Something about price not showing up for his own kid's graduation, couldn't be bothered when "it's just uni, sport. I'll be there for something important, yeah?"
And you fully expect to find no one sitting in the seat you pre-emptively reserved, all too hopeful that your dad would finally see you. Except...it's not empty.
Ghost is sat in your dads seat.
Ghost, the man who practically saved your degree when you were on the verge of a breakdown and dad was on vacation. Found you crying in a gas station parking lot and recognized you from price's wallet.
And....it feels weird, ghost where price should be, almost like you're replacing your dad...but it's also nice?
Ghost has always been there when you needed him, more than your own dad ever was.
He drives you to get shitty fast food afterwards in celebration, hand heavy on your thigh and you don't try to stop him. Of course you've thought about it, but never acted on it...
Not until ghost pulls over on the back roads, parks his truck in the start of an empty field and lays you down in the dirty bed of it. Rough hands pulling your thighs open, a mouth leaving bites against skin. He makes you feel all the things you missed out on, too busy studying for your dads approval.
He groans "fuck, kid, can't believe i waited this long. Didn't want to distract you." When he ruts into you, thick and hot and too big for you to do anything other than gasp.
That night, you sleep in ghosts bed and not once does your dad call asking where you are. Seems like you made the right choice.
MalinoisHybrid!Simon x reader
Chapter 5 - (Chapter 7)
You just managed the doctors appointment with Simon and already you're rushed into a meeting. Will they allow Simon to leave the solitary room or do you have to learn to work with him in that room?
~8,6k Words
Content (might contain spoilers): hybrid AU, mentions of past attacks, attack, biting, blood, reader being physically pinned to the ground, pants being torn, fluff and angst
A.N: *old woman voice* It's been 84 years. I'm truly sorry. I'd also promise that it won't happen again but I'm not a liar and we have to stay humble here. It will probably happen again. All the more thanks to you all who have been incredibly patient and encouraging. Your comments and asks give me life and I love you all. Have fun. Also I cried while writing. I might be a crybaby but part of this chapter was incredibly emotional to write. I'm still shit at spelling (also my program didn't check it for me this time so I'm sorry if it's extra sucky).
You walk to the meeting ready for battle. There had been barely enough time to make yourself feel slightly more presentable after the morning you’ve had and you’re hurrying to keep pace with Nate’s quick strides. Apparently handler management had cleared a small time slot to talk to you immediately. Which meant no time to catch your breath.
„It’s called handler management but it’s actually more about handling the hybrids through the handlers. They’re the one’s who get your weekly report.“ Nate informs you while he confidently leads you down a flurry of identical hallways, different identical hallways than earlier.
Great, so handler management are the one’s evaluating whether you’re doing your work well enough, that doesn’t put any pressure on you at all. There hadn’t even been enough time to prepare for the meeting. Though in truth you don’t even know what you would have had to prepare if you had the time. You’re going in more or less blindly and it makes your whole body feel clammy.
Nate claimed the meeting is to talk about Simon’s rooming situation but you can’t help but feel like you’ll get chewed out for this morning. Maybe you’d get away with a slap on the wrist for not letting the female doctor examine Simon. Hopefully they wouldn’t be too mad about it. You’re new, you don’t know how lenient they are and how much authority the handlers hold here.
Before you can spiral further in your thoughts, Nate stops in front of an unassuming white door and knocks.
„Come in.“, a tight male voice calls and Nate opens the door for you letting you in and entering after you, closing the door once you’re both inside. It seems like he’s going to stay for the meeting too and although surprising his presence might help you to keep at least somewhat calm.
There’s a rectangular desk in the middle of the pretty small room that takes up most of the space. On the far end there’s a closed file cabinet and across from you two people sit at the desk, standing up to extend their hands to you.
You step forward, unsticking your tongue from the roof of your mouth and shake their hands with a smile you managed to plaster onto your face.
„Oscar Bell.“, the elder gentleman introduces and when you glance at his eyes for a moment the intensity of the pale blue almost makes you flinch.
The hand of the younger woman is soft and warm but still firm in it’s hold. „Dr. Halloway. It’s a pleasure to meet you.“
You introduce yourself too, although it seems weird to do since they evidently know who you are. They invited you to the meeting after all. But an introduction seems like the correct thing to do so you push through the slight awkwardness of it.
Another Secretary walks in through a door on the left, carrying a tray with coffee and water, just as they invite Nate and you to sit down at the table. While everyone gets their preferred drink Dr. Halloway informs you that she’s going to protocol the meeting. You get your drink last and try hard not to spill it when you put it down before yourself on the desk.
Mister Bell leans back in his chair, relaxed, folding his hands over his slightly round belly. He’s smartly dressed and it makes you feel like a peasant next to someone important. „So. As we heard you caused quite the disturbance at the doctors this morning.“
Hot embarrassment floods you, shooting down until it fills your entire body and you consciously keep yourself from sinking into yourself trying to disappear. Clearing your throat you put your hands on your thighs to keep them still. „I did not mean to interrupt the doctors day.“
As lays back as Mr. Bell seems at the moment, his tone is sharp as he says: „And yet you did. Would you be so kind as to enlighten us why you asked for another doctor?“
You swallow heavily. You hate this. His eyes searching you intensely, almost looking through you, like the question he just asked is a test. It feels like there’s some deeper question but you don’t know what exactly it is. It makes you feel small and incapable. You hate feeling like there’s some hidden agenda, some sort of meaning you don’t understand.
„I asked for that to ensure the safety of my charge and everyone involved.“ You simply say. „Simon did not need to be sedated again, which was preferable considering the highly negative reactions he has to it.“
The elder gentleman inclines his head a bit, studying you and you try your hardest not to fill the few seconds of silence with unnecessary chatter to explain yourself better. Suddenly he sits up a bit straighter, leaning forward and sipping his coffee.
„Very well.“ The intensity lessens just like that. „As I heard it worked. He got examined without any bigger issues.“
You nod, because there isn’t really anything for you to add. Are you supposed to add something?
„I also heard that he attacked you yesterday.“ He continues and you look down at your bandaged arm, putting your other hand over the white wrapping and giving Nate a quick glance. In stark contrast to the way you feel like you’ll wither and die under the pressure of this meeting, Nate is sitting in his chair like this couldn’t be more relaxing. One leg crossed over the other, giving you a quick smile. That simple expression soothes you slightly. He wouldn’t look at you like that if you’d done or said anything wrong so far.
Once again you nod and Mr. Bell folds his hands again, this time on the table and suddenly he seems all the more intense his blue eyes piercing into you. „What happened? Why did he attack?“
You feel like you might be missing something again but you still don’t know what it might be. You straighten your shoulders slightly, absent mindedly stroking the bandages with your thumb. „I was happy to see him again and approached him in a way that made him feel threatened. It was a series of unfortunate events and not malicious on his part.“
Mr. Bell hums and Dr. Halloway types away on her laptop. The clacking of the keys grating your nerves and you feel like taping your ears shut. The way Mr. Bell doesn’t look away from you is slightly unnerving and you try to keep eye contact in a natural way even when it makes you want to scratch at your brain from the inside to stop the itchy feeling.
„So you’d say he’s not dangerous?“ He asks.
It’s a trap, is all you can think. It’s definitely a trap. You might not have understood any hidden questions so far but you can easily tell what answer acquires which outcome. If you say he’s not dangerous they’ll have it in the protocol and if anything happens they’ll point their fingers at you. But if you say that Simon is dangerous he’ll stay locked up in solitary.
You don’t want that. Simon needs to get out of that room because even if he stays in there for weeks or months you won’t be able to help him. You’re a handler, not a therapist and in order to help him you need to handle him, outside of that room.
You consider the question probably longer than you should. „He’s a malinois hybrid. Even if there were no prior incidents I wouldn’t call him harmless. No hybrid is.“
That has Mr. Bell grinning sharply and it unnerves you but before you can question what you said wrong, it gentles into something almost satisfied. Subtly you rub the palms of your hands over your thighs again, digging your fingers in slightly. Hopefully this meeting will be over soon.
„So if he isn’t harmless and not malicious either, what do you propose we do? Initially we wanted to keep him in solitary but the development since your arrival yesterday is interesting and we wanted your insight before we decide.“
This is it. The reason why you’re here after all. You take a deep breath. „I don’t think keeping him in solitary will help him, Sir.“
He nods slowly, considering. „We cannot afford moving him to the general housing wing and having him attack someone again. There’s only so much aggression and hostility we can excuse because it is founded in trauma.“
You nod, unsure what else to do. That’s not entirely true. You know what to do but you’re pretty sure it’s not the smart thing to do. It’s definitely a really stupid thing to do. But you never claimed to be particularly smart.
„What if I took responsibility?,“ you carefully ask. Putting yourself on the line like that is probably foolish but everything in you screams to get Simon out of solitary.
Mr. Bell inclines his head in interest. „What exactly do you mean? Are we talking about an extended handler agreement?“
Your pants are slightly rough under your hands, it helps to ground you just a little bit as you nod slightly. „His doing will be my doing.“
His eyes widen slightly and he leans back, stunned into silence for a moment, contemplating what you just said. You bite your tongue so you don’t back paddle. What are you doing? Can you even shoulder that type of responsibility? What if you’re completely wrong about Simon and he looses it. Anything he does will be judged as if you both did it.
„Are you sure you want that type of responsibility for him? We understand if it’s not possible or too risky and he needs to stay in solitary.“ Mr. Bell looks at you and for the first time it feels like he isn’t trying to dissect you but actually trying to look out for you.
You think about Simon. The way he covered you with the blankets. The way he silently watches you like he expects you to turn against him at any moment. All the small and big moments you’ve already had with him even though you’ve barely spent time together.
„I am sure.“, You say calmly and pray he can’t hear the deafening sound of your racing heart. Any moment now it’ll tear your chest open with how hard it’s hammering against your ribs, you’re sure of it.
He keeps watching you and then slowly nods. Quicker than you expected he calls for the other secretary asking her to prepare an extended handler agreement for Simon and then his attention is back on you.
„Now that that is settled I have two conditions for Simon to be allowed to leave solitary.“ His serious expression has you sitting up even more.
„Sir?“ You ask unsure what he could want now that you’ve already agreed to take responsibility. Calmly he leans back again, and rests his hands on his belly again.
„Firstly he has to start attending his therapy sessions with Doctor Halloway.“
You’re more surprised by that information than you should be. Of course they’re offering Simon psychological support. And it also shouldn’t surprise you that he hasn’t attended yet. You swallow dryly. You need him out of that room but…
„I can try, Sir. But I won’t force him. All the therapy in the world won’t help him if he doesn’t attend willingly.“ You keep your voice measured, factual and see Dr. Halloway nod. For the first time she participates in the conversation.
„I agree. That is why we’re hoping you can convince him.“
That makes you raise an eyebrow. „If I fail to do that he’ll be sent back to solitary?“
She shakes her head but it just confuses you more. „The condition is that you try to convince him. Like you said, you shouldn’t force him. We’re merely hoping for you to make an effort and for that effort to make the difference he needs to come to his appointments.“
You settle slightly. That makes sense and also lessens the weight on your shoulders slightly. You look back to Mr Bell and he nods in agreement.
„What other conditions do you have?“
He takes over talking again. „He has to wear his collar at all times and he’s not allowed outside of his room without being leashed and muzzled. We have to try to prevent anymore unwanted incidents. Before allowing him to go without muzzle or leash we’d like you to consult us.“
You slightly incline your head. It makes you wary but you understand their reasoning. „I understand.“ You hesitate for a second. „What if it is for training purposes with no one around?“
„Then it’s up to your judgement as long as it isn’t in the building complex or the training grounds outside. It is impossible to ensure that you’re not disturbed there.“
Agreeing to that comes easy, easier than any other part of this conversation has so far and you hope that the worst part is over. The door to the left opens again and the secretary comes back with a stack of papers, handing it to Mr. Bell who looks it over and then slides it across the desk to you. It’s the extended agreement.
„If you agree to these conditions and sign these, then it’s up to you how and when Simon moves.“
You carefully take up the stack, hoping you won’t stain the paper with your sweat. Quickly you scan the papers and before you can think better of it you put your signature on it. For a second you think of Liz. You can vividly see her clicking her tongue, admonishing you at how rashly you’re acting.
He takes it back and nods at you. „It was a pleasure meeting you and I wish you success with Simon.“
Without any additional small talk Mr. Bell stands up and Dr. Halloway closes the laptop. He extends his hand towards you and you shake it, relieved that the meeting concluded without any unnecessary pleasantries.
Seconds later you’re back on the way to Simon’s current room. Thoughts spinning, replaying the entire meeting again and again wondering what you might have said wrong, what gesture you should have added and how you could have navigated it better. Did you do alright or had you messed up somewhere without noticing?
