Sofa in a Forest left to rot and yearn

22 yo girl ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ /Masterlist

[howyoulovelikeweaponskill]

Something something for possessive simon…

f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.

You only notice it because your hand slips.

It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.

You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.

All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.

You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.

Blood.

Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”

He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.

“What?”

Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”

For a second, he just stares at you.

Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”

The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.

Not mine.

They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.

So you just stare at him.

At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.

His gloves, first.

They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.

Your gaze flicks lower.

His shirt, too.

Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.

He cleaned up.

The thought comes through the haze in pieces.

Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.

You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”

Simon watches your mouth form the words.

Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.

His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.

“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”

A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.

You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.

“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”

Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.

His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.

Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.

“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”

Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.

For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.

But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.

“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”

Your nails bite into his shoulder.

“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“

His hips move before you can say anything else.

A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.

“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”

Your stomach twists.

You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.

He pulls out just to thrust in again.

Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.

Simon feels it.

“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”

Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.

There is blood on him.

Someone else’s blood.

Graves’s blood.

The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.

You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.

Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.

Simon watches the realization move across your face.

“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”

Your voice is barely a whisper.

His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”

The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.

You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.

He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.

Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”

For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.

His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.

“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.

Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”

Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.

It doesn’t.

It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.

But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.

It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.

Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.

Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.

Simon feels it. Of course he does.

He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.

Your face burns.

“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.

His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”

The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.

Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”

“There she is.”

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.

Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.

“You liked that.” He croons.

You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.

“N-no.”

His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.

“Liar.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.

And now he has caught you reacting to it.

Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.

Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.

“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.

His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.

“You should be callin’ me reckless.”

Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.

His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.

It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.

“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.

You swallow. “You can’t—”

He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.

Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.

Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.

“I can’t what?” He murmurs.

You try.

You really do.

You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.

“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”

“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”

You can’t.

Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.

Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.

“Too far gone to scold me now?”

You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.

And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.

“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.

“So am I.”

“Simon—”

“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”

Your breath leaves you in a gasp.

He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.

“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”

Your face burns hotter.

You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.

But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.

He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”

“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”

His eyes flash. “There she is.”

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.

“Try that again.”

You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.

“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”

“Probably.”

“Price is going to—”

“Already did.”

You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”

His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.

“Read me the riot act.”

Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”

“Yes.”

Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”

Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”

God. You think he’s lost his mind.

“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“

He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.

“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”

His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.

“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”

The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”

You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”

“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”

You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.

He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”

You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.

“And if he talks about you like that again?”

You barely manage the whisper. “What?”

Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”

For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.

One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.

“Leave it.”

Your breath trembles. “Why?”

His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”

And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.

Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.

You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.

[thicksexxualtension]

[howyoulovelikeweaponskill]

GIGGLING SO HARDDD LOL TY U FOR READING XOXO🤭🤭🤭🤭🤍🤍

[forest-sofa]

Office Cleaner x Ghost Part III

Hiii!!! Sorry this took so long I had a wonderful little camping trip to the grand tetons AND yellowstone but i am happy to be back in Canada !!!!

This one is a little shorter than the others but the place to leave it felt so perfect so the next part will be longer!!! No TW just again mean mean teasing by two big beefy boys.

Immediately you went for your phone. 

Little bastards went through everything and didn't even hide it. All their tabs were still open. 

Instagram, Tiktok, Twitter. Checking your search history you could scream at not clearing it before it. It was very bad. 

Your incognito tab felt stupid now. A habit you picked up in your youth… just as uh a precaution of course. You closed everything yourself and deleted your history just to be on the safe side. 

A rumble and groan from your stomach reminded you that you hadn't eaten in at least a day, too preoccupied with the masked giant and his mohawk friend in your living room. You glance back at your suitcases, cringing to yourself as you see them haphazardly slide under your bed clearly bulging with clothes still sticking out. Of course they’d notice that they weren’t stupid . . . which was disappointing. 

Your door opened with a quiet creak and immediately the murmuring you heard in the living room turned silent. 

Ears of a fox to match those eyes of a hawk they have apparently.

You inched towards them, not wanting to make a sound. Feeling like a stranger in your home was a horrible feeling. Like you’re intruding into a place you don’t belong, stealing from the cookie jar while mom and dad are away in their room. 

You can feel their eyes watching your every move. The weight of their stare is making you forget about your hunger and the feeling of fleeing back to the safety of your room heightened. A little deer wandering into the jaws of two wolves.

“What’s got the little princess out of her tower” Ghost hums at you, Soap snickers beside him before clearing his throat and giving Ghost a look. “Why are you up so late? Having trouble sleeping bonnie? He sits up and goes to stand, your stomach answers before you get the chance. A smile tight on your lips and a faint flush.

“Ah of course, Ghost can get you whatever you want from the shops” “I can what?” His slow turn towards Soap was almost comical. “Aye I-I ken Lt, I’ll go, what do you want bonnie?”

They watch as your face falls, Soap gets a small grin at the realisation that you like him more but doesn’t say anything. Ghost just rolls his eyes at you. 

“I um could you get me some bagels please, and some avocados and maybe some eggs. . . please” “So polite bonnie, of course I can” He slips off the couch and all but runs to put his shoes on to leave. You wish you could do the same, you had hoped Ghost would leave so you could talk to Johnny, he seemed to at least have a heart. He could be reasoned with, maybe slightly emotionally manipulated into letting you leave before his counterpart came back.

