18+ ᴏɴʟʏ; ᴍɪɴᴏʀs ᴅɴɪ— this blog features explicit themes that should not be consumed by anyone underage. i am not responsible and will not be held accountable for anyone’s children abusing their unsupervised internet access.
ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛs aren’t technically closed, but the likeliness of me responding to them is particularly low, sorry.
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⟶ ʀᴇᴄᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴘᴏsᴛᴇᴅ: dead dog's devotion (ghost x gn!reader)
⟶ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ: kiss prompt fills; oneshots [kiss prompts]
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ | ᴀᴏ3
note: i don't do taglists since i don't post much on here aside from fics <3 a masterlist is in progress but it seemed a bit over the top when i only have one work posted
tiny brain hairball i horked up over the weekend, ghost x medic!reader (reader is butcher from dead dog's devotion), tw for wounds and woundfucking and suchlike :))
"Settle down."
A rough moan cuts through the last syllable. Your command falls on deaf ears, Simon's abdomen spasming below your hands with reckless abandon. Chasing touch that you promptly halt, palms pressed into the pillowy expanse of his stomach and side.
He pants beneath the mask, like a dog, and humps the air next to you like one too.
"I said–"
"Butcher," hitched breath, low timbre. Ghost's heavy tongue slurs across your callsign in the fucked-out drawl reserved to when you ride him to tears, "Butcher, fuck– please..."
Half hard and delirious—if he were any more capable of forming words you think he'd beg for you to curl your fingers inside him. Right there, love, tha's it, don't stop... don't you fuckin' dare stop–
The mask sits crooked across his nose. You imagine his face all screwed up under that, imagine that the muscles in his jaw work hard to contain the desperation with which he keeps pleading with you and fail to do so all the same.
Ghost bucks his pelvis and almost the entirety of his lower body. His knee misses your cheek by mere millimetres—you've just about had it.
The groans and pants turn wet now, and pained. Spine arched up and towards as though he cannot decide which relief to seek; agony or touch. Ghost bends at the waist finally, away from where you kneel next to him, but your hands are as relentless as they've ever been.
Work him until the glint of tears in wide brown eyes catches your peripheral and has you scoffing.
That makes it worse, somehow, if the completely out-of-it state of him could even get like that.
"Fuck's sake, Simon, if you don't hold still already…," you trail off, wrist tight with the effort to keep the angle that ceases the bleeding while he writhes to and way from you. He keens at the sound of his name, all of him drawn taut before that, too, snaps.
(Ebb and flow, a familiar tide set out to drown you all the same.
An ocean cannot escape its nature. Why had you ever assumed he could?)
He isn't really listening anymore, you can tell by the amount of blood coating your hands, seeping into your sleeves slick and heavy. Your lungs fill with the stench of it, iron and salt at the back of your throat. Ghost's movements grow sluggish right as you think that, maybe, this can be salvaged.
Fuck it, you think, and your legs move before you can stop yourself. thrown unceremoniously over his middle before you bracket his hips, knees stretched apart and no longer touching the grimy safehouse floorboards.
He goes infinitely more slack with the weight of it. You, hips flush to him like so many times before. An image worth reminiscing about—overshadowed completely when you force two fingers right into the depth of his torso. Seeking, applying enough pressure to allow your free hand to procure a roll of gauze from your pack. No more flailing around.
Later, when you sit alone in the infirmary and file away each of his noises for later times and and a dark bedroom, you will tell yourself it was a purely medical decision, that you needed to make sure he would stay awake right there, beneath the weight of you on him.
(The truth is uglier than that; more devout. You like taking him apart, like that he delivers himself into your hands time and time again.
That he is so willing to bear the meathook you cleave into his flesh if it doubles as the needle crafting his sutures.
The taste of him isn't much different from this memory.)
"See how easy that was? Behaving yourself?"
You can't help but give the hard outline of his cock a teasing swivel of your hips as you peel yourself off his broad thighs. He moans in anguish at both the contact and subsequent loss of it. And he nearly growls when your two finger retreat methodically from the wound in his flank and return almost immediately with a hard push, push, push.
It must feel somewhat hellish against the bruised and broken ribs laughing up at you from his deathly pale chest, all this movement, but you have the hole in his flank to tend to, the one gushing blood even against the white cloth you press into it.
The gauze is rudimentary first aid at best, and too bright in your narrowed field of vision but your last AAJT went to a Private evaced hours ago. This is all you have—and if the pleading groans coming from below you are anything to go by, you aren't the only one falling into a natural rhythm.