Nate’s hand on your shoulder nearly makes you jump and you smile up at him. „How bad was that?“ You can’t help but ask and against everything you expected Nate laughs warmly.
„You did incredible. They were both impressed.“ His words reassure you more than you expected. Now that you’re walking away from the meeting room exhaustion slams into you and you wish you could just lay down for a bit. Just until you feel like you can resemble a normal functioning human again.
That’s when you realize that Nate isn’t actually taking you back to Simon’s room. „Where are we going?“
Nate glaces at you. „To the cafeteria. It’s time for lunch and this way you can take the food with you and don’t have to come back a second time.“
You nod slowly. Feeling the tension return to your limbs immediately almost annoys you. Until you hear the overlapping voices of people chatting and any annoyance is replaced by nerves. Around the next corner you almost stop walking but Nate’s self assured steps force you to keep going.
The cafeteria is big. And packed full. Bigger than the center in the US you work at. Granted Rehybrid is highly specialized but you’d have preferred that type of center here too. It would have meant less people and less hybrids. Less potential threats.
Nate queues up for the food and mechanically you step up next to him, looking around. Somehow you were not prepared for the variety of hybrids you’re seeing here. Sure there’s dog hybrids, but there’s also cat hybrids, further back you’re pretty sure you see the colorful head feathers of a scarlet macaw and there’s so many other animalistic feature’s present on different people, you don’t even have the time to assess what types of hybrids there are. The organized chaos has you a bit breathless and you’re trying to adjust to all the new impressions.
Weirdly enough the fact that there’s so many types of hybrids besides dog hybrids helps you to calm down. Your brain evidently not registering them as a threat. Many of them sit in groups without any human present and the sight of that seems jarring for a moment. Back at Rehybrid every Hybrid had a handler who they spent most of their time with. Eating with them and spending time aside from training with them helped immensely with the type of cases you got. But these hybrids weren’t military. Hell many of them weren’t even working type hybrids but companions.
It just highlighted the difference all the more and suddenly you’re nervous. Simon and you would stick out like a sore thumb. The last thing you wanted was being ogled all the time and you’re pretty sure Simon wouldn’t enjoy that either. A wave of relief crashed over you when you finally get the food for you both, leaving the loud space to eat with him in the privacy of his room.
Nate leads you back to it so you don’t get lost but he doesn’t join you. His smile is almost bashful when he says: „Sorry, I have other commitments for lunch. But if anything happens you’ve got my number.“
And then he’s gone. You stand in front of the door for a moment. Balancing both your trays you awkwardly rub your hip up against the key card scanner hoping you can open the door with the access card in your pocket without having to set the trays down on the floor.
It feels like minutes of trying and looking like a fool but the door finally unlocks and you open the handle with your elbow shuffling inside backwards. For a second you think you hear a growl and a huff of breath at your neck but when you turn around, Simon is at the other end of the room watching you warily.
„Hi.“ You awkwardly say but somehow that makes him relax. Holding up the two trays you walk over to him. „I brought lunch."
He’s watching you again, with that unnerving intensity of his and you look around the room. The table and chair are bolted into place and the thought of one of you eating there while the other has to sit on the bed seems wrong so you cross over to where Simon is, carefully stepping over the collar and leash he left where he let them fall to the ground. You’d concern yourself with that later.
You’d deliberately left them before the meeting to see if he’d put them away. The fact that he hadn’t even touched them again makes you worry a bit about the second half on the conditions you had been given. Maybe he won’t agree to wear them at all.
Once you reach him you unceremoniously plop to the floor and set down the trays. „Will you join me?“
He stares at you like you’re a puzzle he has to solve but he slowly lowers himself to the floor as well. The food is surprisingly good for canteen food and you find yourself actually enjoying eating. You don’t fix your gaze on Simon but you notice that he suspiciously sniffs the food and carefully takes a small bite, testing the taste. When the food is judged as safe he digs in, eating with such speed you’re a little worried he’ll choke.
He keeps his eyes on you while he eats too only glancing down for a few seconds when he takes the next bite. You try to ignore it. Once he’s finished he keeps watching you until you’re done as well. Unmoving, his ears swiveling, nostrils flaring every now and then.
Slowly you put your fork down and look up, meeting his eyes. You consider easing into the topic of the meeting but you don’t even know how, so you just jump in. Openly communicating with him has worked well enough so far. „They agreed to let us move to our joined rooms.“
He doesn’t move, just a flicker of his ears as he listens, eyes searching your expression before you get to hear his rough voice again. It makes you realize how long he hasn’t spoken. „What’s the catch?“
You sigh deeply but don’t break eye. „You need to start wearing you collar permanently and you’re not allowed to leave the rooms without leash and muzzle.“
Immediately his ears press flat to bis head and his tail bristles. This time you’re prepared for it and you try to breathe through the quickening of your heartbeat.
„No.“ He growls and you cock your head studying him.
„Was this morning that bad?“ The question is delivered softly, making sure not to provoke him.
„Yes.“ His answer is immediate and it has you deflating, looking down but he’s not done. „No… Maybe.“
You glance back up, waiting until you realize that nothing more is coming from him. He’s studying you again, tense, silent and a little unreadable aside from the aggression the mention of those devices always earns.
„I won’t make you do it.“ He scoffs at that like it’s a bad joke. You press on. „If you truly can’t and won’t do it then I’ll find a way for us to work here but…“ You trail off for a second turning your head to look at the collar, leash and muzzle laying on the floor. „I’d really like to take you from this room. I’m taking responsibility and the possibility of you getting triggered and attacking someone is definitely there, so you can’t go muzzle free yet. I’d really like to show you that it doesn’t have to be bad though.“
„What if it is.“ It’s rough. All of him is and the way his voice reflects that is strangely fitting. You don’t say anything hoping it will make him continue. For the first time since you came back his eyes have left you, staring at the collar like it will come alive and choke him, eyes burning into the muzzle like it will cover his face and leave him unable to breathe. „What if I have to hate you for it.“
That makes your throat tighten and reminds you of another conversation you wanted to have with him but you don’t react until his eyes focus again and snap back to you. It’s quiet for a long time because you’re not sure how to answer to what he said. Words can’t convince him of something he has to experience to learn. You’re not even sure he was speaking to you with what he said anyway.
„Simon?“
„Yes?“
It’s surprising that his unwavering attention doesn’t make you want to crawl out of your skin. You clear your throat. „I’d like to address something else.“
He stiffens again and you wish you could soothe him. Put a hand on his shoulder or back, maybe pet his head but you know he wouldn’t appreciate that so you can’t do anything except keep your body language open and friendly.
„You’re a malinois hybrid.“ You begin and he cocks his head. „Meaning you generally thrive on rules and clear boundaries.“
His eyes narrow slightly.
„In order to have you comfortable and safe I’d like to start establishing rules with you.“ The confidence in your voice surprises yourself but you pause letting your words sink in and watching him body language grow hostile yet again. After the silence stretches enough to get uncomfortable you softly speak again. You need a reaction, anything else aside from his angry ears and tail or you’ll stress yourself out. „Simon?“
His ears twitch. „I hate rules.“ The words are almost spit out.
Curiosity fills you at the fact that a military hybrid, a malinois at that, claims to hate rules. It makes you want to dig and probe until he tells you. Everything in you screams to ask him why but something tells you it’s not the right move. Asking about it won’t help your success in this conversation, so instead you gently say: „Do you hate rules? Or do you hate the rules you’ve been given before?“
He stills, his ears suddenly alert on his head, resembling a statue. It makes you press on, desperate to get through to him. „I need you to understand that the rules I’ll give you are meant to help and protect you. I’m not going to force any of them onto you. They’re not meant to cause harm but rather to ensure that we work well together and you feel safe.“
He blinks slowly, entirely unconvinced, his aversion to the idea written in every line of his body.
„May I give you an example?“
His ears swivel at that, then he nods, curtly and stiff.
„The first rule would be that you talk to me. If anything hurts you, makes you uncomfortable, angry or feels wrong you have to express that to me. I can’t read minds and if anything weights on yours or your heart you have to tell me so we can try to lighten the load.“
That makes him frown, he cocks his head and licks his lip. The way he looks at you like you grew two heads shows just how little he expected you to say that so you wait for him to talk. He doesn’t for a long time, just stares at you like something about you is wrong and he has to figure out what it is.
„That’s not a rule.“ He gruffs and somehow that makes you smile.
„Of course it is.“ You argue and grin at him. His ears swivel again but you notice the subtle way his shoulders drop a bit. „I’m making it one, if you agree to have it as a rule.“
Now he’s staring like you’ve lost your mind. „You want me to agree before making it a rule.“ It’s a statement but you catch the question behind it, so you nod.
„Yes, that’s what I said. You have to agree to the rules before they actually become rules.“
Considering you he swallows and licks his lips again. „If I agree and fail to act on it what will be the punishment?“
You stare at him, caught off guard. Punishment? The way he’s asking, like he’s sure there will be a punishment, he just doesn’t know what kind pushes you to ask: „Why do you think there will be punishment?“
„There always is.“, he growls and something in you breaks but before you answer his eyes narrow in suspicion. „And you evading the question proves me right.“
Frantically you shake your head. „No!“ It’s so quick and loud that Simon jerks back. You try to reign in your emotions and calmly continue. „I’m not going to punish you Simon.“
Unconvinced he huffs. „Then I don’t have to follow the rules.“
Shaking your head you smile at him, softly, fondly. „The rules are supposed to help and guide you. Not acting on them generally means you’re more uncomfortable. You’re supposed to want to follow them, not feel forced to.“
„I don’t…“ Simon cuts himself off and you curiously look at him.
„Yes?“ You gently probe, hoping it makes him continue instead of shutting off.
„I don’t like it.“ He bites out and you grin widely.
„That is exactly what that first rule would be about. You did incredible. You’re telling me you don’t like it so that means we leave it be. Well done, Simon. I’d like you to think about it tho. If you come to the conclusion you hate all kinds of rules then we’ll drop it. But please give it some thought.“
Slapping him couldn’t have surprised him more than praising him does. He looks utterly floored but you catch the subtle jerk of his tail before it gives a few wags and then stills again. It has you biting back a smile. Comfortable silence settles between you again and you stack your plates and the trays while you give him some space.
His voice interrupts the near silence. „I’ll try.“
Whipping around so fast that you almost get dizzy you stare at him and he seems slightly off balance by your intense focus. „The collar and that stuff.“ He clears his throat and when you stay quiet he adds: „I trust you.“
Maybe you’ve already heard it before, yesterday, but hearing him confirm it again after taking him to the doctor and putting that trust to the test makes some tightness disappear from your chest. Conversations like the one you just had with Simon always leave you tense even if it’s your job. He’d been quieter than yesterday and it had you slightly worried that he’s withdrawing himself. Having him affirm that that isn’t the case relieves you like nothing else could.
A quick nod and you’re already retrieving the items from the ground. Simon backs up slightly but you ignore him heading for the bathroom instead where you begin meticulously cleaning the devices. You don’t want anything on his face that has been laying on the floor for a while.
His approach is utterly silent but from one moment to the next you feel the weight of Simon’s eyes again and when you glance up he’s standing in the doorway, watching you. You’ll never get used to the intensity of his attention and before you grow too self conscious you start talking again.
„We’ll try to get you muzzle and leash free as quickly as possible.“ You scrub the edge of the muzzle that will sit on his skin. „Thank you for trying.“
Maybe one day you’ll manage to get him to speak more but it’s not today. You methodically dry the muzzle and collar and make to leave the bathroom but Simon doesn’t move from where he’s blocking the doorway. Big and imposing and your heart starts pounding. You’re trapped if he doesn’t let you out. The bathroom is small and tiled. Blood would be easy to clean up here. The thought makes you want to curl in on yourself and shield yourself.
Instead you draw a deep breath and come to a stop in front of Simon, just at the edge of his personal space. He’s looking down at you and you wonder whether he’s testing you. His body language isn’t aggressive at the moment but it wouldn’t be the first time a hybrid uses his body language to lull you into a false feeling of security.
Shoving back those thoughts you remind yourself that you can do this. It’s your job to be the authority to make him feel safe and that starts with you being confident in your own actions. How is he meant to lean on you if you question yourself all the time? If you think of Phillip instead of him?
„Step aside, Simon.“ Deliberately you’re not phrasing it as a request. He reacted surprisingly well to that when you took him to the doctors earlier. Eye contact has never been your strong suit but aside from your frantically beating heart that seems to scream danger you grow eerily calm. This is something you know. This is something you’re used to from other hybrids.
For a few tense seconds he doesn’t move, his honey coloured eyes fixated on yours, then his nostrils flare and he steps aside to open the doorway for you. You step through and stop in the middle of the room. Turning to him you hold out the collar and the muzzle again and wait for him while you calm yourself down. It worked and he hadn’t tricked you.
