - everything you fucking touch, why does it always hurt? You just can’t fucking stop yourselves from biting, can you? Always scratching and grabbing and fucking hitting and breaking - never once, not once - do you ever think it might hurt? Always so hungry for more, and more, do you ever think I might be fucking hungry, too? God - that I don’t want to scratch you and grab you and hit you and break you? No - you - you all just fucking laugh when I tell you to stop or to shut the fuck up, for once . It’s always so funny to you, to think that I might want to fucking maim as badly as you do.” 

Is he still the one you are referring to? 

Does the pith of your rage lie beyond him? Is he merely the receptacle of it? The catalyst? 

In the blast radius of your onslaught, he finds himself rapt. 

The rest of the room, of the mission, of the country, of the world beyond it - it all dissolves into fog. You, an ember, the only thing lambent enough to see. Speechless, because you have finally burned away any image of you he had cloaked, smothered you with since he found you. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You thunder, though your rage has begun to barely cool into indignant exasperation. “Fucking say something!” 

Is it your real self, now? Unfettered, unaltered, raw? Has it always been? 

“What do you want me to say,” he murmurs hoarsely, head tilted down to meet your eye. 

Out of breath, you let out an incensed groan, wiping down your face with red hands. “I want - I-”

Your brows knit in frustration as you seem to hunt for the words, reluctant to let them out - you chew on the inside of your lip, glaring at him, eyes forlorn despite the anger you radiate. 

“I want you to tell me everything will be okay.” 

Houndtooth [17]

You grow humiliated in the silence he leaves after your answer. 

Your eruption has left you ragged, shaking with the tsunami of adrenaline that flooded you from your neck to your feet, that poured your soul out through your teeth. 

Once it began, there was no swallowing it. The wrath in your bones controlled every movement, the spite in your tongue, every word. It drips from you, still, in the quiet - you can almost hear it landing on the floor, soaking into the slate. 

You weren’t sure who you aimed to hurl it at. Who you envisioned as the target of your bombardment. You fired at the skullhead who kidnapped you, at the American soldier who stripped and tortured you, at your genocidal husband, at the ophidian cunts at your dinner table, at the apotheosis of your fear, the wolf who goaded them into defiling you. At your father, at your secondary school teacher, at your johns and your bookers. 

Even at the man under the mask, who has only existed to you in moments of his humanity - Simon, whose face is only unveiled when he deigns to be compassionate. 

You didn’t expect his apathy. You climbed to the peak of your rage and girded yourself for his retaliation, anticipating that he would reflect your abuse back to you tenfold, your outburst quashed. Instead, he absorbed it like a scream into a pillow. Siphoned all the anger out of you and let it pool at his feet. 

His face is bare, now, and expressionless - yet, laden with infinitely more to say than you have so far seen in it. His lids hang low over his amber eyes, and they do not leave you. Do you see apologies in them? Pity? Familiarity? They flay you with their candour, and you cannot break away from them. 

“God - even if it’s a lie,” you grimace, resenting every second of silence he forces you to fill. “Just say it.”

His lips remain shut, but barely held closed. You follow the pink scar that splits them up his cheek, where it stops at the bone. You look at the shallow crow’s feet that spider out from the corners of his burdened eyes, more likely from a life of squinting through scopes than a life of laughter. At the concentration of freckles on the bridge of his nose, and under his eyes - the parts of his face most often exposed to the sun, the rest hidden under his skull-faced identity. At the bend in his nose, fragile bones within it once broken, maybe twice, and never truly healed.

The armour of fury sloughs off from you, in pieces, as you wait for him to speak. To say what you want him to say. To do what you asked. Is he staying silent as retribution for your tirade? Or is it too much of a lie to even utter?

“Just say it,” you exhale, resigned, as you keel forward. 

You don’t spare a moment to second guess yourself, to think better - as you lean into him, and drop your forehead to his sternum. You rest your weight in him. You need the solace of human warmth, too weary to stand on your own. You hope he’ll hold you upright, at least, for a moment. 

His heart beats directly into your skull. The fleece of his jersey is soft on your skin, the thick padding of his chest so gentle, so cushiony to sink into. 

You anticipated more rigidity, that he’d turn to stone upon your touch - but, instead, a warm and wide hand settles at the back of your head, and your eyes flutter shut. 

You rise and fall with his ribs as he draws deep a breath, you feel him sigh, as he rocks his head back against the wall he leans on. You can feel it in his touch, hear it in his breathing; he doesn’t know what to do with you. The whiplash of your outburst has confounded yourself more than it possibly could him.

“It’ll be okay,” he grumbles, the words barely make it past the gravel in his throat. 

The vibration of his voice reverberates directly into your head, makes your mind buzz, and you turn your head to press your ear to his chest. 

Whatever line you have crossed - torn through - is long behind you, now. Whatever rationality you had left has long since crumbled through your fingers. You untuck your hands from beneath you, slide them up his chest - you slither your arms over his shoulders, around his neck, and you stand on your toes to reach. 

His reaction is delayed, almost hesitant - you can hear, feel the arguments he wages with himself. But you feel his breathing in your hair, warm and hazy, and his thick arm hooks reverently around your waist, forearm nestling in the small of your back. 

“Are you lying?” You breathe, your nose brushing the skin at the crook of his shoulder, where the collar of his fleece meets the zipper. 

Your fingers drag up the back of his neck, the skin there burning hot; you brush through the buzzed-short hair at the base of his skull, and your other hand grabs at the back of his jersey. There are no justifications for your actions; merely the machinations of a disillusioned machine, aching for some unfindable comfort. Maybe you’ll find it in him. 

He bends downward to meet you, and you needn’t stand on your toes anymore - both of his mammoth arms wrap around you in earnest. His broad hand glides up the nape of your neck, fingers weaving with the hair that remains in a collapsing bun at the back of your head. He doesn’t yet pull you in very tightly, though - as if fighting to allow you room to escape, convinced you’ll change your mind and break free at a hair trigger. 

His lips graze the shell of your ear, feather down the side of your neck, and your stomach drops. 

“Don’t know,” he murmurs into the skin of your shoulder, gooseflesh prickling out from where his mouth ghosts over your skin. 

His arms tighten, only just; the button of his trousers scrapes against your belly as you weld yourself to him. You snake a hand down his torso, fingertips traversing the hills and troughs of his pectorals, catching in the small folds of fleece, scratching the length of his zipper. 

Once you reach his stomach, though, he is quick to cuff you by the wrist with a firm hand. 

“Don’t do that,” he huffs, his lips retreating from where they almost found purchase in your skin, but didn’t commit to taste. 

Disappointment deflates your fervour, and you cannot take it. You feel compelled to explain yourself, but any desperate excuse you can muster is too pathetic to utter aloud.

You want it. You need it - just once, the embrace of somebody who doesn’t get off on hurting you. Who doesn’t hate you, who doesn’t leave the bruises of his hatred behind when he is done with you. You can’t even rightly claim that the man you now cling to won’t do the same, but your longing belief that he won’t is enough to spur you into craving him. 

Perhaps he thinks it’s immoral, to touch, to feel, to taste his prisoner of war. Is that really where he’d draw the line? 

“I want to,” you insist; it emerges as a trembling whisper, scarcely a breath, and you bunch the thick fleece of his jersey in your fists. 

He lets out a hounded breath, pent up within his ribs, and his grip on your wrist only grows tighter. He reels his head upward, his stubbled chin grazes your cheek before he widens the gap between his face and yours and leans his back against the wall. 

“What,” he grunts, tone tender yet goading. “What do you want.” 

Is he really going to make you say it? 

Do you even have an answer? 

You don’t know what you want from him, not in any way that you can adequately explain. Asking him to fuck you would be too crude to articulate what you truly, deeply crave. You don’t want him to bend you over, you don’t want him to simply fill you up and leave you empty. No, you want him surrounding you, against you, inside you - you want the sensation of soft skin, of praising hands, of indulging mouths. You want to be corporeal again, a tender human and not an animal, a woman and not a spayed bitch. You want to be adored, not consumed. Needed more than wanted. 

The thought of speaking any of it aloud forces you to reckon with the unadulterated lunacy of what you are doing, of what you want to do. Clawing for the man, the soldier, the war criminal, that abducted you and slaughtered your husband. 

But, in your thirst, you mould your reservations like soft clay. 

Maybe the man he executed wasn’t your beloved husband, but a manipulative, perfidious sociopath, who kept you around as a pedigree showpiece and a hole to fuck. Maybe you were more pleased at the sight of the corpse than you had let yourself believe. 

Maybe your abduction was in fact a rescue, offering you the only breath of freedom or hope of escape you had ever been granted. Maybe the mission of espionage he forcehanded you into was not purely a death sentence, but an opportunity to do something that actually matters, for once, to make right the horrors you had been blindly complicit in.

You aren’t certain how much you believe any of your excuses, but, the longer you hold your tongue, the louder they ring true. 

Your eyes fix to the thrumming of his arteries under his tense jaw, the movement of his adam’s apple as he swallows. The satin sheen of sweat on his skin, despite the cold air of the empty kitchen. 

Your misgivings spill like milk, and you take a sip of air. 

“I just-” You hesitate, quiet words knotting your tongue. “I just want to feel good.”

He stills for a beat, before the hand he had shackled around your wrist loosens - he grazes it up the length of your arm, settling into the crook of your neck, his thumb brushing the underside of your jaw. His dusky eyes inspect you down the bridge of his nose. 

“Y’want me to make you feel good?” He murmurs richly, voice low. 

The surge in your chest turns your blood thick, and hot; you feel it flood into the apples your cheeks, into the tips of your fingers, into the crux of the pulsing bead between your legs. 

Your lips barely part, your heavy eyes flicker about his face, your fists open flat on his stomach. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eye when you nod, barely moving your head, too diffident to bravely admit it. 

He wedges the tip of his thumb under your jaw, and hinges your head backward, insisting you look at him. A warm shiver trickles down your spine as he cranes his head, his breathing tickles your lips. 

“Say it.” 

He’s tormenting you. Your tongue is too fevered to form the words for you, it takes a tremulous breath to gather them. 

“I want you t-”

Your confession is cut short, when he closes the narrow distance and presses his open lips into yours, too impatient to await the full sentence. It sucks the air from your lungs, but it doesn’t startle you - no, you sink into him the instant you taste him, opening your mouth to him with an ardour you have never been so consumed by. He clutches your head with both hands and almost lifts you by it as he kisses you, thick fingers weaving into your hair, rooting keenly in your scalp. 

His tongue tastes of cinnamon chewing gum and the smoke of your Benson and Hedges, decidedly softer than you would have expected, when you lave yours against his in your mouth. Your eager claws climb over the sides of his torso, digging into his back - pulling yourself as deeply into him as your bodies allow it, you want his warmth so firm against you that you might absorb it from him.

His lips drag from yours to plant wetly on your cheek, trailing to gnaw at the underside of your jaw, to taste your jugular with an open mouth - his teeth graze the tendons of your neck, but he doesn’t bite. Only lavishes your skin with a fervour that leaves you flustered and short of breath. 

You offer him no such tenderness - you mouth at the skin behind his ear, taste the salt of his sweat on your tongue, teeth burrowing into the fleshy muscles of his neck like you might take a bite out of him. Your avaricious fingers scratch up the back of his scalp, combing through his cropped hair, burrowing your nails into his skull as you clutch him so covetously. 

His right hand runs downward from your shoulder, sweeping the hollow of your waist, over your hip and down the side of your thigh. With his fingers he rakes the heavy silk of your dress up, up, up, and deftly gathers the fabric in a fist at your hip. 

You gasp as he grapples you by the thighs with both hands and hoists you smoothly upward, parting your legs so that they wrap around his hips. He carries you three fluid steps forward, before planting you on the edge of the marble island counter in the centre of the kitchen. The countertop is biting cold against the bare skin under your skirt, and he wedges your legs open with his torso. In your impatience you clutch his head by the jaw with two eager hands, dragging him downward to kiss you again, teeth clacking together ungracefully in your ferocity. 

You feel his thick fingers slither up your thighs, to your hips - they hook into the waistband of your underwear, and your heart jumps to your throat. He plucks them downward, lifting you just slightly to pull them over the swell of your ass, shimmying them down your thighs with an urgency that dizzies you. 

He pulls away from your mouth with a ragged breath, and your hungry hands lose grip of him - he shifts back to drag your panties to your knees, and he sinks downward as he pulls them to your ankles, off your feet. You don’t see where he drops them, and he doesn’t come back up. 

No, he remains on his knees beneath you. Doesn’t even take a breath before he plunges between your legs, doesn’t spare a second to admire your cunt for his own satisfaction, doesn’t waste a moment teasing you, nor preparing you - he parts your shamefully sodden lips with an overindulgent tongue, laving from your fluttering opening to your puffy clitoris in a single taste. You choke on air in the shock, flurried and light-headed, catching yourself from buckling over with hands atop his head. 

He eats you like a hound, messy and greedy, sucking your clit between his teeth and then releasing it with a smear of a flat tongue. The noises you make are embarrassing, unfamiliar - you have only ever performed them, sweet and delicate moans, music tailored to the man pretending to please you. Instead you choke, squeak, whimper like you are drowning in rapture as thick as honey, and the sounds spring from your throat despite your efforts to contain them. 

He rivets you to the counter with two expansive hands, fingertips bore into the pillow of your hips, holding the skirt of your dress up and out of his way. His coarse stubble chafes against the inside of your thighs, you feel every movement of his jaw as it opens wide and clamps shut. Your talons rake through his hair, scratch into his scalp with nearly enough force to break the skin. Your clit burns hot under his ravening, tender and hypersensitive - you gasp for air with every graze of his tongue, bite out a whine with every suckle. 

Neck growing weak, your head falls back from your shoulders; with it, you collapse backward and land against the countertop, knocking over a stemmed wine glass that shatters loudly and sprinkles glass over the marble and the floor. You do not notice it, back arching as though in a fit, spine contorting as you unwittingly buck your hips away from his mouth, but he follows you. 