You are a creature of habit just like him, the routine of your hands in him and his hands in you and you on him and him all over you is nothing if not that; practiced and familiar and always reoccurring. It will not differ this time around. It can't.
(But it does, no?
A final round of prayer. Are you not tired of hiding behind your own altar?
You've seen Simon come apart beneath you before, willingly—lamb to slaughter, to surgery, to salvation. Are you sure this isn't what an ending looks like?
... can you be?)
With everything that has happened to Ghost?
The whine he lets out as you brush your bare digits across the flayed edge of the wound just this once, for him—because it's him, because you cannot deny him when he sounds so close and so broken, even when it makes no sense to you—is a balm to the evil voice in your head.
(No one else would treat him with such reverence. Your dog needs no leash when the only blood he licks is his own, is from his wounds, is on your hands. Slick and red-hot and always reoccurring.)
You should stop him. You desperately want to. Use your heels to plant into his trap muscles and shove him down to the end of the bed. You imagine the look on his face, how his wet mouth might frown, if you did. His boots scraping against your duvet cover, bits of dirt and ground-out cigarette ash falling off with it, as you shove and shove. Off your fucking bed, out the door, and back into his car. The instinct buzzes up through you in a black, pulsating swarm. Your vision begins to swim.
But now you're too swept up in the current to stop him. To stop the flood from strafing hotly through your muscles until your body is bowed, arched, feet taut and knees slamming shut over his head. Stop the implicitly keening sound being torn out of your mouth that you didn't realize was open, dragging out over the gravel of his groans until your throat tightens.
You lay a shaky forearm over your eyes, blocking him from sight.
That doesn't stop him from moving around. The sudden absence of his bulk between your legs is startling, your feet dropping down to the empty bed. You're wrung dry, boneless and weighty.
And then, he's there. Up beside you, pulling you against him. No, pulling you over him. You jab out a hand or elbow, but it lacks true strength, and his arms band across yours as it is. He adjusts you both here and there, locking you into some primal wrestling position — your back morphed against his chest, splayed open like a fucking exhibit to your ceiling. He pulls his meaty thighs up, boots keeping him firmly locked in place, and casually tucks your legs on either side of his. Your shorts are gone, your t-shirt's ridden and tangled up under your breasts.
"'eeere we go," Simon finally exhales, directly into your ear. "Lay back fer me now, girl." His voice is firm, shoring you up against a brace you didn't know you needed.
Your head falls back, and finds a bit of pillow edge at the top of his shoulder. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the whole room to disappear around you. But even the light from the washroom is too bright, illuminating, bearing witness to your surrender.
You wriggle — a stunned fish pulled out of water — but his thick arms tighten across your chest, your own pinned to your side. "Shhh, shush now, love," he says. He restricts even further until he feels your body relax. "'assa girl. 'at's what she needs, eh."
Humiliatingly, you feel the sting in your nose first. The telltale sign. You force your brain to go elsewhere, back to England, back to the trailer park, Barbados even, wherever it needs to to find safety.
"Workin' so 'ard. Puttin' up such a fuss, no wonder yer so tired, love. Gonna run yerself ragged one o' these days, eh." His left arm, a steel band. His right hand, seeking your cunt. You jerk out, sensitive, and he chuckles thickly in your ear. He changes course; his fingers push in past your lips and collect your saliva, then drift down to smear it over your waiting clit. "See, m' girl, I know ya now. Yer cute tricks that yer throwin' out to keep me from catchin' ya proper. I know now yer a fighter through 'an through. Got away from yer daddy, eh. Wish I coulda seen 'at, seen ya be so strong and brave—"
Your eyes burn. The tears clump at the corners and fall freely, sliding down into the crease of your neck. You're a fucking chump, thinking he'd do a cursory search and leave it be.
Simon huffs so softly and turns his head, licking the trace of salt. His fingers tighten across your aching nipples, over your hot crying cunt — your animal brain recognizes this as the clamp of possession — as he continues. "'ll be so good fer ya, m' love. Give ya what yer body needs. Let ya be the boss when ya wanna be. S'okay, let it out." Circling, tighter and tighter over you, bookending it with his driving hips.
Your clit is throbbing under his fingers. You've always been able to have multiple orgasms, but this feels like a monster looming over you, sinister in its ambit, swallowing you up whole. A colossal rogue wave sweeping you out to sea.