Surprisingly he doesn’t hesitate before taking the muzzle. Once again he tests his ability to operate it easily by himself then he slips it over his face. His breathing deepens and his eyes meet you. Exaggeratedly you breathe deeply and slow, putting emphasis on breathing out. He matches you and then takes the collar from your hand, fastening it around his throat. Once again it’s way too lose but you’re not going to say anything. Not yet.
He clips the leash onto the collar and you wait for him to drop it into your hand. He does so without hesitating and to your immense satisfaction you realize that he doesn’t plant his feet like he’s bracing for something.
„Ready?“
He nods. You smile.
„Stay close. I’m going to take care of everything you don’t have to worry.“
He follows you silently, once again staying a few steps behind you. It makes you wonder where he got that habit from. When you call him up to walk next to you he quickly takes his place there keeping up with you easily although you suspect he walks slower than he’d do on his own.
It’s unusual for a hybrid to walk so far behind their handler. Very few handlers demand their hybrids to walk behind them and you’ve never agreed with their reasoning. If your charge respects you as handler it doesn’t matter where they walk. And if your charge doesn’t respect you making them walk behind you won’t change that.
After about five turns down different hallways that all look exactly identical you have to admit to yourself that you have absolutely no idea how to get to your rooms. And you left the map in your room before Nate brought you to Simon yesterday.
Yesterday. It’s barely been a day but with everything that’s happened it already feels like a small eternity. Somehow you’d assumed you’d at least find your way back to your rooms but alas, you’re wrong.
That means you have to wait or search for someone to point you into the right direction. You can only hope that that someone won’t be a handler with a dog hybrid. You look up at Simon and he meets your eyes. Squaring your shoulders you continue ahead.
You can do this. Even if you’d die internally if you were on your own the fact that you have Simon by your side and need to take care of him somehow makes you forget your own struggles. When it’s for him it’s easier to do. It’s not long before you meet someone.
Your breath stutters. It is a handler and their hybrid and their evidently not military. But the fact that it’s not a dog hybrid but something else entirely - you’re not even sure what kind of hybrid and your nerves keep you from assessing what she is - immediately helps you calm down. Opposed to Simon who is as stiff as a board.
You straighten up and try to project calm and confidence while you ask for the way. Simon’s standing close to you, closer than you ever expected him to stand of his own free will. One deep breath and your shoulder would probably brush against him. During the short conversation Simon doesn’t growl or move. He just stands silently behind you and observes and when you continue, finally in the right direction you beam at him.
„You did well.“ You acknowledge and don’t miss the signs of his satisfaction at that.
Barely five minutes later you arrive at your rooms and stop, turning to Simon. „Would you like to enter through my room or through your own door?“
Considering it, his eyes study you. „I’d like to see your room.“ He quietly admits and you nod easily, getting the access card and opening the door.
Once inside you let go of the leash. „You can take them off now.“
As soon as you finished that sentence he rips everything off, quicker than you thought possible. This time he doesn’t throw them to the ground. He extends them towards you and when you hold out your hand he drops them into your hold without touching you.
Pressing your lips together you decide not to comment on the fact that he took the collar off as well. It’s a temporary one without any identifying tags so you assume there are personalized one’s in his room. Carefully you set the devices down on your table and make a vague general gesture that encompasses your entire room. He scans it with narrowed eyes, nostrils flaring.
When you show him the door to his own room, a few moments later, he’s a lot more hesitant before slowly inching his way inside. He scans every corner and then begins systematically opening every drawer. The closet door opens to reveal it’s inside for his scrutiny and you’re surprised to find that it’s filled with military issued clothing. They really thought of everything. And in the same closet on a little shelf you spot three identical collars. Those look way better quality than the temporary one he’s worn and you walk over, carefully taking one in your hand.
These are what you’re used to seeing on military hybrids and on the inside of it his name is engraved. You turn it a bit and catch sight of the little covering where the handler information is stored. It’s already been prepared, you’re name and number inside.
If ever anything happens it will be clear who is responsible for him and who to turn to. You turn your attention back to Simon, collar still in hand, to find that he’s already watching you. Expression unreadable, body relatively still.
„These are the collars you have to wear permanently from now on.“ You say softly, quieter than you intended. His adam's apple bob, then he starts padding towards you.
Somehow you expected him to put up a fight again, to argue or tell you no. Instead he simply takes it from your hands, inhales deeply and then fits it around his throat quickly.
It’s too lose. He frowns, rotating it, trying to find a comfortable position for he collar to sit but you know he won’t find a truly comfortable position unless it’s properly fastened. For a moment you watch, then you can’t hold back. „You didn’t fasten it properly. Let me…“
You outstretch your hands and his lips peel back in a growl. You freeze. Despite what he told you earlier the distrust in clear in his eyes as they’re fixed on your hands. Not leaving him out of your sight you slowly pull them back. He relaxes minutely and your next breath come shuddering, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. You wonder when sudden signs of discomfort from him, which always look like aggression for him, will stop shaking you up.
It’s ridiculous and pathetic how any and all shows of aggression scare you. Somehow you thought it would be easier quickly but the feeling of Simon‘s teeth in your arm is too fresh on your mind.
Stop, you tell yourself. It hadn’t been a malicious attack. He’s traumatized and that reaction is entirely normal. It’s not aimed at you as a person but at what happened to him and the fact that the collar seems to remind him of that.
Simon’s nostrils flare and his lips lower, concealing his canines as he cocks his head. You’re not sure what has him watching you so curiously but his attention has you continuing your train of thought. „I’d like to adjust the collar properly. When it’s fastened correctly it shouldn’t bother you and be rather comfortable.“
It feels like Simon and you will forever be locked in this sort of dance. You trying to help him and get new experiences and him distrusting you. But that’s fine. You’re patient. It’s one of your better qualities.
It knocks the air out of you when he nods and takes a step in your direction. Slowly you raise your hands, aware that you cannot afford a mistake with this. Not if you don’t want to hurt him. His eyes are locked on your face as your reach up for the collar. His chest starting to rise and fall fast and shallow.
„Breathe Simon.“ You murmur without thinking not even expecting it to help. But it does. He exhales stuttering but long and you smile while you try to unfasten the collar. It’s uncomfortable the way you have to reach up and you stand up on your tiptoes so you don’t accidentally tug on the collar.
It’s a struggle and before long you’re huffing in frustration. Letting go of the collar you turn to get one of the chairs for Simon to sit on when you hear a soft thump and turn back.
Simon has dropped to his knees before you. His gaze surprisingly steady as he now looks up at you. It’s subtle but he’s trembling and when you reach out again you realize that so are you. A low rumble starts up in his chest again. Arms flexing like he wants to shove you away when your finger brushes his throat while opening the collar again. A shudder runs through him.
„You can hold onto me if that helps.“ Your voice comes as barely a whisper.
As if he’s afraid of spooking you, his hands move slow, coming up and then they close around your wrists. You stare at the contact. He’s warm, his palms sweaty from the stress of the situation. And his hands are big. They easily wrap around your wrists fully, his fingers overlapping.
It makes your throat dry. You’re not sure how panicked you should be at the reminder how easily he could hurt you, how much bigger and stronger he is than you. And then you look at the collar around his throat in your hands.
He’s trusting you. He’s trusting you not to hurt him.
Maybe you’ve had it backwards this whole time and it’s not bravery and time that will help you overcome your fear. Maybe it’s trust.
So you close your eyes for a long, long moment. Long enough that it feels wrong and you want to quickly open your eyes to make sure Simon isn’t making any unexpected moves. You heave a few deep breaths until the shaking of your hands lessens enough to operate the fastening of the collar.
When you reopen your eyes something in Simon’s expression has relaxed. It’s subtle but the lines around his mouth seem less harsh. You smile at him and his palms keep hold of your wrists while you fasten the collar correctly to sit comfortably against his throat. Tight enough not to to rub his skin from moving around but not so tight it feels constricting.
You meet his eyes, hesitating before checking the tightness. Maybe you should leave it up to him. It’s probably insanity that has you doing it yourself. Neither of you look away from each other as you curl your forefinger around the upper edge of the collar until it fits comfortably between his neck and the collar. The first touch of your skin on his has him jerking. He shudders, his grip tightening but he doesn’t pull you away.
There’s a subtle sheen of sweat on his forehead as you slowly run your finger along the collar, sliding it along the skin of his throat until you reach his neck on the other side. Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. Unhurried you pull your hands back and before he lets go of you his thumbs softly caress the sensitive skin of your wrists once, maybe just a slip of his fingers. The breath in your chest hitches.
Quicker than you can blink he’s back on his legs. Like whatever just happened is only now catching up to him his breathing speeds up even more, growing shallow again. His own hand comes up to the collar and he slips his finger between the band and his throat. It fits easily but his gaze is wild.
„Easy, Simon. It’s okay. You’re okay. You can breathe. It’s lose enough. You did perfectly.“ You automatically soothe and subconsciously your hands rub over your wrists where he just held you. „How does it feel? It’s not uncomfortable?“
That makes him still. After a few seconds of mentally checking whether it’s uncomfortable he shakes his head and you exhale, relieved. „I’m glad. If it ever does we can adjust it and if it’s too much.... I’ll pretend not to see it if you take it off for a while.“ Your grin is slightly unsteady but Simon fixes his eyes on it anyway and you get to watch his muscles slowly uncoil.
The rest of the afternoon is spent with both of you settling in your rooms. He finishes the inspection of his room while you watch him, fascinated. There’s method to it but you can’t quite figure out what he’s looking for. When he gets to the bathroom and notices the door leading to your room he freezes for a moment but he doesn’t say anything and you’re left wondering what he might be thinking.
Unpacking and making yourself at home takes up the rest of the time and before you know it it’s already time for dinner.
Dinner. Which means going to the cafeteria with Simon.
Thinking about dinner has you wishing the day was already over. You’ve barely had a breather since you arrived and you’re fully ready to just fall into bed. You straighten from where you were putting the last of your clothes into the closet and rub your hand over your face. Tiredness is filling you up like it’s the marrow of your bones. But you can’t allow yourself to rest. Not until Simon has eaten.
Sighing you take up the muzzle and the leash from the table where you set them down and turn to knock on the door that leads to Simon’s. There he is already, leaning in the doorway, surprisingly relaxed, watching you. Realizing that he’s been there a while makes you flinch and your hand comes up to your chest.
His ears flicker back and forth and you hold up the objects in your hands. „Time for dinner, big guy.“ You say the endearment slipping out. As soon as your attention is on him his posture stiffens subtly and he straightens up.
Reluctantly he approaches you. Looking at him makes pause. There’s shadows under his eyes, subtle exhaustion in every line of his body. He’s already pushed himself far beyond his comfort zone today.
The cafeteria was packed at lunch. And that was at a time where some hybrids and handlers might have been absent. Taking him there now seems like unnecessary stress for him and you’d like the day to end on a good note.
Your hands fall to your sides. „Tell you what, I’m going to go get us dinner and we’ll eat here. How does that sound?“
He frowns, confused so you clarify: „I think it will be more comfortable here than in a full cafeteria.“
His gaze follows you when you put the muzzle and leash back down and he nods shortly. Smiling reassuringly at him you grab the map this time and leave through your door. An empty hallway greets you and you realize that it’s the first time you’re on your own. No Nate by your side whose easy confidence kind of rubbed off on you. No Simon whose comfort you can concentrate on instead of your own.
You lean back against your door for a moment and take a minute to just breathe. It’s okay. You’re okay. The map will help you get around and you already got lunch at the cafeteria so you know how to behave to not draw attention.
Luckily the map is actually very easy to read and you’re back at the cafeteria in no time. The atmosphere is relaxed and busy and you quietly queue up for the food watching the big space. Observing the interactions has you smiling. You’re so used to being surrounded by almost only dog hybrids that the diversity here makes you curious. You’re specialized on dog hybrids and you wonder what working with other hybrids is like.
Soon enough you’re balancing the two trays and make your way back to your room. That went well. You didn’t panic, only the usual amount of nerves of doing something new at an unfamiliar place. It almost has you humming contently.
You don’t even need to consult the map on your way back to your room and somehow the small achievement puts you in an even better mood. You’re completely exhausted but satisfied with today. Once back inside your room you call Simon over and set down the trays at the table. At least one thing today that didn’t put you on the edge.
Watching Simon settle in one of the chairs makes you smirk. He makes even the furniture appear small. The quiet while you both eat is comfortable and you find your body relaxing, making the exhaustion of the day weigh you down until you almost fall asleep while you finish the food.
Simon already wolfed down his dinner and when you’re finally done as well he takes your plate and stacks it onto his.