He keeps the impetus of your pleasure under his tongue despite your writhing, reminding you of his strength when you involuntarily try to evade him. He does not restrain you with brutality, though - his hands are simply demanding, guiding, and as your squirming eases they soften their grip. One loosens and glides along the outside of your thigh, languid and tender across your skin, settling at your knee and steadying its position hanging over his shoulder. 

The knowing gentleness of his touch, the caution in the caress of his fingers, the overindulgence of his tongue - emulsify into a surge of liquid heat, unctuous and boiling. It floods scalding from the core of you, through the vessels and nerves of every extremity, pumping into the centre of your spoiled clit and setting it alight. You come in his mouth with a fervency that suffocates you, and you choke on a keening cry as he sucks more out of you - it charges through you in waves as you tumble over the edge of it, forcing you to jolt as though electrified, over, and over, until you finally plant a heel on his collarbone and push him off of you. 

You whine as you exhale, no air left in your lungs, as his mouth finally peels from your cunt. You take a moment to recover, back flat against the cold stone, eyes fluttering shut as the aftershock of your orgasm keeps you twitching. 

His rabid breathing echoes yours in the silence of the room, and you tilt up your head to look at him down the length of your nose. His murky stare catches yours over your mound; his eyes stygian in the shadows as he glowers at you from under his brow, reflecting a faint glint of light in their centre. His mouth hangs open, your liquid and his soaking his lips and dripping from his chin. 

He pants like a dog. 

You’re still hungry. 

Houndtooth [17]

The taste of you lingers in his mouth, and he refuses to swallow. 

He savours it for as long as he can, letting your heady syrup soak into his tongue, he wants it imbibed by every taste bud. Your sweet breathing is music, spent whines almost as euphonious as the sounds of your orgasm, velvet in his ears - he relives the feeling of your needy clit spasming against his tongue, how eagerly it twitched when he persisted in spoiling it, and resists the urge to take it in his mouth again. 

Your lethargic eyes cling to him, blinking slowly, lips wet. 

Did that feel good, little thing? 

Did he surfeit you? 

Was he soft enough? 

He tried to be. Christ, he tried - he exerted every ounce of his strength to subdue the savagery that roiled within him, that threatened to forcibly breach the cage he muzzled it with. It doesn’t come naturally to him, touching without forcing, lavishing without teeth. It goes against every fibre of his being, in fact - he is a carnivore by nature, he hunts and he snares and he chews, he overpowers with strength and fear, he controls with the threat of his aggression. 

He had never practiced restraint until he met you. 

It was far easier, when you kept your distance, when you avoided his eyes, when you resisted his touch.

Now, you run your fingernails through his hair. You wrap your thighs around his neck. You blink at him winsomely, supplicating, awaiting his next move. Unaware or uncaring of the predator you tempt so pointedly, how much effort he employs to tame it in your presence. 

The animal in him has its own hunger - starved, in fact - its stare flicks to your cunt, inches from him, shuddering under the heat of his breathing. Pink and pillowy after his avaricious praise, glistening with its stickiness; your nectar seeps in a rivulet from your slit, clear and glossy. His cock is heavy, only growing heavier, thrumming rich with the blood you fill it with. 

He does not deserve it. 

He catches your eye again, as you push yourself upward to sit straight, and he forces himself to stand. His nose brushes up your silk-cladded stomach as he rises from his knees, and once he stands tall, his face is a hair’s breadth from yours. 

Your cheeks are rosy, shiny with the glow of the paroxysm he ate out of you. Lips bitten red, shimmery with your saliva, part gently to breathe. Hair mussed, askew, falling out of the updo you had pulled it into, pieces of it cascade in waves and frame your face. 

Fuck, you’re beautiful.

He could say it aloud, but he doesn’t. Is that what you want to hear? Does it even matter to you? 

Your gaze lingers on his lips, he watches your eyelashes as they flutter. You shift forward to press your mouth to his, lips barely open; you are reserved, shy about it, as if kissing him now is a crossing of a boundary, as if he could ever mount any boundaries against you. You need only blink at him and they crumble. 

Can you taste yourself in his mouth? 

Does it make you as ravenous as it does him? 

He feels your fingers on his stomach, scratching at the fleece - and like you tried to before, you trail them downward, past his navel, catching in the stiff waistband of his trousers. He lets out a grunt, a sigh, as he looks down to see your diffident fingers hook the button of his fly, pushing it through the eye with a dull pop. You move slowly, cautious about it, as if he can’t see, can’t feel where you venture. As though he might catch you in the act of your transgression, and you’d be in trouble.

Do you feel that you owe it to him? That he did it for a reward?

Tasting you was a reward in itself. One he could never have deserved, one he cannot yet fathom you deigned to grant him. 

Maybe it’s habit, all you have come to know - sex as a transaction, a contract you need to fulfil. That if you don’t open your cunt or your mouth to repay the favour, they’ll be opened for you, whether you like it or not. 

He can’t have that. He won’t let you offer yourself out of obligation, nor out of dread. Not with the knowledge of what he has done to you hanging heavy from his neck. Not with your wrathful words ringing poignantly in his skull. Because, you were right - he does scratch, and grab, and hit, and break, he spends every waking second hungry, and the compulsion to maim is written on, embedded in the flesh he consists of. His very being is anathema to you, and he should be. 

He refuses you, again, taking both of your little wrists in one hand, shackling them together and tugging them away from him. 

“Stop,” he grumbles, and you look up at him through your lashes. 

He can’t decode you. Your expression reads to him as both nervous and discontented, embarrassed and yet frustrated. 

Do you even know what you want? 

With a pent breath you lower your head, pressing your forehead under his collarbone, and he feels your leg shift up his side. He hopes you have given up. That he has left you depleted of the lust that drove you to make the mistake of indulging him.  

“Please.” 

A whisper, so muted he thought for a moment that he had hallucinated it. 

“What?” He presses, under breath, and you sink deeper into him, mouth against his jersey. 

“Please,” you repeat, a whine, muffled by fleece. 

Your supplication turns him to putty, and his cuffs slacken. He doesn’t believe you - or, just as likely, he doesn’t trust his own ears to be hearing what he thinks you have said. Your slippery hands escape him, and unbridled they return to their objective; fingers catch the zipper of his fly, you watch your work as you pull it down. 

“Please,” you insist, unprompted, each utterance more desperate. 

His cock grows as solid as iron; straining against the boxer briefs you release from behind his fly, twitching with every slight movement you make in its proximity. His war not to touch you is lost, and he ghosts a hand across your shoulder, up the back of your neck, combing into your hair as he presses his nose and mouth into the top of your head. 

Do you know what you are pleading for? 

Do you want him inside you?

Do you need the fullness he can give you?

He could oblige you, if that is what you truly want. He could sink his cock into you deep enough to make you dizzy. He could stuff you full enough to slake the turmoil-induced concupiscence that has possessed you. 

But he won’t do that for you, little thing. Not unless you beg him to. 

You pluck at the elastic waistband of his boxers, another unspoken appeal. 

“Say it again,” he growls, into your hair, doing his level best not to dig his teeth into you.

With a quivering breath you tilt your head upward to face him, your lips brush lightly against his. The tips of your wary fingers brush the underside of his length through the fabric of his boxers, and he bites down on a grunt. 

“Please.” 

You whisper it into his mouth, and his scruples turn to smoke. 

He dives downard, lips colliding with yours, kissing you with a resurgent zeal, his manacles broken and his conscience smothered - your little hands hold him by the cheeks, softer than he is worthy of, and your tongue strokes against his as though drinking your own juices from him. 

He grants your pleas, tugging down the front of his boxers and releasing his burdensome cock with a grip around its curly base. Your needy legs hook him by the hip, and you tug him forward - the underside of his shaft grinds against your slit, soaking in the nectar that pools there, and you spill a yearning whimper into his mouth. 

“Again,” he snarls, against your lips; he kneads the crux of your labia with the base of his head, frenulum rubbing against your swollen clitoris, and your brows curl with the whine he pushes out of you. 

“Please,” you mewl, fingernails nearly puncturing his cheeks. 

Fuck, you’re insatiable. 

It liquefies him when you hurt him. When you bite. When you maim. His scalp still stings from where your claws had all but broken the skin, the side of his neck throbs where your bite marks sink deep. He wants you to wound him, he wants you to take it all out on the body that he offers you. He wants to bleed for you. 

He drags the soft head of his steel cock down your slit, burrowing between the lips so slick he needn’t pause, needn’t prepare you by spitting on his hand and smearing it on you. He wedges his tip against your opening and it almost sucks him in with its voraciousness, but he halts there. His free hand finds your waist and clutches at its hollow, tugging you minutely closer, your ass perched precariously on the very edge of the counter. You look up again, with a little gasp, neediness etched in your stare. 

“Again,” he urges, just to hear you beg for him. 

“Please-”

You gag on your entreaty as he obliges you; he pushes his weight forward and sinks his cock into you, reaming open your taut yet eager pussy as he gradually burrows it deeper. He sees white as you stretch to fit him, and he lets out a broken grunt; the ridged and gooey walls of your cunt engulf him snugly, blindingly warm, you fit his cock like a glove. 

With a breath caught in your throat, you squeak on it - he stills, only half-way deep, for your own good. He refuses to hurt you, even if you want him to. Your cunt clamps down on him as he pauses, muscles rolling up the length of him, and he wrenches shut his eyes; your hands rake from his cheeks to the collar of his fleece, and you reel him desperately closer. 

“You’re not hurting me,” you breathe, lips under his ear, warm on his skin. 

Can you read his mind? 

Is he that transparent? 

He wonders if you have been able to see through his veneer, peer under his mask since the moment you laid eyes on him. As if you can guess his thoughts, decrypt his every motive, predict every decision. As if you can decipher his feelings, better than he can, almost as well as you can manipulate them. He has always boasted his ability to conceal himself, has always considered his truest centre too deep to be retrieved, long gone - but you peel off every layer that coats him, every cover that obscures him, and you expose him without effort. 

It might have made him defensive, cold, being unmasked so brazenly. But, it doesn’t. Not when you’re the one peering under the hood. 

He smooths his hands up your thighs, lifting your skirt, finding purchase in the meat of your hips - he uses his grip to anchor you to the edge of the counter as he thrusts forward, plunging his cock so deep into you that you take him to the hilt. 

He bites back a groan, as his blunt head nudges against the spongy pillow of your cervix, and your fingernails carve into his burning neck. He stays there for a beat, buried as deep as you can take him, swimming in the abundant honey that soaks him from base to tip. 

He reels out of you, indulging his cock with the friction of your walls, gripping his shaft on its way out - before he drives back into you, ramming into the gummy plug of your womb and forcing a succulent cry from your throat. Your cunt swallows him like it was moulded to fit him, and he grits his teeth as he succumbs to rutting in earnest; drags his cock out of you and plummets in deep, relishing in the melody of every little squeak he fucks out of you. 

With the arms over his back you yank at the fabric of his jersey, pulling it up from where it was tucked into his trousers, exposing his back to the cold of the air. He yields to your unspoken request without dispute, fleetingly separating from you to reach behind his back and shuck off the fleece and the t-shirt he wears under it in one go. He knows you like the sight, little thing. 

You hook an arm around his neck with a frayed breath, and slither the other over his ribs, rooting your fingers in the muscles that wrap his scapula. He fucks into you after the transient reprieve, and you burrow your face into his bare chest. You kiss him there, tongue gliding over the scars of burns and gunshots like you can taste the blood that once spilled from them. 

With another impetuous thrust your sanguinary fingernails carve through the meat of his back, as though you want to break the skin; you claw deeper, crueller with every rut, and your mewls grow wetter and sweeter. 

He shifts his right hand to the top of your thigh, and he glides his thumb down the crease of your groin; he nestles the tip of it at the nexus of your pussy, still slick from his appetite, and he burnishes your clit in circles with the pace of his thrusts. 

Can he get another one out of you, little thing?

It sounds like he can - your whines hitch in your throat with every upward swipe of his thumb, with every ram of his cock, and your legs coil tighter and tighter around his torso. He feels your cunt constrict around the length of him, resistance where there had been none, tightening and letting go in rhythm. He’d like to see your pretty face as he takes you over the edge, again, a sight that could never pall - but you are engaged in your own vices. 

Your unquenchable mouth is busy - gnashes at his neck, his trapezius, his collarbone, leaving wet nibbles in your wake. You settle for a pectoral, and he feels your teeth grazing his febrile skin, over where the tattoos of his sleeve spread over his chest. Your heightened whimpers are muffled by his pelt, as he brings you closer, as he fucks you deeper - you hold your breath, clamp your thighs around his waist as you climb to the apex. 

And when you come, when your pent breath escapes your chest in a ravished whine, your jaw finds purchase; you take the flesh of his muscle between your teeth and bite down as he stuffs you full, chewing on his meat like a carnivore, and he groans harshly through a clenched jaw. 

Do you enjoy hurting him, little thing? 

Or do you simply like the taste? 

Perhaps it is both, because you only bite down harder as you roll down the other side of your climax; your nails lacerate deeper, your legs trap him tighter, and your pussy constringes around his cock with the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

The pain you inflict in him is just as blinding, just as shattering as the euphoria engulfing the length of him - his cock rakes against your suckling walls, rooting into the pillow of your cervix, bathing in the flood of your liquor - he feels his stomach sink, his vision goes hazy, his cock engorges in waves from base to head. 

“Fuck-” he bites out, wolfish in his grunting - you are either oblivious to or unperturbed by his looming climax, because you keep your ensnaring legs tight around his torso, your arms hooked rigidly around his neck, your canines in his shoulder. 

He stifles a hoarse groan through gritting teeth, decisive hands seize you by the hips in an effort to unsheathe his cock from the depths of you. But your thighs only contract, grapple him closer; you drive his length back into you, and you squeak insatiably into his skin. 