He rubs, exactly right, while his other fingers finally push under your t-shirt to find your nipples. "Ya can't—" he's breathless too, now. Still got his fucking pants on under you, scraping against your tender flesh, but hard when you make contact just so. "Ya can't yell at me like ya did without thinkin' 'm not gonna be yers."
You sob, furious.
"'m yers, y'know 'at." He lets out a long series of insane groans and whimpers melt into your ear, soak your neck. Your hips are moving on their own accord, you can't even watch as the horror unfolds.
The orgasm is not blissful. It doesn't hit you out of the blue. It is a demonically seismic, slow flattening of all your senses until you are mammalian and warrigal beneath him — on top of him.
That time you fainted going up the metal steps to open the trailer door. You'd been out running, little face streaked with tears, and darting back to drink water from the tap before you were seen. You'd been running in the dense humidity and fainted clean out, your scrawny body folding off to the side and into the small scratchy mat laid over the dirt. Coming to was worse than your vision blacking out in the first place, a ring of clarity at the centre of pitch black. You were disoriented and sick, bright pinwheels of colour streaking in front of you. You were face-down, arms bent under you, and heard the sound of your parents laughing.
Your senses creep back. Your right leg is cramping, your head is pounding, and you've saturated the front of his sweatshirt with your sweat. He's stroking from nip to rib to hip slowly, not playing with you, but bringing you back to yourself. Keeping you grounded.
Your mind is fucked. Any sense of equilibrium has been shattered across this terrifyingly open yawn of a landscape. Thank god your tears have dried, even though your cheeks and neck are sticky with it.
One last, desperate hail mary. The final girl in a stupid last stand against the monster who walks to the finish line, not needing to run. Predictable and so frustrating you want to scream. But you'd hate her even more if she didn't fight to the end.
Your limbs are dumbstruck, but he is curious enough to let you reposition yourself, watching to see what you'll do next. You cannot bear to think about how you look right now, how any of this looks — to him, to yourself, to even a blank wall. You signal silently for him to unbuckle his belt, and he barely holds back a fucking smile while he does so. You gesture for him to keep going, his black briefs following suit. The smell of sex, of precum and want, pours off him in suffocating waves. He sits up a little to peel his sweatshirt — t-shirt with it — up and over his head. You take a shuddering breath.
You want, depravedly so, to just look at him like this. Just watch him rest in your bed, head on your nice pillows, naked and only for you.
"Stop smiling," you bark, your voice coming out shakier than you wanted.
He obliges, the creases of his eyes disobeying altogether.
Push push push push
"Unfortunately, that's exactly what I expected you to do," you sneer out, raking your eyes over his body. "Soldiers only think in tactics. How they can best their enemy or capture their target; play at fucking war crimes to get their dicks hard."
His eyes narrow just a hair, ever so minutely.
"I find you repulsive," you begin. He's hooked on every word you're saying, his prick leaking down the shaft and surging every few seconds. "If I wanted a misogynistic fuckface, I woulda stayed back home. What do you think you know about that, hm? What did your research turn up? I'm so goddamn curious what that Neanderthal brain of yours has put together on me."
Simon's mouth drops opens a little.
"I'm not touching your nasty cock. Jerk yourself off." You straddle his legs, your bare cunt a bridge between his thighs. His hand falls automatically to his hips, sliding over scarred, stretchmarked skin — you can tell he was a big boy who gained weight quick, then shaped it into muscle — until he reaches to grab his pulsing cock. The low, dark sound that falls out of him feels a little like retribution.
"Your clearance obviously lets you see whatever your greedy little eyes want. You didn't have to work for it, you didn't even have to earn it. It's just yours, huh? Let me see: you woulda gone through all those court records until your piggie heart was nice and content. Dropped charges. Juvie. His obituary. Did you read that, too, Simon?"
He nods, the tendons of his neck stretching taut and harsh. His hand pauses.
"What'd it say? I never read it." And then, "I didn't say stop."
His hand works up his shaft in stuttering grasps, his fist tightening and loosening in rapid-fire motions. The thick band of fat wrapped around that muscular frame is tensing, pulling up. "It said—"
"Louder." You roll your sore hips, cunt touching no part of him. Hands perfectly at rest now at your thighs. Calm and steady.
His gasping whimper. His beautiful eyes squeezed tight.
"Open your fucking eyes and tell me what it said, Simon."
"It said," he chokes out. "It said he was a — ahh, fuck, fuckin' 'ell — a wonderful father to 'is lovely daughter. Taught y'ow to run cross-country, fish fer walleyes, an' hit a bullseye."