„Thank you.“
He huffs and you nod. „I think it’s time for bed for me. I know it’s pretty early but today has me beat. I’m going to bring back the trays and then I’ll go to sleep.“
One sharp nod and he stands up making his way to leave your room. He hesitates in the doorway for a second, looking back at your over his shoulder. Another nod and then he closes the door behind him.
Bringing back the trays and getting ready for bed is a matter of minutes and soon you’re snuggled under the foreign blankets. Opposed to what you expected sleep doesn’t find you immediately. You toss and turn, mind buzzing with thoughts, replaying today again and again.
But at some point you do fall asleep.
You wake with a gasp. Someone is at your door. Scratching and huffing at it. Trying to get in. Adrenaline shoots through you, hot and uncomfortable it turns your stomach over. Before you can decide on a course of action there’s the violent sound of someone throwing their weight against the door. It shakes on it’s hinges.
You pull up your blanket. Frantically scanning your room for something to protect yourself with. You leap from the bed. Wood splinters. The pieces embedding themselves in your skin. The door is open and through the ruined entrance the big silhouette of a hybrid steps.
Philip found you. You try to make a run for the kitchen to get a knife. Big rough hands seize you and throw you to the floor. The wooden pieces there bite your shoulder. They sink their teeth into your wounds, into your upper arm, your sides. You scream.
Violently you try to shove him off you. He keeps you tangled in his limbs snarling in your face. He’s here to finish what he’s started. Maybe he didn’t prove his independence enough. Or his contact sent him to finish it.
You kick. Screeching in terror until it nearly tears your throat. Somehow you kick him off trying to crawl away. That’s when his hands grab your legs and your pyjama pants tear like paper under his sharp fingers. Tears run down your face, burning your skin in their wake. No. Please.
There’s hysterical sobbing that you recognize as you own. His hand presses down on your neck. Something bites into your cheek and he presses himself against your back. He’s big, broad, even worse than you remember. You squirm until you can turn onto your back and look at him.
The eyes boring into yours are the color of molten honey.
Oh yeah btw ghost absolutely refuses to ever sleep near you, his partner, out of embarrassment for his incontinence issues.
It's always been a bit of a problem for him, it's a common struggle for children with childhoods like his. Then Roba happened, and it only got worse. He manages. Being aggressive and stand-offish meant no one wanted to sleep near him given the chance. He always did his own laundry. He can change his sheets and have them in the wash in ten minutes flat, far before anyone else wakes up.
So having you around is a change. The only person who knows about his...problem, is Price. If Ghost had it his way, Price wouldn't know either, but there's only so much that can be done when your captain finds you crying in the laundry room at 2 in the morning. Which, ironically, is exactly how you find him tonight.
Curled onto the floor while the washing machine rattles away, Ghost feels absolutely pathetic that his body won't fucking listen to him. Embarrassment so strong it makes him want to puke, makes him want to do something reckless. He's crying silently, and flinches when you intentionally scuff your sandals on the floor to let him know you're there.
He looks at you, and you look at him. There's a simple understanding that passes between you two. One that says you know exactly why he's here, one that says you don't see him as any less of a person than you did before.
Ghost ends up crying into your arms that night. He still doesn't want to sleep near you but...maybe you can stay in his guest bedroom. Someplace close, but not so close he feels exposed. Maybe, one day, he could feel safer with you.
older bf!simon who is trying to keep you alive during your exam season in uni. he has to wrestle the caffeinated drink out of your hands as it makes your anxiety so much worse.
older bf!simon who has to force you to take breaks and he is not nice about it either. he'll throw you over his shoulder if he has to, doesn't matter if you hid in the library on campus, he will embody the caveman he is on the inside.
older bf!simon who helps you revise. honestly it feels more like a military drill than revision at some points, you fear he'll tell you to drop down and give him twenty when you mess up a definition, he never does but he definitely thought about it once or twice.
older bf!simon who doesn't go overboard with the praise when you succeed just a plain ol' "that's my girl." and a smooch on the side of the head is all you need to feel like you've won at life. and if it doesn't work out, he'll let you cry it out if you need to, doesn't grumble about the snot on his hoodie and then simply helps you out so you ace the next try because he hates to see you cry.
older bf!simon who was holding back on his urges the entire exam season so you can focus but once you're done with the last one he is going to town on you. i'm talking order some food for the weekend, lock the door and hold on because he is going to ravage you on any and every surface inside your home.
AHHHHHHHHH Early ( @553580 ) your tags on this are diabolical!!! 🫠
but god yes to allllllll of that!!!! and also Park who "gives in" after a bit and fucks her ass (and only her ass, refusing to touch her cunt at all because that's for her husband, isn't it, baby—) and she realises just how badly she fucked up when it's just an overwhelming pressure, a fullness she can't breathe around, but it doesn't scratch the itch like she thought it would, like all her friends told her it did. if anything, it makes her needier because all she does is see Park unravel for the first time—forced to endure those low, burring grunts of pleasure in her ear as he fucks into her, hungry-tipped praise of so tight, deep breath, you can take it, good girl; the weight of his body on hers (too sheltered, too inexperienced to know that he's purposefully avoiding pressure on her clit, her cunt, to keep her from having any pleasure by proxy)—and it leaves her unsated, aching for more.
but he just pulls out when he's finished, murmuring sweet praises as he cleans her up and takes care of her so tenderly that she's caught in this awful web of want (because she can still feel him inside of her, but all it does it emphasize how empty she feels, how good it would be if he fucked her pussy instead) and shame because she's the only one who is this desperate, the one with sticky, slick thighs and constantly having to change her soaked panties. the only one who is coming undone at the seams because Park is just so cool, implacable. indulges her whenever she wants it while keeping her promise firmly intact.
poor Emma. she begged him for this and he gave in, and she now she's sitting in the aftermath of a sexual frustration she can't seem to think around because each breath, each thought, just reminds her of how sore her ass is, and how empty she feels, and how badly she wants him. is going to church daily now with embarrassingly damp panties and a wince when she sits on the wooden pews—has to tack on an extra "forgive me father..." for the way she sometimes squirms into the hard wood beneath her, feeding the ache when mass takes too long; in the back row trying to control her breath and pretend like she isn't counting down the seconds until she can get Park back inside of her again. up all night ravenously devouring any forum she sees in a desperate bid to find some loophole to this predicament—even going so far to try and get him to fuck her in different positions that some of the naughtier posts suggested that would give her enough stimulation to get off. to no avail, of course, because Park was one of those bad Catholic boys back in the day and knows exactly what she's up to so all it does is end up being much the same: her, stuffed full but unfulfilled; growing even more desperate by the day.
and Park is just eatinggggg it up. doing the most. eating her ass out until she's sobbing into his pillow, thighs desperately trying to rub together but they can't because he's keeping them apart; holding her hips down with a forearm slung across her lower back so she can't squirm against the mattress, never letting her get any stimulation at all. forced to lay there, unable to move, and take his tongue, his fingers, his cock while she imagines how good it would all feel if he slid down just a little bit further—
(i imagine that she'd probably be sobbing from relief when she finally woke up to a black box on the end table.)
cw: dubcon if you squint, all the smut shit, breeding kink and pregnancy is insinuated but not confirmed, simon w a belly because it's what i want and deserve. for the FDK's, assume there's an implant in ya arm. )
You don't belong here.
That much is obvious the first time you stand at the end of the field, sneakers sinking into mud that hadn't looked this deep on the walk up. The farmhouse is in front of you— old wood, chipped white paint, the kind of place that looked cozier on the postcards you might receive for Christmas, but here, it feels too big, too empty, when you're standing in its yard alone.
Still, it's yours now. Inherited from a relative you rarely talked to; the deed shoved into your hands even though you don't know a fucking thing about tending soil or keeping animals, and now, you're the hesitant owner of twenty acres of stubborn, murky ground, a creaky barn, and a house that needed more love than you knew how to give. You weren't naive— you knew damn well you had no clue how to farm— but a part of you believed in the fantasy anyway. That you could trade traffic for trees, the concrete jungle for open fields. That you could learn as you went, like people do in stories.
The land, however, doesn't care about your optimism.
The tractor won't start— it doesn't even cough. The chicken coop smells like something died in it, and the hand saw you picked up at the feed store, after googling how to cut wood like an idiot, isn't doing more than blistering your palms.
You've cried twice. Once in the barn, when the roof leaked straight into the feed bags you'd just bought, and once in the kitchen, when the sink gave a groan and spat rust into the dishwater. The feed turned to mush, the water still ran rusty if you didn't let it bleed first, and what stared back on the reflection of your kitchen window looked every inch the fool who thought their life would become a Hallmark movie.
By the third day, your body aches in ways you didn't know it could. Your thighs are sore from trudging through mud that clings like wet cement, your shoulders burn from hauling feed, and your palms are raw from gripping tools you barely know how to use. Your first ever attempt at splitting wood ended with the axe bouncing off the log and nearly catching your shin. Sweat stings your eyes even though the air's cool, and suddenly you feel like laughing, half hysterical, half furious. The laugh sticks in your throat when you hear it, a solid thud, rhythmic, like the sound of a heartbeat. It was coming from the tree line that marked the far end of your property.
This is the first time you see him.
He's built like the logs he's splitting, broad and solid. Shirtless too, despite the chill, steam coming off his skin. Scarred shoulders and forearms bunch and flex with each swing of his axe. The curls at the crown of his head catch the sunlight, damp and wild from sweat, strands springing in different directions across his forehead. No hat shields him from the wind; his ears are ruddy, matching the sharp tip of his broad nose. His breath clouds the air in short bursts, but he doesn't seem to care.
He doesn't look up right away, keeps at it unhurried, like he's done this a thousand times before, and when he finally does pause, it's not because of you— the log gives, the split clean, the wood halved nearly to his boots. Only then does he straighten while rolling his shoulders back. His gaze flicks to you like a weight, as heavy as the axe he leans against the tree trunk. The silver marks running along the edges of his chest, the heaviness of his middle, and the strain of his denims over the swell of his thighs is staggering.
There's no comfort in his expression— dark eyes blunt and hard-edged, rooted in earth, his mouth set in a flat line, and then— oh. His mouth moves.
"What?" he grunts. Well, pardon me. You splutter, stepping back too fast, and your glove snags on the loose post of the fence. The wire catches, jerks your arm, and you stumble forward, nearly pitching into the dirt. An awkward shuffle is what keeps you upright, and your cheeks burn furiously when you realize how ridiculous you must look, tripping over a fence post.
Suddenly, his hand is on yours, casually untangling your glove from the wire. You hadn't even heard him approach— no crunch of leaves, no squelch in the dirt. For a man his size, he moves like fog.
The heat of him hits first— radiating off him like the open mouth of a hearth, the scent of him follows close behind: Woodsmoke, sweat, tobacco. Not the sweet kind from a pipe, just dry and bitter. Makes the back of your throat prickle.
He frees your hand like it's a chore, like pulling burrs off a dog's fur, and not a kindness from one neighbor to another. When he steps back, you don't wait, tucking your tail in and bolting; sneakers slipping in the mud, breath stuck in your throat. You don't look back either, just make for the porch like it's a finish line, pride in tatters behind you. The door sticks when you shove it open, the house greeting you with its usual chill. You kick off your shoes too hard, one skidding across the floor and smacking against the cabinet, and glance down— the hole in your brand new glove is small but ragged, and there's a scratch blooming red beneath it. Great. Perfect.
The antiseptic makes the cut sear when you dab on it with a cotton ball, the sting making your eyes water. The scratch isn't deep, but it's angry. Thin, red, and pulsing as if it was trying to remind you of every mistake you've made since stepping foot on this wretched land. You press harder than necessary, watching the skin blanch around it, trying to erase the moment with pressure alone.
Tossing your other glove onto the counter, it lands with a wet slap, and you lean against the sink, knuckles bled white and stare out the window. The field stretches wide and indifferent, and this time you don't cry, don't curse. You just stand there, unraveling, slowly, quietly, like a thread pulled from a hem. And you could pack up, sure. Sell the place, pretend it never happened. But then what? There's no backup plan. Just the same city with a job that chewed you up and spat you out, the same overpriced rent, the same noise that never fucking stops.
You'd rather rot in the dirt than go back and hear your friends say I told you so.
Besides, spite is cheaper than therapy.
---
The town's not much. Just a handful of crooked streets blended together, the kind of place where the gas station doubles as a bait shop and the post office closes early on Fridays because nobody's in a rush. The diner still has a jukebox that eats quarters and a waitress who calls everyone "hon", whether she likes you or not. There's a church, a feed store, a hardware shop that smells like sawdust, and a bar that pretends it's not open before noon.
Everyone knows everyone. And if they don't know you, then they know about you. (Hard not to when your car is the only one that skids on gravel.) You're the one that got saddled with the plot that has a rusted windmill that folk use as a landmark when giving directions.