“Mia-” He grunts, voice ragged. 

Your greedy hands slide to either side of his inflamed neck, and you finally unlatch your mouth from his skin - you hold your forehead to his, languid eyes fluttering across his face, he feels your breathing cool against his skin. 

He’s too close - it wracks him, surges through him with a voltage that turns his vision sparkly and his cock as heavy as lead. 

Do you want him to come inside you? 

Do you need him beholden to you? 

“Please,” you croak. 

Fuck. 

His orgasm rips through him and leaves him blind, floods out of him in a torrent that sucks the air from his lungs - his cock lurches in the snare of your cunt, spilling a spate of thick come against your cervix and pumping you so full that he feels the overflow drool down the base of his shaft. He groans into your mouth and you swallow it, your own spent whimpers echoing his, as his cock continues to spasm inside you. 

The cold water rinses him once he takes a breath, and he lowers his head; he rests his open mouth against your shoulder, panting into your feverish skin. You listlessly run the soft tips of your fingers up his spine, as winded as he is, his head rises with your torso as you draw in a breath. 

His mind is paradoxically empty and teeming - warring between shame and pride, between guilt and reverence. 

He didn’t deserve it. He shouldn’t have obliged you. 

He doesn’t regret it. 

“Thank you,” you breathe, a torpid whine in the sigh that follows. 

He presses a praising kiss into the crook of your shoulder. 

“Don’t thank me.” 

Houndtooth [17]

More Posts from Ffushiquro and Others

ffushiquro
5 months ago

curling into the arm that tortures you, into the arm of simon riley, while your overstimulated, exhausted body shudders against the sweat soaked sheets, every punctured, new thrust of his muscular, tense thighs against your backside, skin slapping on skin at every short, deep glide of his cock inside your spasming hole.

your brain unable to fight off, plunged in the haziness that makes you feel high and weak, accepting every single touch, purred croons that whisper about how sweet you look, with your teeth's clattering, and your head lolled against his bulky bicep, jolting plaintively when the thick tip of simon's cock hits, nudges against your spongy spot, making you whine.

simon enjoys your sweet submission, your uncoordinated, needy movements when you press your hips back, meeting his aimed, rough pummels of hips, stretching your thin, velvety walls in the way that makes you drip, stuffed, warm hole oozing pools of slick that squelch everytime he pushes his fat, throbbing cock back, as you curl more.

murmur slurred, weak whimpers of his name, feeling how his pace turns down frantic, brutal, answering to the way your sopping pussy squeezes around him, constricting, gushing wet when you feel every pulsing ridge of his spilling, scalding cock, your tummy clenching with rushing, pooling release, as you arch, slotting against simon's chest.

breathing in the melange of sweat and cotton, your head, muzzy and just laying there, half on the pillowcase and half on simon's bicep, feeling how his palms, calloused and tender, sweep over your curved sides, the clenching tummy, your heaving chest, as he lays his head against your temple, panting mellow nothings, breathing in your scent.

main masterlist. quidelines.

4K notes View Post
ffushiquro
1 month ago

Seeing Double - Chapter 2

Seeing Double - Chapter 2

Pairings: Simon “Ghost” Riley x MacTavish! Reader, Platonic!John “Soap” MacTavish x MacTavish! Reader, Platonic! John Price x Reader, Platonic! Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader

Summary - Soap had hidden you long enough. Now Ghost has been assigned to catch you up in training

Warnings - military inaccuracies. Blood. Violence. Sparring. Slight animalistic behavior and references. Mention of trauma.

Notes - Part twooooo. Hope y’all enjoy! sorry for any typos. I’m just spoiling y’all today

Word Count - 3.3k

Total Masterlist / Pt. 1

Seeing Double - Chapter 2

The first few days were rough. But Johnny helped you adjust. He had slumber parties in your room because deep down you both knew why you couldn’t go to sleep alone. Johnny never left your side even for a moment.

Secretly, you both knew that Johnny was trying to avoid you having to do any training. He wouldn’t say it but he was still worried about you. You were plagued by something and he didn’t know what. Price said there was nothing on your file for reason of concern. So he believed his captain. Why wouldn’t he? But he saw how you slept. Whimpering in your sleep and clawing at your neck. Each morning he would help you apply an ointment and wouldn’t ask a single question. He would bring you meals to your room as you spent more and more time catching up.

On the third day, Price decided you finally had to do some kind of training, and not with Johnny. At breakfast, you slowly ate your food as everyone watched you. There was something they weren’t telling you.

“Is there something on my face?” you asked softly after catching them all looking at you.

“No. We’re just surprised that Johnny finally is sharing you” Gaz remarked. A loud scoff left the man’s mouth.

“Yer full of shit. Any of yous could have come and seen ‘er. But ye didn’t.” Johnny spoke gruffly.

“You never answered the door when we knocked.” Gaz shot back.

“It’s not like you knocked at the most convenient times.” Johnny shot back. “Excuse me for wanting to catch up with ma family.”

Price noted how they were hitting a nerve and cleared his throat to gain everyone’s attention,

“Banshee, today you’ll spend the day with Ghost. Shooting range, sparring, and then catching up on your studies. We need you at full force incase of sudden plans.”

Even though his captain was speaking, Ghost couldn’t bear to take his eyes off of you. There was something that made you tick and he wanted to know what it was. He needed to know. He studied your face as you took the news. There was no panic, no shock, just a simple nod and a small “yes sir.”

There was something itching at him about you. You were so quiet. He couldn’t understand it. He had watched you for a tick, a tell, anything. But instead, you concealed everything behind a mask of skin, and bones. It unnerved him. You were supposed to be just like Johnny. Just as annoying, just as fierce, just as defiant, just as loud. Instead, you were obedient, meek, timid, and reserved to an extent. Sure, you laughed and smiled just like everyone else. But there was something under there. Why were you given such a boisterous, almost animalistic call sign if you were anything but.

“Sir?” You spoke again to him. Shit. He zoned out.

“Hm?” He responded.

“I asked what time you would like me to report to the shooting range, Sir.” You repeated, almost as if you had made the mistake. He glanced up at the clock and noted the time. 0800, on the dot.

“Meet me at the shooting range at 0820” he nodded. You nodded back, no complaints.

You were anxious as you stepped back into your room. Ghost had glared at you during the entirety of breakfast. Was something wrong with you? Were you not supposed to shake his hand on the tarmac, or god forbid did Johnny tell him something?

“Don’t let L.T. get to you. Yer doin’ great.” Soap murmured as he sat on your bed. You didn’t even have to say what was wrong and he read you like a book.

“I won’t.”

“I’ll be a hoot and a holler away, ye ken?” Soap said softly as he hugged you.

“I ken.” You held him for a moment and stood in silence as you packed your weapons and training gear. Soap knew today would be rough, especially knowing the Lieutenant.

He gave you a bright smile as you parted at the entrance of the shooting range. He trusted you and the Lieutenant, but he doesn’t know if he trusts you both together, alone. It makes his stomach turn but he ignores it anyway. It’s just L.T. if Johnny could handle him then so could you.

“Switch weapons.” Ghost spoke abruptly, after you took multiple rounds ‘warming up’ with your pistols. He could tell you were staying in your comfort zone. “Knives, Sergeant.” he finished, his voice barely muffled from the mask.

You nodded slowly as you unwrapped your bag. Revealing a set of throwing knives. The sharp metal glinted back at you, smirking almost. You slowly took the straight steel weapons into your hands. Flipping them over and over again, memorizing, as if you didn’t already know every notch and groove of the design. Your eyes slowly glazed over as you stared at them in your palms.

“What are you waiting for, Sergeant.”

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Then throw.”

“Aye Sir.”

Your fingers curved around the crude steel as your arms moved backwards. A deep breath passed through you as your arm moved back. Suddenly, like a whip your arm cracked forward. Except the snap through the air wasn’t your arm. But rather the knife sinking into the board in front of you. A sigh fell from your lips as you saw it hit the target in the shoulder, not in the center, where you had planned.

‘How embarrassing.’ you thought to yourself, trying to shake off your nerves a little. However, the masked lieutenant breathing down your neck and watching you like a hawk surely did not help.

Another knife cut through the air, once again missing your intended spot.

“Breathe. You’re tense. If you don’t let your body relax then your body can’t find its rhythm.” Ghost said from behind you.

“Thanks for the advice Sherlock.” You spoke, suddenly freezing. ‘Shit’.

If Ghost heard you, he didn’t let on, the stoic remaining motionless behind you. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

‘This was your element. These were your knives. Get a fucking grip.’ you thought to yourself. You allowed your body to finally relax as your fingers found solace in the steel divots. Suddenly your arm whipped forward in the blink of an eye, your wrist flicking as a solid ‘thud’ cut through the air. You knew that sound. The sound of your blade finding its way snugly into the target.

You didn’t have to look to know you made your target but seeing it brought you all the same comfort. Suddenly filled with a renewed vigor, you let your dominant hand wrap around another blade and repeated the process three more times until you were out of knives.

“Not too bad.” The lieutenant nodded as he moved to remove the knives from the target. The man biting back a ‘I told you so’ as he saw the last four found their home in the center of the target. “Again.”

This time Ghost made sure to watch your every move. From the way he saw your eyes focus, to the way your arm flicked the blades out with ease, he noted it all. Your every fiber trusting your blade as you knew it would find the spot that you desired it to.

The process repeated over and over and over until you swear you could do this again with your eyes closed. The dull sound of thuds filling the room as Ghost had you do it again, and again, and again.

He knew that this is what you needed. Not to be holed up with Johnny in your room, but to find your footing again. You needed to remember why you were here, this wasn’t a family vacation after all, no matter how much Johnny treated it as such.

He swore he was just beginning to see it all come together but you suddenly stopped. The knife stuck in your hand as you stared at the target. Seeing something he couldn’t. He took a breath, ready to tell you to go again but you beat him to it as you fired off the knives.

For a moment he froze, wondering exactly what you saw. But he didn’t have to take a wild guess to assume it wasn’t rainbows and sunshines. He purposely let his boots hit the ground louder than he would have liked as he passed by you. You shook your head softly as he retrieved the knives, ready to go again.

“Pack it up, we’re moving to the mats. Time to test your close combat skills.” He spoke gruffly. He didn’t miss the look of shock that flashed over your face. Almost like you were saddened that you had to say goodbye so when you had just gotten comfortable.

“Yes sir.”

Ghost waited by the door as you packed it up and carried your gear to your locker before safely storing it. Then grabbing a change of clothes. He left the locker room to allow you some privacy to change.

You slipped by him and walked in front as you both made your way to the mats. Ghost had taken small notice of your sudden change of clothes. You were in a tight tank top, dark shaded combat pants, and some beat up combat boots. He didn’t miss how you fixed your braid mindlessly as you both approached the mat.

“So who am I sparring with?” you spoke, almost as if the answer wasn’t standing on the other side.

“Me.” Ghost nodded. “Is that alright?”

Your shoulders bristled at the question. He asked for your permission. Your consent. He wanted to know if this was okay. For the first time it wasn’t a direct order.

“I can go fetch Gaz if he is more your base level.” He offered.

“No sir. No need to accommodate me.” Your voice came out soft.

‘Accommodate you? What a strange idea. What an unusual choice of words.’ He thought to himself. The silence was deafening the room as you both waited for the other to move first. To try something.

Ghost made the first move as a silent timer dinged off in his head for the spar to start.

‘What a gentleman’ you scoffed at yourself. Moving to dodge his punch. You both now circled each other again. Slowly getting closer and closer, you prepared to block as he suddenly swiped your feet out from under you. Your back hitting the mat hard but not without tugging him down with you. Both of you fighting for the upper hand, with Ghost winning easily. His hands found your wrists as he pinned you.

Ghost stared at you as you realized your arms were immobile. He had you. Suddenly a look crossed over your face. Something was different this time, you didn’t look at him the same. But before the poor lieutenant could figure out what it was, your knee found his stomach. He let out a groan as his fingers loosened around your wrist.

‘Shit. What a careless mistake’ the thought crossed his mind just as fast as you shrunk away. He didn’t even get to reprimand himself as his chest suddenly made hard contact with the mat. Your hand twisting his right arm back, you had his dominant hand in a tight hold behind his back as his mind began to race.

The lieutenant would have been shocked if he hadn’t welcomed the change so much. Your hips resting on his back as you had him pinned. Or so you thought. His left arm suddenly reached around to grab your leg, the man ignoring how it ached at such an angle but not caring as he wrapped it around your knee and suddenly yanked you forward before you could capture his left wrist in another hold.

Your hand barely loosened around his wrist as he sent you reeling forward over his head. Just what he needed to get free. He quickly rotated his hips to flip you onto the mat. His weight held you down as he captured your ankles and then shifted to be on his knees as he once again captured both wrists to have you pinned like an animal.

He didn’t miss how your teeth barely flashed for a moment before you realized your position and tapped his wrist twice to be released. But he held you there for a moment. You swear he was admiring you from behind his balaclava before he then suddenly released you and let you roll away. He dusted off his knees, taking a moment for himself. Completely missing how you came around his back and suddenly two strong arms wrapped around his neck. He could feel your muscles flexing as you tried to hold him in a choke.

His elbow came quickly to jab you to be released but you didn’t falter. Your fingers digging under his mask.

‘So this is how it was going to be’ he thought to himself. Feeling pity for you as he was quickly able to pull one of your arms loose as you never fully locked your legs around his shoulders to contain his arms. The man used his strength to fling you over him, fully expecting you to land flat on the mat right next to him but instead you tucked into a roll and safely moved to the other side of the mat.

He then finally saw what had changed as he watched you stalk him. He noticed how your body seemed tight, rigid almost. This was what you hid behind those shy smiles and curt nods. The lone woman that fought tooth and nail for each breath. He could almost feel his lips pull into a smirk under the mask.