It makes you fucking sick, but there's nothing to do about it now. It's not even an ancient wound, so much as an old faded scar that you don't notice anymore. A scar that's never been seen by another human being; at least, not one that's believed you. Records get expunged for a reason, so it's the first time you've ever had to address this. To do so in bed is a surprise.
"I did kill him," you say mildly. Simon has obviously done worse in his life, you've concluded that by now; this confession is akin to spitting down a well. You watch him absorb this and study his eyes to see if he suspected it in the first place. "Well, more like tipped him over an edge he was already on, but y'know." You shrug.
Simon's eyes lock with yours, and when your gaze wants to slide away, he grabs your chin to hold it longer. "'assa good girl." He says it gruffly, choked. His busy hand has slowed, which is unacceptable.
You crawl over and up to him, his cock dragging along with you until it bobs up, lined up with your cunt. Your hips are so sore from spreading wide around and over him, but you swivel them until you're aligned. He pulls in a sharp, high inhale and tries to grab at you.
"Don't touch me."
You sink down onto his cock, swollen and sensitive. It doesn't feel good, almost hurts, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all. His face is gorgeous, his expression ugly. Air shudders out of you both as you sink down to his hairy thighs. Your hands bracket the mattress around his head as you clench around him, releasing in increments.
You shift to bear your weight on your left hand. Right arm comes up, elbow bent, forearm banding across Simon's working throat. You lean your weight forward, the press against flesh deepening.
His eyes are prettier than you want them to be, up close like this. Soft eyelashes fluttering against freckled cheekbone — where he lets the sunlight paint him. Broad strokes of eyebrows cut up by old scar tissue. You wonder what your life would be like if your scars had been external instead.
"Fuck sakes, love," he chokes out.
"I killed him," you say.
A plaintive moan, pulled out from deep within him. "Ah know, ah know." You almost slap him for this, but the look on his face tells you he does know. His hips finally begin to drive up, harsh and shocking.
His hands, those glorious things, can't be held back any longer, and you allow it this time. They scrape up your sides, soft at first, then painful and deep as he uses them to haul your plump flesh down onto him.
You keep your forearm strong against his neck, and bouncing on his cock at a rushing pace, you get your face as close as you can. "I had to kill him." That familiar sting in your nose, but no tears, not yet.
It's the last thing either of you say for a long time; a dropped anchor tying ship to sea, tidally locked in this perpetual, amorphous mutation.
"M' good girl," he eventually whines low from his chest, his motions juttery and frantic. A little bit like a dog trying to herd by instinct. "Doin' what she needs to survive, eh." He's gritting it through his teeth like it hurts. "Make m' work fer it."
"I wanna put you through the fucking floor," you bray, a disgusting sound. You won't come, not like this, but that doesn't matter either.
The tears have started.
"Make m', sweet girl."
You pull off him in a wet, sludgy motion and huddle right up close to his head. Get in his fucking face like he's in your fucking skin. Without asking, he replaces your cunt with his fist, the sounds behind you electric. He's so fucking close, right at the precipice.
"Please," he shudders. It's haunting. You crowd him in, remove your crowbar of a forearm, and lay your mouth inches above his until you're siphoning his obsecrations. The vampire, feeding. "Please, please, oh m' fuckin' god, please let me. Make me. Please—"
He comes in his hand, hitting his belly and chest, your shoulder blade where you're tucked against him.
You give him time. You're shaking uncontrollably when he returns to himself. He sits up, fixes your bedsheets, and tucks you in beside him under the covers. He grabs your face, steers it back over his. You let him give you a long kiss.
"Yer a smart girl," he tuts when your tears slide into his open mouth until he's drinking you up. "'m gonna fuckin' love ya, y'know 'at."
the break-neck atmosphere (back and forth, back and forth that lacked in neither intention nor execution) you've created here, and the way it shudders apart at the end was infinitely satisfying to read, op.
the incredibly ironic thing about dead dog's devotion is not that ghost's immediate idea of conflict resolution is a marriage proposal because he's Weird like that, but that he's legally dead.
ghost is such a funny character to me because there are like three different types of ghost fans. the booktok girls who write him as this big hunky freak, the angst writers beating him up every second of the day because he can never get a break, and the people who literally just treat that man like he’s just. some random nicotine addict you dragged out from krogers.
Tumblr what the actual fuck are you flagging my reblogs for?? "There could be sexual content in your reblog" and it's the rb of my own fic. With no explicit sexual content. What.