You're the only one parked crooked outside of the grocery store, the only one asking where the boxed mac and cheese is.
It smells like dust and citrus cleaner in here, the kind that clings to the floor and never quite masks the scent of old produce. You're halfway through reading the handwriting on a box of eggs when the woman behind the counter leans in, elbows on the register, voice low, private.
"You settling in alright?" You give her a cautious nod. "Must be quite the change, coming from the city." A shrug is all you manage. "Well, bless you." She says it like benediction. Like you're going to need all the luck you can scrape together. Your gaze drifts past her shoulder to the corkboard on the wall, where handwritten flyers are pinned: lawnmower repair, free kittens, bible study potluck, Thursday at 7. You hope she doesn't expect you there. You're not a fan of churches and green bean casserole.
She glances out the window, where the hills roll out.
"You seem like a nice girl," she says. "Steer clear of that one."
You blink. Who?
Another voice chimes in from the canned goods aisle— an older man with a cart full of beans and dog food. "Simon Riley," he says like the word itself tastes bitter. "Lives out past the tree line. Big feller. Quiet. Keeps to himself."
The woman nods, "Used to be military, or something like it. Nobody really knows. He's not trouble, exactly, but he's not neighborly either. Doesn't take kindly to folks pokin' around."
Oh. The neighbor whose land backs up against yours. The one you’ve heard about in passing— mean as sin and just as ugly, lives alone, doesn't wave. You think of the way he freed your hand, his fingers careful but not kind. Now you know his name. Simon.
You thank them, pay for your groceries, and step out into the sun with a warning tucked between the receipt and the bruised apples you didn't mean to buy. The bell above the store door tinkles behind you, its little jingle out of step with the knot tightening in your stomach.
The outside air smells of motor oil and hay, a mix you might not ever get used to, and the gravel lot radiates heat through your shoes. The bag digs into the crook of your arm as you fumble with the keys, and when the car starts, the engine coughs before catching, the sound ricocheting too loud in the small parking lot. A woman in a straw hat looks up from her truck bed from across the street, and the same older man pushes his cart past, eyes flicking toward you. The road out of town stretches straight and bare, the fields rolling out, some with cattle and others with horses.
By the time you hit the bend that curves toward your land, the sun's dipped lower, sky streaked with the last embers of fading light, casting long shadows over where your boundary brushes his. He's there, of course he is. A massive figure against the gold of the field, broad back bent over something you can't quite see.
Whatever, not your business.
You park crooked again, the tires crunching over the loose stone in your driveway and sit there for a beat longer than necessary, fingers curled tight around the steering wheel. Simon still doesn't move, still bent over something, or maybe nothing. You don't look long enough to find out.
The groceries are heavier than it should be, the boxed mac and cheese pressing against your hip as you shoulder the door open. The porch shifts under your weight, same as always, and the screen door slaps shut behind you. You unpack slowly— eggs into the fridge, careful not to jostle the cracked one. Apples into a gaudy ornate bowl. The coffee joins its expired cousin in the cabinet, and the crackers go into the drawer that sticks unless you tug it right.
The house creaks in response, settling around you like an old dog curling up at your feet. You flick off the kitchen light and pad down the hallway, the floorboards groaning under each step. The bedroom is cool, the sheets still stiff from the last wash, and the window rattles faintly in its frame.
You change in the dark, tugging off your jeans and hoodie, slipping into a shirt that smells like detergent and not much else. The mattress still feels unfamiliar beneath you, the ceiling above blank. Silver filters through the window, and you watch shadows creep along the wall.
Outside, the windmill moans once, long and low, and the porch creaks once. The thought that it could've been deliberate makes your pulse thrum in your ears. You aren't sure if it's fear, anticipation, or some stupid pull you can't name.
Sleep comes slow, but it comes.
---
It slips again— your grip, your temper, the last thread of patience you've been nursing since spilling the coffee you made at sunrise. The latch to the chicken coop jerks sideways, the wire snags, and the gate swings wide in mockery. Muttering something sharp under your breath, you tug at the wire with stiff fingers. It bites back, slicing another thin line across your knuckle. You let out a hiss, more out of frustration than pain, and sit back on your heels, breath fogging in the cold.
Then you feel it, the shift, the pressure of someone watching. You turn around and Simon's already pushing off the fence and walking closer, boots sinking steady into the dirt. Up close, he's so much worse— his shirt pulls tight across his shoulders, damp with sweat and dust, clinging to the curve of his belly and the thick roll of his arms. He crouches beside you, bare hands thick-knuckled and scarred, and they move with the kind of ease that makes you feel like a child playing house.
You sit there, useless, and can't help but notice the small details: the faint scars along his forearms, the way the collar of his shirt rubs at the crease of his neck, the set of his jaw when he considers a problem. None of it invites intimacy, and yet, your thoughts keep lingering there, in that cozy space where observation and curiosity brush against something sharper.
Simon threads the wire, tightens the hinge, and tests the swing, and you watch the gate behave for him like it never did for you.
"Y'shouldn't be strugglin' with tha," he says finally.
"I—uh, it's tricky," you manage, fiddling with the drawstring of your hoodie. "I've uh, never really done this before."
He glances at you briefly, eyes narrowing at the scratch on your hand, and his jaw tightens, muscles ticking under the skin, but he doesn't say any more. He just shakes his head once and goes back to his property, dust rising faintly around his boots with each step.
It was the first of many things he fixes for you. When you can't manage your firewood pile before a harsh front, he shows up without asking, stacking it neatly by your porch. Not just stacked, aligned. Tight rows, bark facing out. You open the door to thank him, voice stiff with the effort, and he just nods, mutters, "S'nothin."
Then the fence. You woke one morning to find the rotten posts ripped out and new ones driven in, straight and deep into soft earth. You hadn't made any calls. But there he was, out in the early light, hammer swinging with brutal efficiency. You stand at the window, coffee cooling in your hand, rehearsing what you'll say. That he can't just show up. That you'll be damned if you pay him for something you didn't ask for.
But when you step outside, you don't say any of it.
Instead, you leave a jug of fresh lemonade and a sandwich on the porch rail. Not because you owe him. Not because you're grateful. It's reciprocity. Basic decency. A gesture to balance the ledger. He doesn't touch them at first. Keeps working like the offering doesn't exist. You go back inside, pretend not to watch, and later, the sandwich is gone, save the tomato slice. The jug's half-empty, the wax paper folded neatly, tucked under the rail.
No tomatoes, got it.
(And the one time you do sort of ask for help, it's because the sunroom has a wall that's gone soft with water damage, half-rotted, and you'd assumed he'd offer tools, or a second set of hands, but Simon does nothing in halves. You're barely able to register what he means by stand back before he lowers his shoulder, squares his stance, and throws every ounce of his brutal weight forward. The sound is catastrophic— wood splinters, plaster cracks— and he stumbles through the wreckage, boots crunching over broken plaster, insulation clinging to his shirt as he pulls down the rest with his bare hands. Sun'll come in better now, he says. No, yeah, sure.)
It becomes a rhythm. Not quite a routine, but close enough that you notice it when the days feel stretched and raw. He fixes things you can't, and you leave things behind— food, drink, once a pack of smokes you found at the bottom of a drawer. He never comments, never asks. But he never leaves anything behind either, except for the absence of whatever you put out. It's like leaving offerings on a shrine to a god you're not sure you believe in.
The gate closes without complaint now. The new fence stands straighter, stronger. The woodpile remains high, always replenished. You don't have to ask, and he doesn't offer. There's only the cycle: you wake to find something mended or replaced, and by noon you leave something out for him.
At first, it was functional: a sandwich— peanut butter and jelly, ham and cheese, a BLT (hold the tomato), and something to wash it down with. Then, one morning, you set down a slice of pie you baked from a boxed mix that tasted faintly like cardboard. You'd hesitated to leave it, but when you checked outside at sundown, the plate was scraped clean, the fork in the middle. Bent slightly, like he'd eaten standing right there.
From there, the rhythm grew teeth.
He started appearing when you were outside. Not always close, barely ever speaking, but present. Working his field while you sat on the porch with a basket of beans to snap. Hauling hay when you hung laundry. He's there the day you plant a sad little patch of herbs— your hands deep in dirt, his eyes half on the seedlings, half on you.
When snow finally falls, it comes heavy, the kind that bends branches, and your boots aren't meant for it. Your sneakers are long ruined by the time you dig a path to the chicken coop, and your fingers are numb inside your gloves. The latch sticks, and the muttered threat of eating the fucking chickens is swallowed by the wind— and then Simon's there, the hood of his jacket pulled low but not enough to hide the shadow of his jaw.
You startle so bad you nearly drop the bucket in your hands. He doesn't say anything, just takes it from you, thick fingers brushing yours, heat even through your gloves. He ducks into the coop like it's his, tending to the feed and water.
You hover at the door, biting down on questions that feel too big in your mouth. When he's done, he doesn't hand the bucket back, just tips his chin toward your house, gruff, "Inside. Your lips are discolored."
Simon, you've come to notice, times himself into your hours.
The locals have noticed too. They notice everything in this backwater ass town.
It'd been subtle at first. The man who never showed his face in town unless he absolutely had to— the one who bought bulk feed once a season, grunted at the cashier and left— suddenly had reason to drive in more often. And each time, he drove because your car "wasn't worth piss on the highway".
The first time, you didn't even notice how people looked at you. You were too busy staring at the rows of canned peaches, trying to figure out why the labels looked different from what they did in the city. When you reached for one on the top shelf and almost knocked the display over, his one hand was at your back, steadying you, the other curling around the can like it was nothing.
You hadn't thought anything of it then.
But the cashier did. The woman stocking the bread did.
And in a town like this, where gossip travels faster than cell service, that gesture didn't go unnoticed.
By the next visit, the air had changed. You walked in beside him, and conversations in the store paused mid-sentence. Smiles tightened. The woman at the register went quiet the second she saw him standing close enough to reach you, but not close enough to touch. She didn't even greet you this time, just scanned the groceries quick, her eyes flicking between you and him.
Simon never said anything, but he carried the basket. Paid in cash. Held the door.
All of them knew.
All except for the milk boy— sweet-faced, all of twenty-something, fresh out of school— starts to show up at your door every other morning after signing up for their delivery service. Cheerful, chatty, hands you a crate of glass bottles that clinks gently as you brace the weight. He tells you about his mother's peach trees, about the new calf that came too early but survived. You like the normalcy, the friendliness.
Simon doesn't.
You don't hear him come up behind you. You never do.
The milk boy is mid-sentence, bright eyes and an easy grin, when Simon's arms close in around you, reaching for the crate. Your fingers are still curled around the handle when his hand closes over it, and his grip dwarfs yours. Your shoulder brushes his thickened middle, your head not even clearing his collarbone. You could tuck yourself into the space between his arms and still have room.
The crate lifts like it weighs nothing, but you know it doesn't. You struggled with it just two days ago. But in his hands, it's just another thing to take off yours. The milk boy's voice is thinner when he says that he'll see you next week, and all Simon gives him is a grunt, a dismissal.
And maybe that should’ve been the moment that everything shifts. But it wasn’t.
It came later— when the sky cracked open and thunder rolled over the fields. You'd been out for too long, checking the shed roof before the rain came. You are halfway up the ladder, fingers cold and slick against the metal, when a hand clamps around your ankle, and the strength in it makes your knees nearly buckle.
"What the fuck are you doin' out 'ere?," his voice cuts through the wind, sharp and rough. "Get back inside— now."
The ladder screeches beneath you, unsteady, and for a split second, you're not sure if you're going to fall or be dragged. You look down and he's halfway up the ladder, one hand on your ankle, the other braced against the rung below. His face is rain-slicked and hard-set, jaw locked in that way that makes his cheekbones stand out sharper than usual. The water clings to him, dripping from his brow, tracing the furrow between his eyes, dripping from the edge of his nose.
His eyes are the worst of it. Not wild, not pleading, just furious.
Not the kind that burns hot and fast, but the kind that simmers, the kind that corrects.
Simon yanks you down.
His hand slides from your ankle to your waist and pulls you down like it's nothing; too easy, too practiced. Your boots scrape against the rungs, the ladder trembles, and then he jumps.
The drop isn’t far, but it’s fast. Sudden. Your breath leaves you in a jag as the ground rushes up, and then his boots hit the earth with a blow that rattles your spine. He doesn’t stumble with the extra weight, doesn’t sway. Then, before you can speak, before you can twist and wriggle in protest, he shifts— grabbing you higher, flipping your body with far too much ease, and throwing you over his shoulder like you’re nothing more than a bundle of kindling he’s hauling home.
Your hands fist the back of his shirt instinctively, knuckles white against the soaked fabric. It clings to him, stretched tight across the broad plane of his back, rain dripping from the hem as he strides toward the house with a single-minded purpose.