To a bystander, it would look like you were a trapped animal in the corner with nowhere to run. But Ghost knew better than to underestimate you. Cornered animals will do anything to survive. Ghost knew that feeling all too well.

It’s why he was able to perceive your lunge long before it came. He let you take him down, his back hitting the mat once again. You smiled viciously as you pinned him down. Victory seeping into your gums.

A sudden shock laid against your system as your back instead hit the mat. His hands are painfully now pinning your wrists. His hips laying his full weight on your front as he held you there. Your eyes met as you held his eye contact fiercely. Your pupils were dilated as your eyes glinted in the light

“Stand down Sergeant.” he almost growled out. His control slipped just barely enough as he looked down at you. God what an image you were. Smiling deliriously even as he had you pinned. He had the upper hand, not you. So why were you grinning like a madman? The same crazed smile he swore he’d seen on your brother once in the heat of combat.

Suddenly your head made contact with his nose and he felt a metallic taste enter his mouth. ‘Fuck. Another mistake’ he chastised himself but if anything it made him hold you tighter.

You frowned for half a second realizing his hold didn’t break. The man is just staring at you blankly. Before a word could fall from your lips, you were flipped over. His arms around your neck in a tight chokehold. His full body weight now pressing you harshly into the mat. His hips snug against your rear as his thighs crossed over yours to completely subdue you. A whimper left your mouth as a sharp voice cut through the air.

“That’s enough.” Price said as he entered the room. Gaz and Soap followed sharply behind. He didn’t miss the look that the male sergeants shared with each other and the way worry flashed across Soap’s eyes at your compromised position. He quickly released you as you crawled quickly out from under him.

He watched you now look completely different from the opponent he had in the ring mere seconds ago. Your figure turned in on itself as you kept your head down while checking yourself for wounds. A shy gaze that couldn’t even meet his own as if you didn’t just bust up his face up to hell and back for a single chance at escaping.

“Time for lunch. Or do ye need time to freshen yerself up?” Soap quipped as he walked over to the mat. Ghost realized the Scotsman was talking to him as drips of crimson seeped through the mask and onto the floor.

“‘m perfectly fine.” he grunted even as he saw you wipe his blood from your forehead from where you had crushed it roughly into his nose.

“Oh you’re about as right as rain.” Gaz smirked as he stood by the captain.

“Lunch in the mess then team meeting in the conference room.” Price barked out. “Ghost clean your bloody face.”

“Yes sir.” he said as he swiftly passed by you. He didn’t miss how you tensed up as he passed.

The blonde let out a deep sigh as he cleaned out his nose in the privacy of his bathroom. His balaclava left out on the toilet, soiled with his own blood. Even as he stared in his mirror at his nose. Images of you flashed over his eyes.

Wild eyes. A vicious smile. The tension in your body was like a coiled spring. The way your hips fit against his own even when he had you in a firm pin. The way your chest heaved every time he had you pinned on your back.

“Get yourself together Riley” he murmured to himself. “She’s your sergeant’s twin and your subordinate.” A growl escaped his throat as he splashed the cold water against his face as he stepped away to then dry his face. He could already feel his nose puffing up and his busted lip bruising. But for once, he didn’t mind. In his mind he had won, literally and figuratively. He had a glimpse of you, the real you. Your mask had slipped in the privacy of the four concrete walls and the old mats. Even as he turned his back on the mirror and out the door, slipping on his mask, he swears that he could still see those wild eyes staring back at him.

“So how did I do, Sir?” you said as everyone slid into the table for lunch. The trays quietly clinked as he stared at his food.

“Good,” he responded. Just pulling his mask up enough to show his lips. A slight puff to them as they bruised from injury.

“She did better than good, she got a hit on our lieutenant didn’t you, wildcat?” Gaz said as he ruffled your hair. A small blush crowded your cheeks at the nickname as a meek smile pulled at your lips.

A quick pop sounded through the air as Soap’s hand made contact with Gaz’s hand on top of your head.

“Only her family can call her that.” came the Scotsman’s response. “You’ll call her by her callsign or her title.”

“I don’t remember you having authority over me, Soap.” Gaz shot back. “Banshee is her own woman, she can tell us what to call her.”

The two sergeants began to bicker behind you as you shuffled food into your mouth. It might have been the blood loss but Ghost swore he saw you wink at him when he winced at his lip after he took his first bite.

The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife as everyone piled into the conference room. Ghost and Gaz took the left side of the table as you and Soap took the right. Price took the head of the table.

Laswell’s face suddenly appeared on the screen as John greeted her. “Well Kate, what have you come to gift us with now?”

“A one way trip to Mexico.” came her clipped response. Your shoulders suddenly bristled at hearing your destination. A frown tugged at the lieutenant’s lips even under the mask. You should be happy to be back in the field, shouldn’t you?

Seeing Double - Chapter 2

Author’s Note - Hope y’all enjoyed it!

My requests are open!

Masterlist

109 notes View Post
ffushiquro
1 month ago

Nine Lives

Nine Lives
Nine Lives
Nine Lives
Nine Lives
Nine Lives

Simon Riley posts an ad for a stray cat he does not want, and you answer.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!reader

Tags: fluff, short n’sweet, eventual romance/smut

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 | Pt. 4 | ao3 | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Nine Lives

Friday comes as planned, Simon’s week consumed by anticipation of seeing his girl and his cat.

But Churro doesn’t seem to have the same plans, doesn’t come to see her self-proclaimed father.

She doesn’t show, no aggravating meowing or grating scratching on his porch. All he’s met with is silence, a noise grown far too unfamiliar, leaves something in his core unsettled in its absence.

You show up on his doorstep anyway, don’t seem to realize Churro hasn’t made an appearance, smiling wide at him when he opens the door.

At least now he knows you’ll still smile so sweetly at him even if he doesn’t have a furry cat in his arms.

“Hi!”

“Hi, bird. Is Churro at home?”

Your brows pinch, confusion painting your expression, “No, I thought she was visiting you? Came to pick her up like always.”

“She’s not here,” He explains, “Didn’t show up earlier, that’s why I didn’t text you yet.”

The corner of your lips droop, “Well, she wasn’t at home. I figured she was with you even if I didn’t get a text.”

You fidget from heel to heel when he shakes his head in disagreement, shifting your eyes swiftly as worry etches into your irises, wringing your fingers together.

“I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” He reassures, attempting to dry the flood of emotions that are surely surfacing in your lungs before they burst out of control, ushering you in with a hand on your back, “We’ll lay out her favorite food, yeah? She came real quick that first time remember? Wait an hour tops before we start worrying too much, okay?”

You nod quietly, following his lead to his couch, but your face stays stiff, each curve contorted anxiously. Doesn’t smooth the entire time the two of you wait, reminiscent of the first time you met him, except this time you’re nerves aren’t alerting you to run from him, flee from the danger of a man he appears to be. Instead, you’re looking to him for comfort, darting your wide eyes to his every time he starts to speak like you’re clinging to every word in an attempt to distract you from the fact that Churro isn’t in either of your laps.

By the time forty-five minutes passes he’s sure you ripped the skin around your fingernails tender and bloody, burnt a hole in your shoe from the speed you're bouncing it. Maybe before he knew you, before he knew Churro, he would’ve thought you were being dramatic, caring for a bloody cat entirely too much, but you’ve grown on him. Maybe a little too much because the sight of you nervous, anxious, scared, upsets him, doesn’t want to spend another second watching you peel yourself apart.

Maybe he’s a little upset at Churro— don’t you know you’re worrying your mom, his girl, too much, pest?

It’s enough to make him stand, waiting does nothing to ease your nerves, so he prepares a search for a cat he used to cast away, a cat he used to wish got lost on the trail to his house. The two of you should’ve expected it to happen one of these days, it wasn’t necessarily a short distance between your homes, but Churro had seemed smarter than that, memorized her trek through town to find Simon.

You start on foot, separating in two to cover more ground, walking through Simon’s neighborhood calling for her at the top of your lungs. The search lasts for an hour, scavenging through every nook, bush, tree, and alleyway the two of you can find to no avail. Simon even goes to his neighbors, asks if they’ve seen the fawn-colored cat. Maybe the cat lady ended up taking her in by mistake, but they all deny, haven’t seen her.

When you don’t find her, your search widens, desperately exploring multiple blocks around his neighborhood until the sun starts to set, desperately searching with the flashlight from your phone in the dark. It takes some convincing and negotiation on his end to get you to return to his porch without Churro in your arms, argue that you won’t be able to sleep unless you know she’s safe. Still, he manages to wrangle you back to his house, promising that the two of you will search for her tomorrow, that she’ll make her way to his home in the night like she always does.

You agree begrudgingly, but when he finally gets you to his front door and looks down at you, your eyes are downcast, your bottom lip wobbling as you shift your eyes to his. You’re dewy-eyed and beady, fists balled at your side in an attempt to stop the inevitable dam from cracking.

It doesn’t work, of course, it doesn’t, not when the look in his eyes is sincere, slams the finishing wedge in your control with one look.

“Sweet girl.”

His voice is softer than he’s ever used before, more tender than he even realized he could use, foreign to his own gruff ears, but it doesn’t help your restraint from breaking on the spot. He reaches out, placing his hand on the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair before pressing you into his chest, snug under his chin.

The embrace punches the breath straight out of your lungs, inhaling a shattered wheeze before a sob wrecks from your core. Fisting the fabric of his shirt in your palms as you hiccup over your breaths and tears, staining his shirt wet.

The constricting in his chest is unfamiliar, burns strangely, painful, and bitter at the mere sounds you make, at the way you cling to him like he can absolve you of your pain, like you need to feel his touch to mend your weary heart. It congeals something protective in the back of his mind, large palms finding the backs of your thighs to hoist you in his arms. You don’t even pull away, just band your arms over his shoulders like it’s where you need to be.

He carries you to his kitchen, grabbing a water before maneuvering you to his bedroom because he’s not going to send you home crying and distressed when he can keep his girl comforted in his arms. You fall onto his bed willingly, sitting on the edge of the mattress as you watch him rummage through his drawers. He presents a pair of shorts, to which you nod teary-eyed, let him peel your jeans off, and replace them with his own clothing.

He climbs into bed with you, guides you under the sheets with him, and into his arms. Pulls you flush against his chest once again, smoothing his touch down your back and through your hair in his best attempt to soothe your nerves.

“Don’t worry,” He murmurs when you shift to look into his eyes, “Won’t do us any good looking for her when you’re all teary-eyed will it?”

You huff a laugh, not entirely amused as it should be, only making more tears well in your eyes, but he takes it, pressing a kiss against the crown of your forehead.

“We’ll look for her first thing tomorrow morning, yeah? Our pretty lady will come home to us.”

Nine Lives

@lighthousebats @cococococ @sai-int @tessakate @starboykel @imrandomstuffsblog @your-internet-tenshi @glossy01 @orangegreensun @uriahs-barn @ye-olde-trash-panda @akkahelenaa @h0lydrag0ns @pukbadger @dawnnightshade666 @lizziesfirstwife @little-b33 @topaz125 @v1x3n @hadassery @afanofbeans @definitely-not-sammie

468 notes View Post
ffushiquro
5 months ago

Soccer player Toji who is known for being cold and unnerving, becomes the talk of the town after being spotted at the local pharmacy still in his jersey top, clutching a box of sanitary pads and tampons for his mystery girl.

Soccer player Toji, who only ever occasionally indulges in a quick fuck and doesn’t spare a glance to the girls looming around him, spends an entire hour at the florist picking out the right flowers for you, his mystery girl.

Soccer player Toji who asks Shiu to turn the car around and bails out on the frat party at the very last minute because he checks the date on his phone.

“What’s so important that’s got THE Toji Zenin skipping out on free booze and a quick fuck.” Shiu laughs as he brings the car to a halt in front of his apartment.

“My girl’s got her period startin’ can’t leave the lady alone in pain.” He grins cheekily as he slips out of the car and the statement leaves Shiu so baffled that he sits in the driver’s seat, unable to move, watching Toji’s figure disappear into the building as the cars line up behind him.

Soccer player Toji who doesn’t even think twice before leaving his spare jersey in your room. He knows game day is just around the corner and the girls are gonna swarm him again, trying to convince him to let one of them wear his jersey (courtesy to Gojo who started the trend of choosing a random girl to give his jersey to for game day) and he’d rather die than see anyone but you wear his jersey.

Soccer player Toji who knows you want to keep you guy’s relationship private for the sake of your privacy and sanity, but he also knows how much it irks you to see girls shoot their shots at him so he gets your initials tattooed on his shoulder and the way whispers fill the gymnasium when he walks in wearing a tank top, showing off the tattoo fills him with pride knowing you’re somewhere in the crowd, smiling softly.

Soccer player Toji who is so insanely whipped for you, his mystery girl, that it becomes a common occurrence for people on the campus to see him at the florist every Saturday, walking out with carefully assorted flowers always wrapped in the same felt paper of your favourite colour.

Soccer player Toji who glances at bleachers everytime he scores a goal to make sure you see him winning.

Soccer player Toji who is literally head over heels for you.

8K notes View Post
ffushiquro
6 months ago

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty —other parts

Bleeding Blue | Apocalypse Au

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I'm sorry lmaooo nine months... hopefully we can finish this thing!

You land hard, elbows hitting the ground with a jolt of pain, but it’s nothing compared to the realization that someone is screaming—Blue is screaming. The heat in your veins fizzles, your heart jolting. Ghost has already sped off toward camp, pulling a knife from his ankle, and you scramble to your feet to follow.

Your movements are clumsy, your mind replaying the last few seconds, searching for any signs of trouble you might have missed. The air is clear, the trees are quiet, the ground is still. Yet, as you weave through the tall grasses that swipe at your ankles, you finally hear it—muffled voices, unmistakably human. They grow sharper with each step you take. 