Simon tracks mud straight across your porch and through your house, leaving thick, wet prints across your clean floors— mud and rain trailing behind him like a second presence. He doesn’t put you down until you’re inside, when the walls close around you, and he peels the wet coat from your shoulders himself, hands moving rough and fast, but they don’t hesitate. They never hesitate.
The flannel comes next, pulled from a bag you hadn’t seen him bring in. It’s thick, worn soft at the edges, smells like him. He doesn’t give it to you; he puts it on you. One arm is shoved through, then the other, like he’s dressing a child too stubborn to do it themselves. The fabric swallows you— too big, too warm, sleeves hanging long past your wrists— and he tugs the buttons closed with the kind of care that almost feels violent.
“Looks better on ya,” he mutters, tugging the buttons closed, “looks right.”
His fingers linger at the last button, thick knuckles brushing your sternum, and when you finally find your voice, it comes out shaking. “You—”
“You tracked mud into my house.”
It’s not what you meant to say, but it’s what comes out, small, brittle, absurd against the sheer gravity of him. Simon bends until your back hits the wall, his large hands settling heavy at your waist, thumbs pressing into your soft stomach. His curls are soaked, flattened and heavy against his scalp, rainwater trailing down the buzzed edge of his neck, dripping into the collar of his shirt.
“Don’t care.” He rumbles, eyes flicking to the side of your throat where your pulse flutters like a tell. “I’ll drag ‘alf the field through this fuckin’ door if it means you’re inside when the sky turns.” You want to protest, say something practical, something sharp, something about how of course he doesn’t care, you’re the one who has to clean it up, but you can’t, not with his breath ghosting the corner of your jaw. He tilts his head, rainwater still beading in his lashes. “You don’t get it, do ya? Everythin’ I’ve done, haulin’ logs you couldn’t lift, fixed the roof you feared would cave in— ain’t ‘cause I’ve nothin’ better to do.”
Your fingers twitch at your sides, wanting to push him back, wanting to stay exactly where he’s holding you.
“The world’s simple, love. Hard hands do hard work. Yours are for the home, for rockin’ a cradle, not haulin’ seed. That’s the way of it.”
Simon’s mouth slants, and it’s not a smile. His hand leaves your waist only to catch your wrist, dragging your palm up against the plane of his chest, the relentless beat beneath his rips burning your skin like a brand. “I keep ya warm. You keep me fed. I keep this place workin’ so you don’t ‘ave to.”
You open your mouth even though your words are caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, but he’s not done.
“Y'want somethin’ to do? Mind the housework. Sweep the floors. Keep the porch tidy. I’ll do the rest. I’ll do everythin’ else.”
The storm slams its fists against the roof, the wind howling like it’s trying to claw its way inside, but Simon doesn’t glance toward the noise. His focus is on you— on the way your breath trembles, on the way your pulse kicks beneath the delicate skin of your wrist. He leans closer, no hurry in the way he moves, but the tension in the air makes your own muscles coil, ready to react.
"I said— everything else is mine to tend. Y'hear me?"
You nod, shaky, the movement barely a twitch, and that's all he needs, because he drops to his knees on the wet boards, dragging you with him until your back slides down the wall. "Your pulse kicks in your throat, too fast, too high, but when the heat of him crowds close, you can't stop him. Don't even want to.
Your jeans are still on, clinging damp to your thighs, but Simon's got no patience for barriers. He tears at the button with one rough twist of his wrist; the sharp pop lost under the thunder. The zipper follows in a slow drag, teeth grinding apart, and before you can blink, he's tugging— down, down, denim rasping over your hips, over your thighs. You lift instinctively, a half-second of cooperation you can't take back, and he doesn't miss it. His eyes flash up, catching yours, something satisfied yet so hungry burning there.
"Tha's it," he rasps. "Now you're listenin'."
Simon doesn't bother getting them all the way off, one shoe still hooked, a pant leg twisted around your knee. It doesn't matter. He's already back between your thighs, shoving them open with the weight of his shoulders. His mouth finds you, hot and slick, and your head slams back against the wall with a cry that feels ripped from your chest.
The pace is merciless. He licks you open with slow, leaden drags of his tongue, then sucks sharp and sudden until your knees quake. His hands are iron at your hips, holding you down, forcing you to take every pull of his greedy mouth, every grind of his tongue against the bundle of nerves that has you shaking apart.
You whimper, a high, desperate sound, and his growl rattles your teeth as your thighs tremble, threatening to close snug around his head. "Nice 'n open, sweet'eart, take wha' I give ya." One knee hooks just enough to tilt you toward him, keeping you spread, and you arch into him, fisting his damp curls. This earns you another ruthless suck, a dizzying roll of his tongue that has you choking down a sob. Simon laps at your pussy like it's the only meal worth taking in a lifetime of starvation. His nose grinds against your swollen clit, the scrape of stubble raw between your legs.
He doesn't stop when release finally hits you— violent, ruining, your hips riding his face, your vision white-hot. He doesn't let you shy away, doesn't let you twist free; he holds you down and drinks it all, devouring every last burst of pleasure like it's what he's owed.
Only when you're slumped on the floor, panting and syrupy, does he look at you. His mouth glistens, his jaw rough and wet, slick beading on his chin. Simon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand then presses his mouth over yours, teeth grazing, tongue pushing past your lips. It wasn't so much a kiss as it was a taking. When he pulls back, it's not clean. A thin, glistening strand of spit stretches from his mouth to yours, delicate, catching the light. It sways for a moment, suspended in the hush, then snaps with a soft, wet pop.
"Taste how sweet ya are?"
Every nerve is still buzzing with the aftershocks when he scoops you up, palms under your thighs, carrying you toward the bedroom, kicking the door closed, and setting you down on the bed with a roughness that rattles the frame. He peels off the rest of your damp clothes away with a single-minded intensity.
"Look at ya," he mutters, scorching gaze sweeping over your bare skin— he looks at you like he's a man with a sweet tooth looking for a cavity. His callused fingers trail down your belly, spreading over it wide and presses down until you start to squirm.
"Pretty little thing."
He tugs his shirt off in one go, and you drink in the scratches of moonlight on his pecs, the inner curve of his bicep— where his skin pulled taut, unable to keep up with him— and drag your eyes down to his treasure trail, a shade darker than the hair on his head. One hand works the button of his jeans open, while the other snakes lower, curling over your slick, thumb dragging along your slit, and you whine, hips bucking up.
And then you see the flash of him, thick, heavy— his length already straining, pulsing, impatient, eager. Simon catches the flicker of hesitation in your eyes because he mumbles a gentle, "Easy. You can take it." This stirs something in your chest, bright and hot, a fire that coils tight and refuses to be ignored. You snap at him, asking him if he can— if he can, you know, with his older age and achy back, that you've heard the way he grunts to tie his work boots.
Simon smacks your pussy, and you arch off the bed, knees knocking together before he forces them apart again. "Oh, poppet," he coos, "I'm gonna take it."
He positions himself, the blunt head of him nudging against your wet heat. "Relax," he coaxes, his hands resting on your knees. "You'll stretch for me jus' fine."
The first push steals your breath, your body clenching tight around him as he sinks in deeper, thicker. "Gotta let me in, love." He rolls his hips, once, and you can feel something inside snag, tight and hot, and he does it again, this time filling you the rest of the way, every inch of him stretching you taut and full.
From here each thrust is brutal, heavy, each one shoving you further up the bed. Your body strains under him, his pace rough and deep, the wet, sticky sound of your pussy generous, slick smearing along him. You can't move, can't breathe, can't think past him. His teeth graze your jaw, your chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. "This perfect little cunt— fuck."
A sob spills from your lips when he grinds his hips down, pushing impossibly deeper. He hisses at the feel, sweat dripping from his brow and onto your chest.
"Tha's it, fuck," His hand splays over your belly again. "Feel tha'?" The drag back of his cock burns, and the push in pinches. "Tha's me. All the way inside, deep enough to leave somethin' behind."
Your breath hitches. "Sim—"
"Shh." He bends, mouth hot against your ear. "Soon, You'll be carryin' me," he thrusts sharp, hard enough to make the bed creak, "carryin' us."
He wrenches himself back, the sudden pull leaves your pussy clenching around nothing, then with a quick, jerky motion, he flips you over onto your hands and knees. The change of the angle drives you forward, chest to mattress, palms scraping for purchase, and before your mind can catch up, he slides back in. You can feel his stomach— thickened by routine, by the meals you made— firm against your ass, a slight press of muscle and flesh that's almost bruising in its intensity.
Your protest tangled in a moan as his cock fills you with the kind of weight that presses you down, and your fingers tangle into the sheets, legs shaking under the merciless rhythm of him fucking you.
"I'll fuck you full. Deep. Fuck, you take me so good," your ass smarts from the smack he gives it, "might keep fillin' you 'til it sticks." He drags a hand up your spine, nails grazing. "Tha's wha' a man does for 'is wife."
"Tha's wha' I'll do for mine."
Simon doesn't fuck you like he's chasing his release, he fucks you like he's chasing yours, like he's determined to wring every broken noise out of you until you choke on it. Your slick drips and clings, tracing down from your swollen folds down over the soft skin of your inner thighs, slipping between the crease where your leg meets the bed.
His balls, heavy and taut beneath him, catch the heat and slick, coating him in your arousal. You can feel the way it sticks to him as he pounds into you, making him wetter, more slippery. The sticky friction pulls you apart and together at the same time.
Your body trembles, muscles tightening around him as your heat pools deep and molten, tears welling in the corners of your eyes as his pace turn punishing, borderline violent.
"There it is," he snarls, voice breaking as he drives you higher, the words as filthy as his thrusts. "Clench down on me. Milk me, make it messy. Don't wanna waste a drop."
The thought— terrifying, consuming, intoxicating— burns through you as he drives harder, faster, the sharp edge of his control slipping, and the fire is unbearable. Your pussy clamps down, reflexive, desperate, and you feel it snap— a shuddering release that rattles through your body. Your back arches and hands claw at the sheets as wave after wave of heat pulses down, dripping around him, coating him in your release. Your cry is raw, ragged, a mix of pleasure and desperation, and he grits his teeth, dragging it out, making sure he feels every tremor of your orgasm.
Your climax finally begins to ebb, leaving you raw and utterly spent when he groans, low and guttural, as his hips jerk, his cock swelling so thick this time it does hurt, and then he's pulsing inside you, feeling the heat bloom, thick and molten. His hands dig into your hips, holding you in place as he presses down heavier with every pulse, chest hot against your back, each pant rough, until he slows, still buried inside you.
Simon doesn't move immediately; he stays pressed against your back, chest heavy over yours, his arms curled near your head. His breathing is uneven and harsh, then slowly evening out as the aftershocks fade. You can feel the warmth of him radiating into your sweat-slick skin, the residual mess clinging where he still rests inside you. Your own breaths slow even if your pulse is still tight. His head drops, curls brushing the back of your neck, and you feel the rough, dry scrape of his stubble against your shoulder. A soft exhale escapes him, a low rumble, almost a sigh, and he nuzzles into the space between your shoulder blades.
Your eyes slip closed, the damp weight of your blanket pressing softly over you, and the world outside— the storm, the land, the day— shrinks into nothing, leaving only this, leaving only him. And then, finally, with a soft sigh that mingles with yours, you're swallowed entirely, drifting into sleep.
---
The storm had passed, but the air still smelled of wet earth and old wood. Pale light seeps through the cracks of your curtains. You woke sore everywhere, thighs burning when you moved, and the faint smell of him still clinging to your skin.
Simon was already up. You heard the heavy scrape of a chair, the quiet creak of floorboards. When you padded out the room, rubbing your arms to stave off the chill, you saw him at your table, shirtless, broad back hunched as he cleaned mud off his boots with intentional strokes.
He didn't look at you right away. Just kept working, quiet, steady. Then he speaks, voice deep.
"You'll wanna take it easy today."
You swallowed, tugging his oversized flannel tighter around yourself. "What?" you ask, voice hoarse from sleep and last night.
Now he looks over his shoulder, his eyes sweeping you, lingering at your stomach before they meet yours. "Best not push yourself today," he says simply. "Yesterday took a lot from you. Ain't no shame in stayin' in'."
You're not too keen on finding out what he's on about, but that's how it starts.
You'd tried putting your boots on, to head outside and look at the chickens, but Simon's shadow filled the doorway before you could even lace them. One glance down at your hands fumbling with the strings and his jaw set tight.
"Take those off," he said. Not unkind, just firm.
"Simon, the chickens—"
"No." He reaches down, pulling your shoe clean off your foot with little effort. You almost yelped when he hoisted you up in his arms, carrying you back inside. He sets you down gently, but the look in his eyes was steel. "No."