Ghost reaches camp first, stopping in a lethal stance. You roll in just behind him, eyes snapping to where Blue stands behind the fence, alive and aiming one of her dad’s rifles at four strangers. Still dressed in an oversized sleep shirt, she juts the rifle through a gap in the fortification. Two of the strangers are mounted on a brown horse, while the other two flank their sides, backs swollen with rucksacks and chests thick with gear. There is no doubt they have weapons.

"D-don't come any closer or I'll blow your heads off! I mean it!"

“We’re not here to hurt you,” one of them says calmly. A man.

“I don’t care why you’re here! You need to leave before my dad…” Her eyes flicker to you. “Dad!”

When their heads turn in your direction, you waste no time arching the knife over your head. You’re not much without your bow, but this is all you have.

In a split second, your eyes land on the burliest of the group, a man with a boonie hat and a dense, brown beard. He was the one speaking. The leader, maybe. You aim the knife for his head, but before you can throw it, Ghost grabs your wrist, wrenching you to his chest without warning, the knife falling to the ground.

"Wait," he says in your ear, his breath steady against your skin. There’s a detectable lilt of surprise in his voice. You try to squirm free, but he holds tight. "Stay here."

He lets go. Confusion reels through you. Everything in you screams to pick up the knife, but you hesitate as Ghost signals for Blue to lower the gun.

He calmly walks over to the intruders, heading to the man you were aiming for. The air feels thick as you watch with parted lips, stance still readied and breath racing. Ghost stops in front of him, and the two stare at each other strangely before the man smiles.

A strong hand reaches for Ghost’s shoulder.

“It’s good to see you, Simon.”

Bleeding Blue | Apocalypse Au

The clanking of metal against ceramic plates and the low murmurs of a fire fill the cabin.

Your spine presses into the wall.

There isn’t a free chair at the table, but you’re not sure you’d sit in one even if there was. Blue stands beside you, hands laced in front of her. She’s silent. You are, too. The cabin feels cramped with seven people in it. It makes your skin itch. 

You can inspect them more thoroughly now that you’re not thinking about who to kill first. 

There are two men—the older one you believe Ghost called Price, and a younger one you think he called Kyle. He’s fine-looking, you figure, underneath the overgrowth of facial hair and grime smudged on his dark skin. He had a tan cap on earlier but now a head of short, black hair is free for him to slick fingers through every now and then. Then there is a woman, some years older than you. She’s beautiful in a raw, Grecian sort of way, with long black hair and a violet undertone to her skin. Lastly, a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen. It doesn't take much to discern he is related to Kyle in some way.

They all look starving, though not as much as you once were. Nevertheless, Ghost is feeding them more than scraps. Canned beans, rice, and rabbit. They shovel it into their mouths. The men have muscles on them, so they can’t have been struggling much. Based on all the supplies they carry and the horse tied to a tree outside, you’ve figured they’ve been traveling for some time. A flurry of questions runs through your brain, but your lips remain in a tight line.

Ghost hasn’t said much yet. He hasn't even explained who they are. Your slitted eyes flicker to him. While the strangers fill up the table, he hovers beside it. His body speaks more than his expression. His shoulders are not tense and lethal as they'd been when you first sat at that table scarfing down food. But they're not relaxed, either; his arms crossed, still exposed from the black tee he'd put on for training, giving way to the slight flexes in his corded muscles that signal even he is thrown off by their presence. 

But he trusts them enough to let them in here. With the way they carry themselves, and the fact that Ghost hasn't killed them, they must've been in the military together. He doesn't seem like the type to have had normal friends. 

Kyle speaks first.

He thrums the pads of his fingertips against the wood and clears his throat, breaking your thoughts. "We were hoping you'd still be here, but it was a shot in the dark."

"I’ve never left," Ghost says, plainly.

Kyle sips from his mug and wipes his mouth, then his eyes shift toward you. You meet his gaze with a hardened look. 

"We're sorry for scaring you."

It takes a moment to realize his words aren't for you. Blue glances to her toes. "I wasn't scared." 

His lips lift. "Of course not. It's us who should've been scared of crossing paths with Simon Riley's kid. You did the right thing, you know. Protecting yourself."

"I didn't realize you knew my dad." She nibbles her lip and looks up. "My name is Blue, by the way. And this is..." Her eyes flick to you. "My friend, Twix."

Your tongue pokes your cheek as you look over the new faces. What are you supposed to say? 

"Hi," is all you settle on.

Ghost clears his throat. "Kid, why don't you clean some more water for them."

Blue nods dutifully, lingering only a second before pouring more river water into the pot over the fire.

"Thank you for your kindness. We haven't had a warm meal like this in days," the woman says kindly.

"It's a strong setup you've made for yourself," Price speaks, one hand stroking his beard while he pushes the cleared plate away with the other. He leans back, boonie hat still cradling his head and casting a shadow over his eyes, but you catch a glimpse of warm brown irises that might've comforted you in any other circumstance.

"It's lasted me this long." Ghost shifts his weight slightly. "Where are you coming from?"

"Near the base by the border, further north."

"Last I heard you were in Manchester."

"Once the radios went out, we picked up my wife," he touches the woman's shoulder, "Nereida, and Kyle's nephew here, Ari, from Newcastle. Made camp with a few others. Served us well for the past five years."

Ghost slowly nods and then drawls, "And Soap?”

Price leans his forearms on the table. "Not quite sure. The base was falling apart, but he stayed back, saying he'd meet up with us once he could. That was five years ago."

You're not sure who Soap is, someone else they worked with, maybe. There is a brief pause before Ghost asks, "Why did you leave?"

"More and more of 'em, Simon," Price replies with a slight shake of his head, emitting a low breath. "Made it difficult to even get food."

"Too many of them, not enough of us," Nereida murmurs distantly. Her hand slips under the table, out of view. You imagine it resting on Price's thigh as she leans into him with a weighted sigh. "They always seem to be moving. Not with a destination in mind, of course, but it was only a matter of time before they ruined our setup. We decided to leave before that could happen."

Kyles adds, "It wasn't an easy decision, but living in anticipation of the worst isn't really living at all."

Your brows lower. “Where exactly could you be headed that wouldn't mean living in anticipation of the worst?” you can't stop yourself from asking, the question burning in your mind. 

Price leans back, those warm brown eyes finding yours. A short heartbeat passes before he answers simply, "Switzerland."

The absurdity of that single word response forces a disbelieving, chuffed breath through your nose. Of all the things this stranger could have said, that would have to be the least expected. You anticipate an equally surprised reaction from Ghost, but he seems unnervingly unfazed. Blue, however, swivels her head from where she sits cross-legged in front of the fire.

"What the fuck is Switzerland?"

"It's another country," the boy—Ari—answers.

Blue glances between him and her dad. "Like... not in England?"

Ari snorts softly. "No, not in England. It's across the channel."

"The channel?" Blue frowns. "That's... far, isn't it?"

"Very far," Nereida confirms with a nod.

The subject is brusquely dropped when Ghost reaches for their cleared plates. "You must want to bathe while you're here. There's a river nearby."

Price clears his throat. "These two can go first." He gestures to the woman and child.

Soon enough, you become irritatingly aware of what's happening; you're being shooed away, along with the kids and Nereida, so the three of them can speak privately. There isn't much room to object as you shuffle out of the cabin, carrying a handful of rags for them to wash with along with the homemade soap that you once used to wash away the grime and earth that caked up from traveling. 

The sun beats hard, the river warmer now that spring has aged. Dried sweat clings to your spine from this morning, but bathing yourself is the last thing on your mind now, not when you're still reeling in the presence of people you don't know. You swing a glance at the cabin behind your shoulder, something in your gut twisting. Ghost doesn't want you there to hear whatever they're talking about. 

"This is a good spot," Blue says, stopping in front of a shallow part of the bank where the water is warmest. She hands Ari some soap and teeters on her toes. You realize why she keeps staring at him like that; he's probably the only other kid she's met in years. She is even more shy than when she first met you. "Twix and I will look away, don't worry."

You and Blue sit perched on a rock as they wash themselves. 

"This is weird," she admits quietly to you.

"Very," you mumble.

When they're done, you offer Nereida the only clean clothes you have at the moment: one of the oversized shirts Ghost gave you and some jeans. An annoyingly strange thought brandishes your brain... you don't like the way the black fabric sits on her bare chest, nipples poking through, and the hem hanging down to her knees as it does on you. You should've just given her the dirty blouse to wear.

She sits at the edge of the river, wringing her soaked hair with a rag. From the corner of your eye, you catch Blue helping Ari rinse his dirty clothes in the water. You want to keep an eye on him; your knife is still nestled around your ankle in case they try anything, though a woman and preteen don't heighten your paranoia as much. 

"How long have you two been together?"

Her soft voice makes you blink. "What?"

"You and Simon."

You're confused until you recall the revelation from earlier—the man you've known the past few months as Ghost, the one whose hard form laid beneath you just hours ago, is actually Simon. Simon Riley. You're tempted to say the name; try it out. But it is hard to reconcile with. It might taste strange on your tongue. The name fits a version of him that doesn't exist in this world now, you suppose. British. Simple. Like John or Kyle. The name of a lieutenant. The bits of his face you've witnessed crosses your mind; his nose, lips, and chin seem like Simon. The damn mask is Ghost, though.

"Jesus... I am not—" You shake your head, the sun even hotter on your neck. "I'm not with him like that. We're just allies." You glance back at the cabin in the distance and you fight a scowl. "If that."

She runs her fingers through ravenous tendrils. "Oh. I apologize for assuming."

You offer a small smile. "It's fine."

"How long have you been staying here then?"

"Um, a few months now. I used to stay with my sister and a friend, but they died."

Her eyes soften. "I'm sorry for your loss."

You shrug. "Everyone has lost important people."

"Doesn't make it easier," she says. "Ari's mom and younger sister used to be with us," she adds quietly with a solemn downward cast of her eyes, as if a memory has taken her for a moment. "They passed two years ago during a really rough winter along with this other couple we knew. Then it was just the four of us."

You inhale through your nose and release, frowning. "No child should have to experience that."

"No," she agrees, nodding. "They shouldn't. Which is why we're looking for a better life for him."

"And you think you'll find it in... Switzerland."

Nereida offers a half-smile, as if reading your thoughts. "We'd heard of a commune there, up in the mountains."

"A commune? Like what, a town?" 

"Sort of. Just... more people, living together. Protected. Greys make awful climbers, and the mountains there are much higher than anything in the UK."

This catches your attention, and the divot between your brows deepens. "How do you know it exists?"

"Well, we can't know for certain. John heard about it at the beginning of the spread, but it was too difficult to make arrangements at the time, especially when he had to help out at the medical site and then come find me. Things were a mess, I'm sure you remember."

"Yeah, I do." You reel in her words, thinking. "That was... years ago, though. Aren't you taking a huge risk going there now? What if nothing is there?"

"Staying in England would be a risk, too," she counters. "There is nothing here except death and hardship. You can't hide from it forever."

You look down at the water. Cicadas fill your ears, the buzzing drowning out your voice. "No, you can't."

Bleeding Blue | Apocalypse Au

You go on a hunt that afternoon, itching for some space to breathe. Deer tracks are harder to spot without the snow, but you find the unmistakeable marks of antlers against a tree and follow them. You glance around the forest. It feels endless and like a cage at the same time. Which way did they come from? If they made it to camp by morning, that means they spent the night here somewhere. You don't like the idea that others could be so close by, like that car.

The sun has turned orange by the time a healthy doe skirts in your peripherals. You stalk it behind an oak. An arrow flies from your bow, but you miss; the deer flees. You return in the dark empty-handed. No doubt, the visitors are fatigued, with Ghost already setting blankets across the cabin's floor for them to sleep on. You offer Ari the couch, figuring an exhausted kid needs it more than you do. He knocks out the moment he lays down.

"Here. For the night." Ghost offers you a heavy blanket and nods to the only bare spot of floor left after they've all settled down. 

You avoid his eyes and accept it. The moment he's disappeared to his room, you slip outside under the starlit night, finding the flattest patch of ground to lay the blanket down, which happens to be only a few paces away from a sleeping horse. It's not the couch, but it'll do for a night or two, and you refuse to sleep in the shed again. 

You're in the midst of standing back up after straightening out your makeshift bed when you bump into something solid. A hand grips your bicep and whirls you around, a pair of darkened eyes glowering down at you.

"What are you doing?" you breathe up at him. "I don't like when you grab me like that."

"What are you doing?" he retorts, voice low and hard.

"Trying to get some sleep."

"Out here?"

You look away and shimmy out of his hold. "Does it matter where I sleep?"

"It's not safe out here."

"You had no problem sending me out here before."

"You have since earned your keep," he mutters, as if annoyed you're even mentioning the past. 

"My spot is taken for the night by your lovely friends, so for however long you plan to let them stay, I will sleep out here."

"There is a spot on the floor for you inside."

"I'm not sleeping in there." With them. 

The whites of his eyes flash as he darts his gaze over your face. His tone softens perceptibly. A mere breath. "They won't hurt you, Twix."

You roll your eyes away from him. "I would just rather sleep out here by myself, okay? I prefer solitude at my most vulnerable. And it's not like my experiences with militant men have been pleasant so far." You keep your tone neutral, but a chill touches your spine at the memory.

Ghost emits a low huff. He suddenly rips the blanket from the ground and turns his back to you. "What are you doing?" you gape at him.

"You'll take my bed," he throws over his shoulder.

1K notes View Post
ffushiquro
7 months ago

incubus!sukuna, part two. part one here

you wake up sweaty, the sheets clinging to your skin. there’s an unfamiliar pressure on your hips, and you almost feel stuck. when you open your eyes, there are four staring back at you in the dark.

instinctively, you open your mouth to scream, but sukuna is faster than you. one of his large hands is covering your face before you can even blink, muffling your scream completely.

he leans into you, close enough that you can smell faint wisps of smoke coming from him.

“you remember me.” it’s a statement, not a question. “let me have you like this.” outside of your head, he thinks.

he watches as you glance at the clock across the room. 3:56. you close your hand into a fist, pressing your nails into your palm before raising it to your face and counting all five fingers. you look back at the clock. still 3:56.

you’re awake.

the pressure on your hips—his hands holding you down—goes away as he shifts positions, lifting you into his lap. suddenly, you feel overly exposed in the tank top and underwear you wore to bed. his double erection presses into your side, twin promises of what’s to come.

just like in your dreams, he makes the first move with little hesitation, pulling your underwear off you in one swift movement. you follow his lead, tugging your tank over your head and tossing it to the floor.

you’re already wet enough for him to slip three of his thick fingers inside you without prepping you first. he chuckles to himself as he watches the way your pussy greedily sucks his fingers in. you squirm a bit, trying to subtly push yourself down on his hand, hoping for more.

he pauses. “what? this not enough for you?”

the stern tone of his voice makes your legs tense, bringing them together. sukuna tuts, “don’t run away now, you just said you wanted more.” he pushes your legs back open, wider than they were before.

you purse your lips. “technically, i didn’t say that.”

he stares down at you, unfamiliar with this kind of back-talk from a human. he expects attitude from succubi, always too impish and bratty, but human women? they’ve always been willing and pliant.

you tuck your lips between your teeth and stare back, eyes twinkling.

you aren’t expecting the large smile that breaks across his face, making you feel like a rabbit staring into the maw of a lion.

you’re suddenly on your back, head resting against your pillow. sukuna hovers over you and pulls his fingers out of your cunt, and he looks you in the eyes as he licks them clean. you don’t break eye contact, which only seems to rile him up further.

“you’re a bold one,” he mumbles, pushing your legs up until your knees are nearly to your ears.

you groan at the position, momentarily wishing you’d been stretching more regularly. but you don’t have any time to dwell on it before sukuna presses the fat tip of one of his dicks against your slit.

your breath hitches as he sinks himself all the way in, pushing your legs further back to get deeper.

“oh my god.”

somehow, he feels bigger in real life. your jaw drops at the rude entry, and you watch sukuna’s lips stretch into a sly smile.

he pulls out completely, only to thrust back into you, his tip kissing your cervix. he continues at a steady speed, driving you closer and closer to an orgasm with every movement.

when you come, you swear you see stars. your toes and fingers and ears are tingling, skin prickling all over. your cunt spasms around sukuna’s monstrous cock, clenching and releasing like she’s trying to milk him. you’re so focused on trying to ride it out that you hardly register when sukuna lines up his second dick with your entrance.

you scream when you feel it—sukuna’s twin cocks stretching you open more than you even knew was possible.

he gives you a moment to take it in, whispering for you to breathe as he waits for you to relax around him. one of his hands envelops yours, pinning it to the bedsheets.

the moment you adjust, he goes back to his previous pace, only marginally slower.

the feeling is overwhelming, being so totally stuffed. it only gets worse when he starts thumbing your clit. immediately, your mind goes blank, short-circuiting in response to the devastating amount of pleasure.

you're subjected to more orgasms in quick succession, each one sending shockwaves throughout your body. sukuna keeps going, looking increasingly satisfied every time you come.

the tears that pricked the corners of your eyes start to fall down your temples. a string of “please, please, please, please” spills from your lips, but you’re not quite sure what you’re asking for, too fucked out to be coherent.

you’re vaguely aware of the praises he starts showering you with. something about how you’re his favorite, and how your pussy sucks him in the best, how he’ll never fuck another, blah blah blah. his hips buck at a sloppier pace than before.

you feel his cocks pulse inside you, and for the first time since he’s started visiting you, he comes.

you’re not expecting to feel so empty when he finally pulls out of you. he uses his fingers to stuff his cum as far up as it’ll go, but it leaks out anyways, trickling towards your ass. he lets go of you, letting you lay down your legs and stretch them out on the bed.

in your cum-drunk haze, you latch onto sukuna's hand, tucking it beneath your head and mumbling thank you’s into his skin as you curl up under the sheets. as you begin to drift into unconsciousness, you feel him wrapping you up in his arms, cradling you. a single thought cuts through the fog in your brain: this is new.

you think hear him tell you you’re welcome just before falling asleep.

reblog for a kiss ( ੭ ˘ ³˘)੭‎°｡⋆♡‧₊˚

6K notes View Post
ffushiquro
5 months ago

in the quiet spaces between you and i

simon 'ghost' riley

tags: smut & fluff, sleepy morning sex, tender & loving, established relationship, simon is smitten by you,

In The Quiet Spaces Between You And I

rain hit harshly against the window of your bedroom. you exhaled deeply as you slowly opened your eyes. it was one of those days, you knew it was going to be raining all week. but, you didn't expect it to pour.

it was a sham because you had been having quite a sunny spell in the city. but for now, the grey skies and heavy patter of rain made you seek refuge in the arms of your much larger lover. simon. the ghost as he was known in service, but in the quiet flat you both shared. he was just simon, or si, or honey. hell, even one of the million other nicknames you had for him.

you opened your eyes a little wider and yawned loudly. simon slung an arm over your middle and you pressed your face against his built chest. you admired how strong he was. he had arms that could choke someone out and thighs that could crack a coconut. but nestled in the sanctuary of your bed. he was as gentle as a lamb. one who easily leaned into your kisses with a half-asleep smile. your short nails lightly dragged down the side of his jaw, feeling the stubble against your digits. you leaned in and kissed him tenderly, with such love.

simon was a catch, he could be terrifyingly intimidating. but, those brown eyes only grew soft when they were gazing at you. always protective. but not patronizing. he knew you inside and out, that came from years in the military. he studied you, but not the way a scientist would a bug. but, rather a man trying his best to be the partner you deserved. and if being the best meant carrying an extra umbrella in his bag because you had a habit of forgetting yours then so be it.

"love." he said in a quiet voice, "whatcha lookin' at? got drool on my face or somethin'?" his voice was like a bear growl, a rumble that made you smile. you kissed him again and his eyes remained shut as he enjoyed your kiss.

"shh, shh." you cooed when you pulled away from the kiss, "just admiring you." you giggled softly.

he smiled a little, "nothin' to admire. like lookin' at a garbage heap." he tightened his grip around you and hoisted you up onto his waist as he laid on his back. his brown eyes a little more open as he admired you with a dream-like gaze, "you on the other hand." he smiled a little more, "lookin' at you is like lookin' at art. kinda wish i could nail ya up against the wall too." then placed his hands on your hips. your softness felt nice in his rough hands.

hands that could kill and maim. he was like a wild animal, he would tear through what he could in order for some primal driven ideal of peace. instead he held the fat of your hips with such a devotion, like you were going to slip through his fingers at any moment. but you'd never leave, not with the life you built together. simon really felt like a ghost before he met you. home had no roots until you slowly planted them in the cracks of his soul.

bland food was replaced with home recipes, a single pair of work boots were replaced with many pairs of shoes along with a closet near bursting with clothes, blank walls were panted over in brighter colours and decorated with photos. simon hated having his photo taken, but he'd do it for you.

his hands trailed up and down your sides, he pushed up the large black tshirt you wore. he exposed the boxers you wore (and stole) underneath. you liked to sleep in his clothes, it made you feel closer to him. as if you weren't buried under his arm almost every night. his eyes went a little wider when you peeled the shirt off and exposed your beautiful breasts to him.

his eyes quickly darted to your face as he asked, "do.. do you want this? you can stop if you want." he never wanted to force you into any act of sexual activity. he may have his urges, but he would never force you into anything.

you nodded softly, "si, i always want you. wanting you is like wanting air, or water or cheap kebab. i can taste it on my tongue when i think about it too hard." then pulled at the waistband of the underwear you wore. simon's gaze was on you as you stripped down and when he broke himself out of his trance, he stripped down as well.

you ended up on his waist once more. his hard cock up against your soft stomach. you licked your lips. you asked him, "do you want this? are you comfortable?"

simon nodded. consent was a two-way street. it took at least two to tango this way, both parties had to be happy, even if a little sleepy. he held onto you and guided you onto his cock. he tensed up and said, "yes, yes. that's it. oh, fuck." he swallowed as you easily took him. he wasn't small by any means, but careful movements got you seated on him like it was your personal throne.

you asked, "do you like that?" the rain continued to batter against the window. but you two were dry and warm in each other's embrace. you knew today would be a lazy day in bed. maybe simon had to check a few work emails, and maybe you'd get leftovers out of the fridge for dinner. but with the weather outside, you'd be rather cozy curled up in your flat.

simon took your hands and placed them on the expanse of his chest. you could feel the tawny-blond short hairs under your finger tips. you could feel the leap in his heartbeat and you smiled softly at him. he smiled softly at you. he once said he didn't smile as much in the previous thirty years of his life compared to the two years he had known you. it was hard not to smile when it felt like the sun itself was beaming at him at all times.

he moaned a little, "yeah, sunshine. you're doin' amazin'." his expression was still a little sleepy as you moved against him. the sex was slow, but lined with passion. you always held passion for one another, a flickering flame in your heart that you carried with you. and in moments of quiet intimacy, the pair of flames met. kissed and fluttered in each other's company. you loved simon, you loved him in a way that felt like it came from a storybook. even in the hard times.

the days apart, hell, the months apart. simon's ability to emotionally close off and your ability to feel nothing but a cold of anxiety through you. but in moments of weakness you built up one another, and it bloomed into the life long intimacy you both shared. the love that went deeper than waves of the ocean.

you leaned down and kissed simon on the lips as you moved against him. you felt your love for him wrapped up in a sexual fever that climbed from your core up to your brain. it left sparks in your blood as you planted your hands firmly on his chest. your hips rolled slowly and the kiss only deepened.

he groaned against you. this was heaven. simon once believed that he had died on the battlefield and somehow weaseled his way to heaven. there he met an angel, you. and you loved him and stitched back a broken man. piece by piece. he said close to your lips, "i love you."

and you replied with no uncertain terms, "and i love you, simon riley." his name on your lips sounded like gospel. it excited him just as much as it scared him. he held onto you a little tighter and let you move against him. the pleasure coursed through both of you, the heightened heat would only lead to a orgasmic high that would make your toes curl.

it was a mutual goal as you continued to move against him. heated breaths in a quiet bedroom. outside was gloomy and cold. but the sparks of light made the room you shared inviting and comforting. this was the man of your dreams.

scarred, tattooed, many times beats and many more times broken. but wasn't that love? to pick up the pieces of another, shake them it in their face and demand that they allow themselves to be loved?

that was all you could give simon. your love, your loyalty and a future.

the two of you kissed while pleasure coursed through the both of you. your pace staggered as the want made your heart race. it felt amazing, it always did. being intimate, soft, loving. to be held by your beloved simon as you rocked against him. there were no expectations, you could not cum and you'd still feel happy. to feel loved, oh to feel loved by simon, that was worth more than orgasm after orgasm.

he groaned when you parted the kiss. he held onto you a little tighter and exhaled deeply as the pleasure properly washed over him. he said through tense words, "i'm close. baby, i'm close."

and you worked yourself harder on him. the sex between you two was electric and you felt the urge to finish come over you. you let out a sweet moan, like dessert wine. it left simon drunk off as feeling. as you came, he came as well. he leaned forward to bury his face in your soft torso as you continued to ride him through both of your climaxes.

your voice was tense as you said you loved him once more. you never said those words without meaning them. you were everything to him and he in turn was everything to you. when your pace slowed, he pulled you back down with him onto the bed.

he smothered you in his love as he feverishly kissed you in the hot after glow of sex. while it wasn't the most extreme form of love making you felt soft and warm. you felt the love in love making. simon's kisses were silent prayers to his angel as he held you close in his strong arms.

you giggled against his lips before you pulled away and held his face lovingly. you felt heat in your face and could see the heat in his. you smiled, the kind of loopy, happy smile that lovers had. he kissed you once more before you managed to get the covers over you once more.

the clothes could wait, as could breakfast. because while you had pancakes on the brain, your lover's kisses were more filling. <3

733 notes View Post
ffushiquro
7 months ago

you manage to make college!sukuna take yuuji trick or treating

college!sukuna masterlist

You barely put your foot inside the apartment when you hear sniffling coming from the kitchen.

“Please ‘Kuna, I can’t go alone,” Yuuji mumbles, moving a single piece of spaghetti around his plate.

Sukuna huffs, standing up from the table. "Can't you just go with that kid you invited over the other day? Meg... Meg something?"

"No! I already told you I can't, like 3 times!" Yuuji starts, getting progressively more frustrated.

"Don't throw a fucking tantrum, Yuuji, you know I hate that shit," the older grits out, cleaning his plate.

"But-"

"Hello...?" you say, peeking inside. Two sets of eyes fix on you, and silence engulfs the three of you for what feels like the longest three seconds ever. "Y'all are weird," you whisper, getting inside and going to the fridge. Yuuji waves at you, trying to be polite even if you can see he's on the brink of tears, before the two brothers in the room with you resume their conversation.

"Brat, I'm not coming. I have assignments," Sukuna sighs. He doesn't turn around, he knows Yuuji is pouting and he might or might not have lied. Well, not completely: he does have to turn in two different projects for his economics class, but he's almost finished. He did say he would take a double shift the night Yuuji is asking him about though. They're tight on money, but it's not like he wants to admit that to his little brother. Is this what guilt feels like?

The little pink haired boy sniffles, then nods. "It's okay," he slurs out, cleaning after himself in silence. For the next 5 minutes, you can hear a pin drop from how silent it is. Sukuna keeps on washing dishes, Yuuji keeps on cleaning the table.

You're still standing by the fridge, trying to mind your own business, but seeing the whole scene makes the hair on your nape stand up. The two siblings would have the same stoic and unmoving face if it wasn't for Yuuji's lip trembling imperceptibly from time to time.