You aren't to lift, aren't to carry, aren't to sweat under the sun. Instead, he presses a different work into you— kneading dough at the kitchen table, stitching torn shirts he brings you, all the while, he looks at you like he's waiting for something to show. That something is settling. That it's taking.
And Simon simply walks away as if the matter was settled. And for him, it is. The scrape of the door and the heavy tread of his footsteps fade, leaving you along with the smell of bread baking warm in the air and the quiet echo of his claim hanging in the air— less a suggestion and more a vow.
ghost x f!reader | 2.4k words
cw: noncon/rape, violent threats, spit, degradation, improvised gag, unnegotiated and vague allusion breeding kink, abduction
a/n: if anyone is better acquainted with the vw camper vans, no you’re not (please don’t call me on details, ty)
summary: two birds, one stone.
banner by @/cafekitsune | kinktober list
A knock at the door mid-saxophone solo wrenches you out of the 1980s.
It’s Lost Boys night at the drive-in, one of your favorite films at one of your favorite places. To be interrupted, your knee-jerk reaction is what does this asshole want—
Except, said asshole looms over your door, clearing your car by almost a foot, treating you to a view of a broad torso in a hi-vis vest. Ducking down, your frown gives way to confusion. It’s the security guy who waved you into this very ‘spot’ not ten minutes ago. You had to beg him to let you turn into the drive-in, frantically explaining that work kept you late, causing you to arrive just as the movie started.
“Lot’s full.”
“That can’t be right, I-I have a ticket! Please?”
(If you’d dipped a little low to give him a good view of your cleavage, that was neither here nor there.)
He’d given you a long look, sighed, and then guided your puttering van into a relatively flat space by the dumpsters beyond the final row of cars. When you stuck your head out to thank him, he muttered something about tardiness.
It appears he still has a bone to pick with you.
You crank the window down, one eye still on the screen.
“Yeah?”
“Just wonderin’, that a ‘75 Volkswagen camper?”
“It’s an ‘82 T3 Westfalia,” You rattle off. “You a collector? ‘Cause The Bluebird’s not for sale. She was my dad’s, so...”
“I’m not. Is it the model with the foldin' table?”
Oh, so he’s just another nosy enthusiast. Good thing you have the rundown memorized from years of strangers walking up to play twenty questions.
“Yeah,” you say with a little sigh, eyes still on the movie. “Everything’s original except for the seat fabric.”
“Mind if I pop in for a look? My dad 'ad one too, before 'e passed.”
Great. Now you have something in common. You unlock the doors and furiously gesture for him to take a peek.
“Yeah, yeah, climb in. Just keep it quiet, I love this movie.”
“Quiet’s the goal, sweet'eart.”
Cripes.
You listen to him inspect the cupboards and examine the curtains your dad installed years ago. True to his word, the security guard’s silent. When the door shuts, you automatically turn to ask if it is anything like his dad’s model, but nobody’s outside the van. It’s like he vanished into—
Something cold touches your cheek.
“You scream, and I’ll ruin daddy’s ’ard work.”
Your eyes strain in their sockets to glimpse the tip of something black poking into your flesh, and your imagination fills in the rest. Your mouth dries, killing the screaming trapped at the base of your throat. You nod mechanically.
“Good girl. Now, give me the keys then keep your ‘ands where I can see ‘em.”
Sucking in a panicked breath, you slowly reach for the keys and blindly hand them over your shoulder. They disappear with a faint jingle.
“P-Please. You can have her. I’ll–I’ll get out, sit on the ground quietly, and you can drive off. I won’t fight o-or make a scene–“
“You won’t do either of those things, Blue,” he chuckles before stroking your temple with the tip of his gun. “Now. Turn the radio up so you can listen to your movie, then climb back here, carefully.”
You hesitate. Does he mean…?
“Between the seats. C’mon.”
Oh god.
“I’m not a patient man.”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” You wheeze. You turn up the radio until it drowns out your thundering heartbeat and clumsily scramble into the back. You nearly trip, eyes widening to see that in his explorations, he’s converted the back seat into the sleeping configuration. He’s made the bed.
He stands hunched in the narrow gap between the bed and the driver’s seat. Crammed into a space meant for a man seemingly half his size. The bed isn’t the only thing he’s changed, you notice. Gone is the medical mask. In its place is a crude, painted balaclava. It makes him look all the more terrifying as if he needs the boost to his image.
He gestures at your chest as you hover awkwardly behind the passenger seat, hands raised, trying not to fall onto the bed in the cramped space.
“Clothes off. Won’t say it twice this time, so get a move on. Sit if ya need to, but not a fuckin’ word.”
Tears spring to your eyes. Your cheeks burn as you comply, a sob catching in your throat when you glimpse him unbuckling his belt. This can’t be happening. This can’t be fucking happening. The fact it is happening at the drive-in, in the van, is a double whammy. The stranger’s going to obliterate two of your safe spots in one go.
He growls when you stand there in your bra and panties, hands clasping awkwardly at your front.
“You stupid? Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Your bra tumbles down your shaking arms, and you kick it next to your clothes. As for your panties—he snatches them out of your hands before you can toss them. He brings them to his face, mashing them into the fabric covering his nose, and jerks his head in a silent but clear order.
He practically purrs when you climb onto the cheap, lumpy makeshift mattress. The upholstery is clean, you see to its maintenance, but it scratches at your palms and knees as you crawl.
“Look at that arse. Give it a wiggle, Blue.”
With the gun and his casual threat of ruining the interior with your interior, you pathetically comply. He belly laughs, louder than the revving of the motorcycles on screen. You try to ignore it, focusing on the interior handle of the van’s rear latch that’s a shuffle away. But as soon as you reach for it, a hand the width of a shovel wraps around your ankle and yanks.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?” He growls, easily overpowering your squirming, sobbing self.
The fight you put up, if you could call it that, feeds the growing shame in your gut. It ends as quick as it began, with your panties jammed behind your teeth and wrists pinned. He hovers, breathing rough through his mask. He releases your hands with a cautionary squeeze.
“Try that again, and you’ll be joinin' your dad tonight. Simple enough?”
You nod so fast you crick your neck, tonguing fabric.
With a patronizing pat to your cheek, he sits on his knees, head ducked and back curved, touching the roof. “That’s more like it.” His eyes linger on yours, assessing, then drop to your body, a soft, perverse laugh rattling out. Hedged with a smoker’s cough.
It’s as surreal as the movie. Like you’ve been sucked beyond the silver screen. One minute, simply watching, the next, part of the nightmare.
Ghost, he tells you between sharp nips and bites to your tits, is what you’ll call him when you plead, beg, and whine. And that’s what you do, trading breaths for muffled whimpers as he paws at your belly, hips—whatever he can reach, which is everything. He leaves indentations of his teeth all the way down your body, stinging and raw.
“Nice cunt you’ve got ‘ere,” Ghost grins as if complimenting the upholstery or fixtures. He rolls and tucks his mask, revealing a pale chin and thin lips. You catch a couple of old, gnarly scars in the light filtering through the windshield. A knitted cleft. Helpful detail to identify him later, your hysterical mind notes. His lips twitch as he pries your legs open. “She’s fuckin’ soaked. Playin’ rough do it for you?”
Blunt thumbs rub circles into the soft skin at the crux of your inner thighs, teasing and pulling you open. He spits a large glob directly onto your hole. Either you’re not as soaked as he said, or worse, you think, he’s planting yet another little flag on your body. He plays with you for a moment, unskillfully toying with your clit, and stroking himself, spreading the drool from his leaking cock. He slaps the heft of it once, twice—then without further preamble, begins to shove his way in.
You can’t stop your hands from flying up to claw at his arms, your mouth falling further open in a silent scream, cotton tickling the back of your throat. The stretch is immense, and you feel like a bug the way your legs instinctively try to close, bracketing his broad form and pressing into his sides, from how you feel squashed as he bottoms out with a throaty groan.
Ghost rocks his hips to take whatever room’s left and chuckles at your wide eyes, glassed over with unshed tears. You stare up at the dark pits above, glinting with satisfaction.
“Go ahead and cry. Been wonderin’ what you’d look like since you got all blubbery at the entry.” He picks up the pace and successfully knocks your tears loose as he fucks you hard into the mattress. The whole van must be rocking on its suspension, giving you a little hope a fellow movie-goer or an employee will investigate and scare him off. But there’s no way he doesn’t notice the sway of the van. He must not care.
“Please,” Ghost mocks. “Please, I ‘ave a ticket! It’s my stupid job and my stupid manager,” he laughs meanly, smacking into you to punctuate his speech. “These stupid ‘ours and stupid customers.” You wince at hearing your near-hysteric ranting and begging parroted back at you. “Ever think about what all those got in common? Ever think it’s you who might be stupid, Blue?”
He slips a hand back to your clit, thumbing it in tight circles broken by occasional flicks, coaxing a reluctant yet responsive heat like a skittish animal. His mask lifts more with a big smirk and a mean laugh as you choke around the gag, sobbing.
“After all, you did let a strange man into your car.”
Your fingers dig into his arms but do nothing. He drops his weight, snakes his arm under your head, and ruts. His rubbing hurts. He uses way too much pressure than you normally like and pinches, muttering filthy orders into your ear. He kisses your drooling mouth and licks your cheeks.
“C’mon, give me it, come on my cock. Want you nice and tight f’me, need you to keep it all inside.”
The inevitably of him finishing inside you chases another wail from your mouth. He finally slots his own over it, burrowing his tongue inside to dig around. You can barely breathe as he fucks you through whatever it is he’s doing. Your eyes spin and bounce off the fogged windows. Surely, any minute now, someone will interrupt, someone will save you. They’ll throw away their trash and hear your muted shrieking.
And, as if summoned by thought alone, the beam of a flashlight bounces off the rear windows. Ghost pauses his mouth before his hips, slowing to a leisurely roll. He lifts his upper half to stare out the window as the light passes over the glass again. You watch, heartbeat borderline painful, and squeak when he raises his hand. His face snaps to you.
“Not a word.” He warns.
Ghost wipes the mist from the glass and his lip curls.
“Just a kid.” A hand migrates over your mouth and presses, apparently not trusting you even with your underwear half-lodged behind your teeth. His other hand reaches and unlatches the window. You tense so hard in panic that he hisses and squeezes your cheeks with a second pointed look. He cranks the window open enough that surely his masked face is visible outside.
“Didn’t your mum teach you it’s not polite to stare?”
A pitchy, crackling voice of what sounds like a teenager responds. Fuck. You can hear him pretty clearly, even over the radio. He must be only a foot away.
“I-I-I….W-Whatever it is you’re doing, sir, you can’t–”
“I’m enjoyin’ the show. At least I’m tryin’, but ‘ere’s some whelp stickin’ his nose in my business.” His voice is cruel, mocking. “I suggest you go back to your booth and forget about me. I can leave an impression if you’d like, but you like solid foods, yeah?”
There’s a choked, scared sound that cuts through the film audio. It makes Ghost huff and drive deeper into your cunt, making you bite through cotton as his cockhead glances sharply into your cervix.
“Yes, sir. Sorry sir.” By the sound of his retreating footsteps, the kid’s power-walking away.
Ghost shuts and locks the window, muttering, and returns his attention to you. He gives you a toothy grin, flashing a silver cap on a rear molar.
“Now, where was I?”
A heartbeat passes before he’s back to fucking you mercilessly, tongue jamming into your mouth yet again.
He ignores the rake of your nails when you shove your hands up his shirt to find skin to ruin, and merely grunts as he lifts his head. Your underwear slides out of your mouth in his teeth, damp and wrinkled. He spits them out beside your head, then returns, wetting your dry tongue with his own.
Ghost swallows your shrill cry as you come and endures your kicking legs while flames as hot as hellfire sear you to the bone beneath him. The train whistle and screams pumping through the van’s speakers smother the rest of your bawling. You dangle above the abyss, spent.
It doesn’t take long for his orgasm to follow. Panting into your mouth, blown pupils fixed to yours, mouth screwed up in a sneer. He barely makes a sound as he loses his rhythm and floods your cunt.
He withdraws after a brief eternity and kisses you. Exhausted, overwhelmed, and aching, you slip unconscious. Lost.
When you stir, you find yourself cuffed to the wall of the van, wearing only a hi-vis vest. It chafes your nipples as the van bounces along. Blinking, you groggily moan in pain and try to compute what it is you’re seeing through the lace curtains. Green. Patches of gray and white. Mountains. But the closest range is…
Your eyes whip up front, where Ghost fiddles with the dial. He pauses, registering your movement in the corner of his eye, and meets your gaze in the rearview.
Ghost has a thing for fucking you when you're asleep—
(—and maybe one day he'll get around to telling you about it, too.)
noncon/dubcon somnophilia. spit kink. brief anal.