"I'm going to my room. Sorry for having bothered you, 'Kuna," the little one says, opening the door to the kitchen softly, and closing it even softer. Sukuna inhales strongly, putting his hands on the counter in front of him and closing his eyes. You feel like if you breathe harder than what a mosquito does, he'll crash out.

He pats his pockets repeatedly, searching for something. He takes out a pack of cigarettes and turns around to reach for the lighter you keep in the first drawer, when your voice startles him. Seeing him startled startles you too. He's never startled. What is going on?

"I thought you quit."

"Mind your own fucking business," he snarls, snatching open the drawer.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" you reply, matching his rudeness.

"Can you shut the fuck up? Damn," he continues, glaring at you, taking one big drag of the pressed tobacco between his fingers.

"No, I'd like to eat a normal dinner with both of you today, so are you going to tell me what is going on or do I have to ask your crying nine year old little brother?" you hiss out, snatching the cigarette he just lit and tossing it in the sink, still wet from when he washed his dishes, effectively turning it off.

He's on you in a second. "Don't piss me off, woman," he says, trapping you between the sink and his body. He's towering over you, and he has to bend down to look at you properly. "Stay out of it," he says, menacingly. You gulp, but you're not finished. And most importantly, you know him. You've been living together for forever, or maybe it feels like it because you're always together, either for Yuuji or because... wait, why are you always together?

"I'll stop when I feel like it, Sukuna," you say, getting closer to his face. Your voice is clear, your nose an inch from his own. You look into each other's eyes so intensely that if you had the power to shoot lasers he'd be blind by now. You're about to speak up again, when he headbutts you. Hard.

"Ouch!" you yelp, punching him in the arm as hard as you can. He just traps your fist in his, squeezing until you wince, then lets go, smirking.

"Don't play with me, girl," he says while getting off of you. You pout, rubbing the spot he hit on your forehead.

"Asshole," you mumble.

"Mh? What'd you say?"

"Nothing, sir," you respond mockingly, assuming the position of a soldier. "You know what, I'm going to report you to the police for domestic violence," you continue, still pouting.

He throws you a single cube of ice. You raise an eyebrow.

"That's all we have, make it work. I ain't got the money for court," he shrugs.

Something clicks in your brain. You know he sees it. You see it from the way his eyes widen waiting for you. "Is this what this was about?"

He sighs, then sits on the floor across from your figure, which is still standing by the sink. You raise the ice cube on your forehead. This feels nice.

"Yuu asked me to accompany him trick or treating on Halloween."

You wait, but he's not looking at you anymore. He seems distant.

"Oookaaay, and...?" you push. He sighs again. His hand repeatedly passes through his pink locks.

"I picked up a double shift for Halloween like... last week. I can't lose the money right now, or I won't have enough for rent on the 1st," he grits out, keeping his head low. You hum. You throw the melted ice cube in the sink near the cigarette. The image makes you smile. It looks like you two.

You get down on the floor too, the tip of your sock clad feet grazing his.

"You could've asked me, you know," you say, trying to sound nonchalant. He scoffs.

"Baby, I know you're whipped, but I didn't think you wanted to be a sugar mommy at twentytwo," he says smirking. You try kicking him, but he just gets out of the way, snickering. "I'm not asking a girl for money, that's fucking humiliating."

"I'm serious, idiot. If you didn't want the money I could've taken Yuuji for you, it's not like it's the first time," you tell him, rolling your eyes. "He tried to be strong for you at the end, I know you know," you add, delicately this time, Tentatively. He stares at you and sighs for what feels like the hundredth time. He grabs your foot again and manspreads, just to position your calf on his thigh. This position feels incredibly intimate, and you try not to stiffen. You two have never been the cuddly type of roommates, but he looks like he could use a little bit of physical contact.

"It wouldn't be the same. He wants me there because all of the other kids are with their families, even if he doesn't want to tell me so. Satoru texted me about it this morning. He's taking the two brats he basically adopted too," he rambles. Sukuna is not one to open up, so you just let him talk, absorbing everything like a sponge.

"Couldn't you like... move the appointments up by a few hours?" you ask.

"I could, but I still have two fucking assignments for Halloween. If I don't turn them in I'm fucked, and I need the scholarship," he grits out. His thumb caresses your exposed ankle mindlessly. Shivers run up the entirety of your leg.

Suddenly, an idea pops into your mind.

"But what if you had an amazing roommate who oh so happened to love your brother so dearly that could turn said assignments in for you if it meant to see him happy?" you say, looking at him expectantly.

"I can't ask you that, come on," he rolls his eyes. You jump up, almost falling over him in the process. "I'm not doing that for free."

"I knew you were a bitch," he growls. You just whistle, going toward the door. He squeezes his eyes hard, before opening them, jumping up too and grabbing your wrist before you can exit the kitchen.

"What do you want?"

You grin.

That's how you find yourself holding a badly sponged muscled up Tarzan-Yuuji's little hand while going from door to door, your cute yellow Jane dress on.

"Might have given you a concussion the other day, doll," Sukuna, dressed as a monkey, grumbles next to you. You laugh, and he throws you a mean glare.

Yuuji leaves your side and runs up to his friends, screaming "Trick or treat!" with them, beaming. He looks back at you from time to time, smiling, offering you something every time the people he rings the doorbell of give him more than one candy.

You suddenly feel an arm drape over your shoulders roughly, before getting slammed into a hairy side.

"Thank you, y'know," Sukuna mumbles near your ear, pressing your head in a way where you're not able to see his expression. Then, he pushes you away. "Not for the fucking costume, that's for sure," he adds, disgusted, scratching his neck and arm at the same time. You just stand there, mouth gaping a little, in front of him.

"Cat got your tongue, sugar mama?" He tells you after a while, grinning.

You scowl, fake mad, before chuckling. "Who knew you were capable of saying thank you?"

"Don't get used to it."

1K notes View Post
ffushiquro
6 months ago

【Ｌｉｍｉｎａｌｉｔｙ】

Damaged Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

Chapter 12 | I’m Cloudbusting Daddy.

Dark themes, references to past abuse. A PTSD freak out. Kinda hurt no comfort vibes? Take care besties.

【Ｌｉｍｉｎａｌｉｔｙ】

You press your face into the cool tiles patterning your shower, feeling the water droplets forming random shapes against the thin flesh of your eyelids. It’s calming, the heat of the mist drenching your scalp, flowing in endless swirls around the drain beneath your feet.

It’s been weeks since the great revelations, since you opened the door to your anxiety for Simon and instead of retreating, he walked straight through. You’re glad he’s on leave actually, it’s given you time to process, move the relationship from one of faintly awkward strangers to the footings of a honeymoon period.

Without needing to verbalise it, you recognise that you’re both in deep now, the light above you reduced to a glimmering speck as you descend into dim and uncharted territory. You know he’s probably never spoken about some of the things he told you with anyone, the fact that he trusted you enough to reveal the difficult truth of his past means everything. It’s given you both a new footing you’re still navigating around.

The first time Simon slept in your bed, it felt like a big deal. A fucking big deal actually. You weren’t sure if you’d ever be brave enough to close your eyes around someone again, give them access to a space where you’re unguarded, vulnerable in the extreme. He stuck to his side of the mattress with almost rigid formality that made humour lodge in the back of your throat. Ironing board stiff and barely moving, shovel like hands folded neatly under his head, a side sleeper by all accounts, when you woke up he was still in the same position and the only indication he was comfortable was the change in his breathing, exhales of air expended from somewhere peaceful.

Slowly, like dream walking, Simon had gradually eased into it, until his hand laced with yours when it came time to turn off the amber light on your bedside table. That progressed to your head making it’s way onto his shoulder, or a leg being flung absently across his thigh. Shapes that gradually came together through the blackest night or in the early hours where the soft plumed birds chirp. With each passing day the awkwardness disappeared, until you realised your bed would feel entirely empty without his body there, even given the whistling snores he makes when he’s dozing through a nose broken more than once.

It’s going so well, it almost makes you uneasy. You keep waiting for him to show some sign of impatience with you, try and touch you somewhere that makes the wounds in your psyche flinch away, withdraw under the pain of previous caresses you’ve tried so hard to bury twelve feet deep.

But it never comes. Simon kisses you like a man fevered, possessed by the feeling of your lips against his, nips at your jawline and threads his big paws with your fingers. Steadily you’re recognising that perhaps Simon is more afraid of taking that leap than you are. The jump that involves acting on the slickness between your thighs after a particularly intense make out session, or acknowledging the hardness you’ve felt pitching in his black jeans.

In spite of your own anxieties, you’ve got to admit you crave that physicality with Simon. It’s stirred all sorts of excitement in you, the type that makes your stomach tense with anticipation, heat curling over your shoulders in waves every time he murmurs your name, slightly out of breath from long minutes wrapped up in you.

The water plunging from the spouts above you is turning lukewarm you’ve been in here so long. More than once you’ve taken a shower as an acute distraction from the overstimulation bought on by Simon’s presence. Slipping a hand between your legs to ease the ache he leaves, toying with your clit until a short and sharp orgasm blooms under your fingertips. Oddly, it leaves you craving more though, becoming less and less satisfying with each stolen moment.

A little frustrated, you shut off the flow. You both agreed you’d take things slowly, it’s needed, required even. You’ll have to shove batteries in your old vibe and sneak it into the bathroom. That should stave off the constricting desire that has you gazing at Simon’s broad back when you wake up before him in the mornings. The itch inside you to trace a palm over the corded muscle and sinew built there, press kisses to every scar. It’s a relief in some ways to be so attracted to him, when it’s been a while since frisson didn’t make you anxious.

“Oi.”

“Oi.” Simon replies softly, barely opening one eye, head resting against the sofa cushions. You can tell he’s awake though, his gravelled voice holds no sign of sleep. He’s always watchful, only rests in a light state of consciousness, sometimes waking if you move too much or twitch while you dream.

The tv show you were watching has long since finished, something else is playing. The hum of the dialogue onscreen washes over you, drowning out the negative voice inside your head. Simon’s black gaze is now resting on you entirely, slow blinking like a cat on the lap of an owner who dotes on it.

It’s now or never.

“Do you ever think about…” You pause, trying to bottle the shyness suddenly seeping into your body and making you clench your fists. “Trying stuff? Stuff other than kissing?”

Simon sits up and immediately you regret your statement. In his uncanny way you know he understands exactly what you mean. You get studied by eyes full of apprehension, something churning in the depths you can’t quite grasp, an undercurrent through a restless body of water that’s usually still.

“You don’t have to answer that! Sorry, forget I said it.”

Shit, now you feel awkward.

But Simon closes his rough fingers tightly around yours, the pad of his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist.

“Stop apologising to me.” He huffs, the scar on his lip tugged downwards in a stern line. But his severe stare starts to crumble at the edges, humour breaking through the cocktail of uncertainty in them. “M’tougher than I look.”

You snort at that, then hold his hand properly, sliding your fingers to rest on his knuckles, marked and sloping as they are. Flipping his hand to bring yours closer still, you notice something, a vibrant red, crimson smear on the thin skin just before his weathered palm begins.

“Is that lipstick?!”

“Yeah.” Replies Simon, looking utterly unabashed. You press a pad into the stain, garish against his fair colouring.

“Do I want to know why you’ve got red lipstick there?”

He shrugs, lips tilting up at the corners in a surprisingly boyish way. Simon looks like he’s been caught out in some amusing fashion, it piques your interest immediately.

“Si?”

The smirk grows a little wider, so you squish his hand in an attempt to extort the truth from him. It has all the affect of a breeze blowing against a large rock. He doesn’t even flinch, though you’re puffing.

“Tell me!” You lean all your weight on his hand which remains resolutely steady.

“Surprised it’s taken you this long to notice it actually.” He hums, watching you wrestling with him while his eyes crinkle happily at the corners. “Pinched your lipstick weeks ago. Wear it everyday.”

You gawp at him, momentarily distracted. Simon uses that to flip your hand and traps it vice like in his paw.

“I’ve been looking for that!”

“Bought you new ones didn’t I?!” He grins stupidly at the outrage on your features.

“You’re a weird guy Simon.”

“Know that.” Simon shrugs without batting an eyelid. “Reminds me of you. Thought you’d lose your shit if I got a tattoo, lipstick will do for now eh.”

Warily, you eye him, the sentiment is crushingly adoring and it should have you running for the hills. Instead you’re more than a little bit pleased he wants to keep a part of you with him, even if that did involve stealing your favourite lippy.

“Have you got any other tattoos? Apart from your arm?”

“Nah. Don’t like sitting for em. Tha’s why I only got a half sleeve. Never went back for the rest.”

You digest that fact, your brain making links in the pieces of information you have about him. He finds touch difficult sometimes, you know that already. Occasionally he doesn’t sleep at all and you wake up to him pottering around your flat like a helpful poltergeist, tightening loose screws and fixing dripping taps.

“Do you prefer piercings then?”

Simon nods slowly.

“Mm. Done those myself in the main.”

“You pierced your own tongue?!” Horrified you gaze at him, imagining how difficult that must have been to do without flinching.

“Pierced other stuff too. Just took em out when I got bored.”

“Like what?”

“Come ‘ere?” Simon murmurs, pulling you closer then patting his lap. He still frames it as a question, giving you the right to refuse at any moment, to pull back without consequences. Feeling bold, you clamber onto his thick thighs, as his orbs flit over your form.

“See how many you can guess.”

Steadily he stares up at you, big hands resting gently on your hips, the lightest touch that might as well weigh tenfold with how heated you’re feeling. Spread wide across his lap, feeling the stretch in your muscles as they accommodate the broadness of him. It would burn to take him, you’re sure of it, but it would be the best feeling in the world.

Carefully you examine his face, a few lines around his eyes, scars that criss cross through his ash blonde stubble, light lashes framing the obsidian orbs so tenderly observing you in return.

There’s a little hole shaped mark in the corner of his lip, two by both sides of his brows. A few more litter his ears. Quietly you let your fingers trace each in turn, while he sighs at the whispering touches. You tap his Cupid’s bow and tilt your head to add the little metal barbel inside his mouth to the list of sites. Then your hand trails the length of his jawline, down to his Adam’s apple which jumps as he gulps.

“Did I get all of them right?!”

Simon’s orbs look over-bright, black pupils a vortex in which to drown. His breath quickens, a pace to match his thrumming pulse. It’s innocuous, but you touching him so tenderly has roused something wolfish that can’t be ignored. Simultaneously he wants you to stop and go further all at once.

“More or less.” He concedes, leaning his throat into your touch until a thrumming starts to drive between your legs. Boldly you trace a peck over his T-shirt, the outline of muscles bunching under your caresses until he’s taut like a spring.

“Anymore round here?”

Your thumb finds the edge of his nipple and curves around it, feeling the peak while he shivers slightly. It occurs to you then and there that Simon could have more piercings in delicate areas unseen as yet, and the thought of that has your pussy fluttering with anticipation.

“I’ll tell you if you’re hot or cold.” He rasps, throat bobbing again. Is it just nerves? Or is he really so affected by a trailing touch?

Sinking lower, you stroke down to his navel, navigating his belly button with a quirk of your eyebrow. Simon inhales softly when you pause just under it, tentatively drawing little circles.

“Hot.”

You giggle, the vision of this giant of a man with a cute noughties belly bar is almost too much to handle. So carefully you’re now barely taking in oxygen yourself, your hand reaches the waistband of his jeans, resting on it with a feathery lightness that totally belays the amount of intoxicating want you feel for him. The incredible urge you have to undo the faded metal button and let down the zipper of his fly.

There’s a split second pause while your imagination goes into overdrive, contemplating one thousand different moves that would lead onwards to the place you’ve been fantasising about getting to with Simon.

That momentary lapse in observation is all it takes to miss that he’s frozen, no longer heavily lidded with lust, forearms straining and bunched with tension until the muscles look fit to burst through his flesh. All easy humour has vanished from his face, his eyes are burning like supernovas in their sockets, while his knuckles whiten.

Then seamlessly he’s on his feet, you’ve been deposited onto the sofa and he’s halfway into the hall. You barely have time to blink, to readjust to the change in position before you hear the bathroom door slam.

Shit.

You don’t know what to do, give him space? Is that the best thing? Or does he need comfort? Surely he wouldn’t have moved if he didn’t need alone time. Waiting for a beat you listen, it’s eerily quiet, not even the sound of the clock ticking over to midnight in the kitchen breaks the tension.

Shit, shit.

Anxiously you clutch your knees, wavering between going to check on him and the worry that might make it worse. Concern gnaws at you, along with rapidly rising guilt. You never even considered what level might be too much for him and that brings nausea to your throat.

The front door opens.

“Need fresh air.” Simon calls shortly.

It shuts with a finality that feels like a death toll, leaving you reeling a little in it’s wake.

Shit, shit, double shit.

On AO3

Masterlist

@cutiecusp @pxssygxblin @murder-hobo @misshugs @cherrieswine @garbau @callsignang3l @cmbghost

169 notes View Post
ffushiquro
1 month ago

The Mask I Live With - pt 12

After a long week with work... I'm finally able to post the next chapter 😫 how was everyone's week?????????

Roommate|Reader x Simon Ghost Riley

The door creaked open again, causing you to look up and your chest tighten. Simon walked inside, his gear no longer on him, replaced by a simple black hoodie and cargo pants. Though his skull mask remained.

The two sergeants glanced at each other before Soap patted the side of your bed. "We'll go check on Danny. Let ya two talk." Gaz smirked but didn't say anything as they both left, shutting the door behind them.

Silence.

It was so quiet, except for the beeping of the monitor, you almost wanted to pass out again.

He stood there, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he wasn't sure what to do with them as he watched you. He was stiff like he was either restraining himself or forcing composure. You shifted, letting out a soft wince, and his eyes immediately dropped to your leg before looking back at your face.

You swallowed. "Did we get them?"

"Y'need to focus on gettin' better."

You blinked. "That wasn't an answer."

"Tha's the only answer you're gettin'."

You frowned but didn't push it. If he wasn't telling, then you probably didn't want to know. Instead, your gaze drifted down his form, taking in the tension that flowed over his body like he hadn't let himself rest.

"Are you okay?" You asked.

"Christ." He scoffed and shook his head. "You're the one in a hospital bed, and you're worried about me?"

You shrugged. "You look like hell." He shook his head again, but didn't deny it. There was something almost amusing in the way his eyes narrowed at you. You hesitated for a second before speaking again. "Thank you. For coming back for us."

"Didn't have a choice." He responded immediately.

Your brows furrowed. "What?"

"Wouldn't have left y'behind."

The way he said it—quiet but faithful—made your stomach twist. Like it wasn't even a question. Like there was never a world where he would've done anything else. It harder to breathe, your throat tightening for a response you couldn't form.

He shifted his weight, glancing toward the door like he was already halfway gone..... like this moment was already too much. "Should get some rest."

You wanted to say something else—wanted to stop him, ask what the hell this thing was between you; what it meant—but all you could do was nod.

******************************************************

When you were finally released from the hospital, you and Danny were placed on medical leave until you both recovered. No flying. No missions. No long hours in the hangar prepping aircrafts.

Just rest.

It should've been easy, but no......

You were told about his condition before you even saw him. The bullet wound in his neck had traveled and done serious damage - nerve and muscle trauma meant he wouldn't get in a helo for a long time. Months, maybe longer.

Still, his face split into a lopsided grin the second he saw you. "Damn, Riggs." He eyed your crutches. "We really know how to make an exit, huh?"

You playfully scoffed, lowering yourself carefully into the chair beside him. "Yeah, next time let's not get shot and crash a helo."

"Where's the fun in that?" He joked. Even with his usual sarcasm, you saw he was struggling. 

You knew it could've been worse. You both could have died. But the idea of Danny—your co-pilot, your best friend—being sidelined like this... it hit painfully deep.

Your own recovery was a hell too. The doctors were optimistic about your leg, but physical therapy was going to be brutal. You couldn't even walk without assistance—using the crutches they required you to have. It sucked..... 

You never realized how much you took something as simple as walking for granted until it became a whole goddamn process. Moving around the flat was annoying enough... but the first time you had to deal with the stairs? Absolutely infuriating.

You stood at the bottom, glaring up at them like they'd personally offended you.

"This is bullshit."

Simon, standing next to you, tilted his head slightly. "Y'gonna complain the whole way up?"

You huffed, adjusting your grip on the crutches. "I might."

He made a low, amused sound. "Need help?"

"No." You glared.

You should have accepted, but your pride was hanging on by a thread, and you refused to let a dumb ass staircase defeat you. So you gritted your teeth and started your slow, agonizing climb. It took way too long, your arms ached, and your leg throbbed....... by the time you reached the top, you were fucking out of breath.

He just stood there, unimpressed. "Took y'long enough."

"Screw you, Ghost." You shot him another glare, but it quickly vanished as you saw his eyes crinkle under his surgical mask. That's when you noticed something in that serious, yet comforting gaze he gave you...... it was full of...... care.

He also was just.... there.

More than usual.

A lot more actually.

At first, you thought it was a coincidence. He had always been in and out, missions taking him away for days or weeks at a time, but suddenly, he was home. Helping. Bringing you things before you even asked. Carrying stuff when he didn't have to. Making sure you were eating, and that you wereresting. You caught him glancing at you more, watching to make sure you weren't pushing yourself too hard.

And at some point, you found out that he hadn't gone on the next mission. That threw you off more than anything else cause he never sat out missions. But now?.... he was at the flat with you, being this constant, steady presence you hadn't expected.

Every time you wanted to ask him, the words stuck in your throat.

Why was he doing this? Why was he staying? What did it mean?

But you were too afraid of the answer.

Instead, you distracted yourself.. mostly by texting the group chat that had been blowing up ever since you and Danny got injured.

Danny : Morning cripples.

Soap : Aye Danny. How's the muscles?

Gaz : And how's our otherinvaliddoing?

You smirked at your phone before typing out a response.

You: I'm fine. Ghost helped me move some shit around earlier though.

It only took threeseconds before the chat exploded.

Soap: GHOST?? Helping you??? 😳

Danny: Again?

Gaz: Just ask him out already.

You: EXCUSE ME???

Soap: Come on lass we all see it. Man's been practically glued to your side since the crash.

Gaz: Yeah and he skipped a mission for you. When has he ever skipped a mission?

Danny: I told you. She's got some kinda spell on him.

You groaned, rubbing a hand over your face.

You: It's not like that. He's just making sure I don't die or something.

Soap: Oh yeah sure. Because he definitely watches over the rest of us like that.

Gaz: He's so into you.

Danny: He's a stubborn bastard, but so are you. Just ask him out.

Your stomach flipped wildly, and you hated that it did. 

Because the truth was... you had thought about it. More than twenty times. But you knew he wasn't the kind of man to—

Your phone buzzed again.

Soap: Bet she won't do it.

Gaz: Yeah no shit. She's too scared.

Danny: Pfft. You won't.

You scowled at your screen.

You: I can ask him out. I just don't want to.

Soap: Mmhm. Sure.

Gaz: Sounds like fear.

Danny: Sounds like excuses.

You groaned, throwing your phone onto the couch beside you. Because they weren't completely wrong. You were afraid......afraid of messing things up. Afraid of making things weird. Afraid that maybe he didn't feel the same way.

I swear we're getting closer and closer to them finally stopping the awkwardness and confessing their love lmao!!!

Pt. 1; Pt. 2; Pt. 3; Pt. 4; Pt. 5; Pt. 6; Pt. 7; Pt. 8; Pt. 9; Pt. 10; Pt. 11 (Simon POV)

Before The Ghost

taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @nappingmoon @chaos-4baby @ohdrey89 @skeletonsucker @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @roastyyytoastyyy @simonexxx1 @mrmountainman @thebumbqueen @lucienofthelakes @letiferian @jennamelinda12 @mulletmcghee @kittykatgorl @strawberrygato @ghostslollipop @emeraldeyes1805 @chaosundcoffee @whos-fran @fangirls94 @rafaelacallinybbay @quiet-loser @shondlenoodle @iceblossom1013 @sssophia0-0 @a-lil-bit-nuts

167 notes View Post
  • andrwgfld
    andrwgfld liked this · 4 weeks ago
  • teenagegardenpolice
    teenagegardenpolice liked this · 1 month ago
  • lipstickchemtrails
    lipstickchemtrails liked this · 1 month ago
  • inezzas
    inezzas liked this · 1 month ago
  • nerdy102
    nerdy102 liked this · 1 month ago
  • cosmicpro
    cosmicpro liked this · 1 month ago
  • tobs-stuff
    tobs-stuff liked this · 1 month ago
  • nyoomstar
    nyoomstar liked this · 1 month ago
  • hugmeimtouchdeprived
    hugmeimtouchdeprived liked this · 1 month ago
  • dangerousartisaneggsland
    dangerousartisaneggsland liked this · 1 month ago
  • quietballadeer
    quietballadeer liked this · 1 month ago
  • brianmoserscumtank
    brianmoserscumtank liked this · 1 month ago
  • endearinglyshit
    endearinglyshit reblogged this · 1 month ago
  • endearinglyshit
    endearinglyshit liked this · 1 month ago
  • shitaaba
    shitaaba liked this · 1 month ago
  • annaroze1ly
    annaroze1ly liked this · 1 month ago
  • spleen-juice
    spleen-juice liked this · 1 month ago
  • katris245
    katris245 liked this · 1 month ago
  • kirbzs
    kirbzs liked this · 1 month ago
  • zemilia
    zemilia liked this · 1 month ago
  • greennoise15
    greennoise15 liked this · 1 month ago
  • firehazardxx
    firehazardxx liked this · 1 month ago
  • neko-mana
    neko-mana liked this · 1 month ago
  • iamkillvmaim
    iamkillvmaim liked this · 1 month ago
  • bitchywitchychaneloberlin
    bitchywitchychaneloberlin liked this · 1 month ago
  • bluebutterflies9
    bluebutterflies9 liked this · 1 month ago
  • whimsybutt
    whimsybutt liked this · 1 month ago
  • cherrykissdreams
    cherrykissdreams liked this · 1 month ago
  • sarbn
    sarbn liked this · 1 month ago
  • lyssburto
    lyssburto liked this · 1 month ago
  • roreeee123
    roreeee123 liked this · 1 month ago
  • 3tiercart
    3tiercart liked this · 1 month ago
  • flabbababba
    flabbababba liked this · 1 month ago
  • glittermilshake06
    glittermilshake06 liked this · 1 month ago
  • baileyslov3r
    baileyslov3r liked this · 1 month ago
  • greatsludgecowboyhairdo
    greatsludgecowboyhairdo liked this · 1 month ago
  • layzee-hippos
    layzee-hippos liked this · 1 month ago
  • sannajikeistar
    sannajikeistar liked this · 1 month ago
  • girlkisser187
    girlkisser187 liked this · 1 month ago
  • diteeeeee
    diteeeeee liked this · 1 month ago
  • where-the-river-bends
    where-the-river-bends liked this · 1 month ago
  • priftijooo
    priftijooo liked this · 1 month ago
  • witchlinda
    witchlinda liked this · 1 month ago
  • beautifulsweetschaos
    beautifulsweetschaos liked this · 1 month ago
  • catssmirkingrevenge
    catssmirkingrevenge liked this · 1 month ago
  • girldeleted111
    girldeleted111 liked this · 1 month ago
  • promiseofeywa
    promiseofeywa liked this · 1 month ago
  • gutsforlove
    gutsforlove liked this · 1 month ago
  • mikagusman-blog
    mikagusman-blog liked this · 1 month ago
ffushiquro
ffushiquro

22She/Her

119 posts

Explore Tumblr Blog
Search Through Tumblr Tags