He likes you like this. When you're soft, pliant. A malleable little doll under his hands that he can shape to his will. Bend.
You're so small compared to him. Tiny. The difference unmoors the chains keeping his vile, nasty urges at bay, until they spool—horrific and depraved—around him. Unleashes the need in the back of his head that screams, howls, and tells him to own, possess. Claim.
Ruin you—
And you belong to him. Everything. Every part of you is his, down to your goddamn marrow. Your bones are marked with his name, false starts carved into milky bones.
he doesn't really see the problem with taking what is his.
—and so, he does.
His sweet, sweet girl who can barely take his cock when you're awake—too much, too fat—and so he makes do with slaking his hideous, bestial need on your body when you're asleep. When he can fold your knees up to your ears, and fuck you as deep, as hard, as he wants without worrying about you seeing the want rotting in his eyes, and run—
The stretch, you whine. He's too much for you. The biggest you've ever had. It isn't meant to stroke his ego, he knows this, but still. He preens when you add, liquid and pained, by a considerable margin, Simon—
Like this, asleep, you're relaxed. Liquid.
And with the sleeping pills crushed into your bedtime tea you always (always) take an hour before bed, he can do whatever he wants to do. However he wants.
Splits you open with his tongue, fucking into you until you're sloppy and wet. Spitting on your cunt and pushing the foamy glob into your tight hole at his own leisure without having a rain of indignant fists come down across his shoulders, disgusted by the degrading action. Don't spit on me, Simon, that's gross—
(but you swallow it like a good girl when he grabs you by the neck, thumb digging into the dent of your larynx until you open nice and wide for him, tongue sliding out like you're begging for it—)
His little hellion awake. But asleep?
He gets your pussy messy with his spit, fucking it into you with two fingers—another benefit to fucking you asleep is that he doesn't have to bother with building up, can stretch you out on two fingers without those breathy little mewls spilling out, telling him it's too much. Then three with his mouth glued to your clit, feeling your cunt clench down on him as he bullies it with his tongue. The pressure is too much, too intense. You'd be howling if you were awake, but—
You're not.
The only sound is the lews squelch of him fucking you open with three fingers, sucking noisily at your pebbled clit.
Music to his ears.
And if he's in a hurry. Well. Skipping foreplay all together is fine. Just has to spit on his palm, coat it over his shaft, and make you open up for him. Splitting you open on just his cock. All tight—agonizingly so—around him.
You can take it.
He knows you can. You take everything he throws at you—knees pushed to your ears, cock bulging out from your belly. Head buried in a pillow as he flattens his body over yours, and ruts into your cunt while he smothers you under his bulk. Indescribably tight like this with your thighs squeezed together between his own. On your side with your leg thrown over his hip, or held high in the air.
He likes it best when you're on your back, though. Soft and sweet. Little hiccups leaving your slack lips as he forces you to take every inch he has to offer. Bullying his fat cock into your pussy. Over and over again—
Quenching his unbearable lust on you until it's slated on your flesh, cunt stuffed full of his cum.
Or your ass.
You're wary about him burying his fat length into your ass. It'll hurt, is the biggest excuse you like to give, hands tucked against the swell of your bottom as if that would be enough to keep him away. You've never done that before and taking him in your pussy was already a lot, you couldn't imagine taking him there, too—
It's a problem. Too bad for you, he has always been task oriented. Someone who likes the squash issues under his thumb.
And that's exactly what he does.
Starts with his thumb shoved inside your hole when he's fucking your pussy. Then a finger. Two. Likes to lick at your cunt before shoving your knees to your chest, lifting your ass in the air, and devouring it with the same rapacious appetite. Tongue fucking into you, getting you all sloppy and wet, stretching you open so he can seat you down on his cock. All the way to the base. Stretching your rim wide around his girth. Pounding your tight little ass until he cums inside of you. Filling you over and over again until it leaks out, soaking into the sheets below.
His pretty little doll. All fucked out and messy.
With you asleep, Simon can take from you—as much as he needs to fill this greedy, gaping maw inside of himself—without burdening you. Scaring you away.
And he'd rather not have to chase you down like a dog—
It's the perfect arrangement that lets him exorcise himself of the horrible, awful, things he wants to do to you. Quench the bloodlust, the violence, that drums up in the back of his head, ugly and noxious, that leaks poison into his blood. Makes him see you torn to pieces by his enemies, wrenched away by the people who think they know what's best for you. Taken. The urge to claim you is animalistic. Primal.
This—
This is bloodletting. It's spilling the rot from inside himself so it doesn't fester. Turn septic. Gangrenous. Eating at his tissue until his hands no longer belong to himself, but to the mercy of his monstrous need.
It lets him ruin you, tear into you like a beast, without worrying about you running from him. Fleeing from this rapacious green he holds deep in the fibrils of his chest. Hewed into his essence, subsumed into his marrow.
Simply put: he needs this. Just like you need him. Simon. Need him like the air you breathe—
(And sometimes, sometimes, you get this peculiar look on your face before bed. A frisson. Unease, pensive. It splits over your brows, an evanescent tremor. He thinks you might be more aware than you let on. That you know about this hideousness inside him, this putrid greed that sloshes around the edges of his eyes sometimes, trying to bleed in, trickling down over his periphery before he can stop it.
But it dissolves into complacency before he can chisel into it, leaving nothing behind but a faint stink of stale smoke. Acrid—like doused embers. Burning his nose, his lungs—)
And when he's had his fill—stuffed that chasm inside his belly with your flesh—he cleans you up, and pulls you tight to his chest. Satiated for the time being. Falling asleep with the taste of you on his tongue, locked tight in his embrace. Tenders to your aches the next morning, as soft and supple as he can ever allow himself to be.
There’s a place for him, he’s sure, when he lies to you, and says that you must have slept the wrong way. That maybe he was a little too hard on you the night before. And maybe if he were a better person, a better man, he might have felt some sense of guilt for it. Shame.
But instead, he coos at you and says:
It’s his fault, pet, but don’t worry he’ll take such good care of you. Licking your sore cunt all day until you grab him by the scruff of his neck, and tell him no more, please, Simon, stop, stop—it doesn’t hurt anymore, please—
He relents an hour before bed and takes you to the kitchen where you sit and drink the tea he made without a word.
Like a good girl—
And then you slip into bed in nothing but his old shirt, curling up against his chest, and whispering—soft and sweet—into his ear, "good night, Simon."
pornstar!ghost who doesnt expect much from you despite your enthusiasm.
but the first touch of your tongue against his cock has it pulsing. you keep your eyes on him the whole time, gaze only darting as far as his navel when you try to take more of him.
you're so pretty with your lips stretched around his cock, eyes watering as you try to hold back your gag reflex. it makes him was to coo and pet your head, tell you he knows its big but you're doing so well. he wants to tell you that if you keep pulling back, letting him watch the way the head of his cock pops in between your lips, or rests against that pretty pink tongue, he isn't going to make it through the shoot. he wants to tell you to slow the fuck down because just seeing the way your eyes glisten with unshed tears is making him so hard it hurts.
he's supposed to come on your face, and he really holds out as long as he can with all your stroking and slurping, but too quickly he needs to pull you off so the scene can progress.
you wrap your arms tight around his thighs, locking yourself in place. cheeky thing. his hand finds the back of your head immediately.
"pour it right in yer stomach then," he grunts, forcing your head down.
your eyes go wide with shock, throat constricting around his cock like a vice as it tries to gag him out, warm and wet and sinfully good. he pushes you hard, feels your throat give and your nose tough his stomach, feels the first drip of a tear rolling off your cheek, and makes good on his promise as he comes straight down your throat.
when he finally lets you up you cough around each breath you suck in, mascara running down your cheeks and your eyes glassy, barely there as you blink at him.
silly, thinking you could beat him at his own game.
Sorry to all the younger folk but ghost is absolutely bullying anyone under the age of thirty five...
The first time he meets you, the secretary who's obviously respected and trusted enough to work with the 141, he asks deadpan "aren't you supposed to be in college?"
Every opportunity, he is pointing out how young you are. Grabbing your apple to cut it into slices, opening snacks for you as if you can't do it yourself. One of his favorite jokes is refusing to give you a sip of his drink because "ahm' not gettin' in trouble for giving a kid alcohol."
He makes all this fuss about your age...and yet it's him cornering you against the door of a supply closet and murmuring "c'mon, kid, I know you want me too. Yer not subtle."
He guides you to your knees, scoffing when you complain about the cold concrete and unzipping his pants. He's not wrong, about you that is, truthfully all the teasing has gotten you worked up in a way you've decided not to examine.
Which is how you and ghost end up falling together in his bed at least twice a week when he's on base. You're sure everyone knows, but no one dares comment on it when he's patting your shoulder in public and tossing his jacket at your face with a "bundle up, kid. Yer too young to die of a cold."
Yeah...whatever you two have going on, no one is touching with a ten foot pole.
pornstar!Ghost with a reputation for fucking his partners "like he loves them" but when you get paired up with him for a couch shoot he's the meanest cunt you've ever worked with
No thoughts just alpha!gaz who has trouble popping a knot due to an injury on the field.
Which really isn't a problem most of the time, only old traditional alphas think a knot is needed for good sex. But...it does present an issue when his rut hits and you have to help him.
"Fuck! C'mon, love, I'm almost there–" kyle gasps into your ear. He's been almost there for nearly an hour now, and you're not sure how much more you can take.
The scent in the room is overwhelming. Thick with frustrated alpha in a way that makes you want to roll over and submit so your mate can feel better. Gazs warm palms press into your back, hips thrusting into your hole already stuffed with his pre.
"Hold still–" he huffs, teeth dragging along your skin as he shifts, cock rubbing against that sensitive space inside you. Pleasure, warm and stinging, shocks up your spine. You're beyond overstimulated, squirming only a few inches before kyle is dragging you back "no, no– stay here, love– stop fighting–"
With a moan, kyle slams in a final time, his knot inflating. You shudder at the first warm ropes of cum spilling into you, simply panting in exhaustion. Kyle is at least aware enough to roll to his side instead of on top of you, nuzzling into your neck.
"Fuckin' christ. Thank you, love. Thought I'd never knot." A tongue flicks out to lick your mating gland in apology.
"Mmmhhh..." you manage to purr, reaching down to feel your stomach "how long...?"
"An hour, maybe? Might be longer." Gaz sighs. His knot time is unpredictable, but it always seems to last longer than most. "Get some sleep, yeah? I don't think one will be enough. Usually I need five."
Five. Five whole knots you'll need to coax from gaz. Yeah, you better rest while you can.
Soap begs his partner let him take the condom off both when he’s topping and bottoming. He’s so nasty. He’ll pout about putting it on and then plead to have it off halfway through.
Ghost prefers to bottom with a condom cus the sensory of cum up there doesn’t agree with him but likes topping without a condom cus he’s a bastard man and likes to spit on a leaky hole
Gaz is a condom enthusiast and also likes denying his partner the opportunity to take it off. ‘No, love, not this time’ when he’s topping and ‘no, fuck, keep it on, just keep going’ when he’s bottoming. (He can be ordered 😌)
If Price had his way, every condom would be atomically destroyed and never reintroduced to the world. Drives him fuckin nuts to waste his load or the opportunity to see his hairy belly covered in cum (he rarely accepts creampies)
The matchups on this - top first in ship name:
- GazGhost is in perfect alignment and Ghost’s pleased to have Gaz tie off the condom before licking Ghost’s load off his gut. (And the fucker will take a pic of the messy condom and send it to Soap saying ‘glad you could make it’ - pun on Johnny cus he sucks)
- GhostGaz has a wee bicker I think and come out half and half usually. Often the compromise is Ghost wearing the condom but then squeezing it out all over Gaz’s chest
- GazPrice has such a fun power play because Price gets to goad Gaz about whether he’s earned the right to cum inside and they end up taking it off partway through
- PriceGaz… is the condom in the room with us
- GhostSoap is aligned well and neither of them even mention the possibility
- SoapGhost is peak Soap whining and Ghost faking boredom. Soap tries to slip it off when adjusting and Ghost slams him down and chokerides him
- GhostPrice gruff and growly hell yeah brother all wet all sweat
- PriceGhost means Ghost is overruled but doesn’t make much fuss because Obviously
- GazSoap Gaz fucking LOOOOOVES denying Soap his load. ‘Better luck next time Tavvy’ I’m OOZING
- SoapGaz and Gaz will NAWT let him take it off no matter how much he begs and sulks I’m DROOLING
- PriceSoap yeah they nasty and do it raw
- SoapPrice simply doesn’t happen in my mind sorry his ass is not bending over for Soap MacTavish
gummygunk
titsay
origamiaround
andulkaphoto
areudirty
stormborns