You glance back at Ghost as the door closes, his eyes are back on the TV, your TV. Watching something on your disneyplus, sitting on your couch. “Take your shoes off my coffee table and put them at the door” You surprise yourself at this demand. You feel like gagging and choking on the words and trying to shovel them back down your throat immediately. His head shifts slightly, tilting to look at you with narrow eyes. 

You brace for impact, an insult, a threat, maybe he’ll get up and drag you back to your room and block the door so you can’t bother him anymore. He slowly takes his feet down, bending slightly to untie them before getting up and placing them neatly beside your own pair. 

“Thank you”

You don't wait for a response, opting to go take a short nap as you wait for Soap to return, your growling stomach only getting more angry the longer you wait. You swaddle up in your blankets, grabbing (embarrassingly) a small plushie you cuddle with at night normally to help you fall asleep. 

You wake up to the smell of bacon, glancing at the clock, it’s been about 40 minutes since you came back to your room, you almost get up until you hear voices nearing. Pretending to be asleep is a lot harder when your mouth is watering at the smell of food.

 A quiet knock on your door, and then it being opened. You have your back turned to them so they can’t see your face.

“Aw Simon look at the wee lass, she’s harmless” “Just wake her up and have her eat Johnny, bossy when she's hungry” 

You have to fight back the urge to bite back a gasp when you hear his name, swallow down a giggle at the fact that big bad Ghost was named : Simon - like the chipmunk. 

You can feel someone gently touching your shoulder, small smoothing circles, Johnny has nice feeling hands, “Up you get princess” your eyes shoot open. 

That was NOT Soap.

You slowly open your eyes and turn your head, jumping at Ghost being so close to you. His hand is still on your shoulder, you can feel it burning you through your shirt, you’re sure there’ll be a scorched hand print there when you look later.

Your mouth is suddenly incredibly dry, parched in a way you’ve never experienced before, tongue heavy and sand like on your teeth. 

“Brought you your food bonnie, hope you don’t mind that you didn’t make it” You look past Ghost to Soap as he walks forward, a plate piled with avocado toast, an egg on top and on the side, juicy bacon, cut fruit and a glass of orange juice. 

“T-thank you Johnny, this is wonderful thank you” You can barely contain your glee, you can’t even remember the last time you had such a good meal, or had someone cook for  you. 

“Aye don’t thank me bonnie, Ghost over here did all the cooking, I can’t cook for shite” 

Again, your face dropped, 

Oh.

“Thank you Ghost, that was very kind of you” Your voice is small, fragile, coming out much weaker than you wanted. He stares down at you as you take your first bites, not able to contain the moan you let you at how fucking good it tastes, you are going to devour this whole thing.

They share a small look with each other and you can tell Ghost is smug about it. Probably lots of compliments from ladies about his wonderful breakfasts. 

“Can’t have you starving and pissy all the time princess” His voice is different, softer, if only slightly. The way he said it this time makes your face heat up, you know he got it from what you had been reading, he’d been using it to taunt and tease you this whole time.

They watch you in silence as you eat and drink, you feel obligated to finish every last bite under their stare. When you finally reach the last mango slice Soap comes up and takes the plate away, ruffling your hair as he does “Good girl bonnie, look at that Ghost, finished all her food” Your face flushes again, you can’t even look them in the eye at this point, “Thank you for doing that” “Of course bonnie its the least we can do, its late though, we should all get to bed”

They shuffle out of your room and  close the door. You could maybe get used to a hot Scottish man bringing you meals in bed and dealing with the dishes, even if it means his scary friend cooks and watches you like a hawk as you scarf it down. 

Your dreams that night are full of amber eyes staring into your soul, tobacco and pine scented clouds lifting high above the ground, a deep calming rumble of the earth lulls you into tranquility. You sleep better than you have in a long time, especially after the horrible few days you’ve been having. 

This time waking up felt less like getting hit by a train and more like floating down from the clouds. 

Glancing over at the clock you know why, for the first time in weeks you’ve slept a very commendable 10 hours, with a sated full belly and finally no - less - stress. 

You haven’t slept past 8am in a very long time, much less anywhere near noon. It almost feels like a vacation. You’ve taken a few days off work, finally gotten to relax. 

The hairs on your stand up, goosebumps around on your arms as you remember who else is home. They hadn’t waken you, you doubt they're still asleep on the pullout couch. 

Could they be …. gone! 

You strain your ears trying to listen for them, any murmurs, any creek of the floors, running water, sizzling of a pan but …. there’s nothing?

Maybe that’s why they were so nice to you. A finally send off before they leave forever!!! You can’t help the excited smile on your face, the sigh of relief.

Throwing off the covers and walking towards the door you felt confident.  

Your hand falters right as you go to grab the doorknob. Brushing it off you open the door and take a peek out in the hallway.

Still very quiet. You step forward, trying to be as quiet as possible. No one in the kitchen, no one in the living room. You almost let out an excited giggle when you see a figure on your balcony. 

Your face drops.

It’s him.

Smoking a cigarette clad in only a towel that's barely wrapping around his waist. 

It's a sight. Even the width of his back is making you swallow hard. From the living room entrance you can make out scars, cuts and bullet wounds. It makes you feel bad actually, what these boys have probably had to live through.

A new thought quickly takes over your mind.

What have they done to others? Have they given other men and women the same wounds, deadlier ones. You aren't stupid, you know these people aren't saints, but you must have blocked the thoughts of what their job entails from your mind.

Killing people, hell they killed the men at your work. 

You had to block out all the blood and bodies you saw at your old building. 

These men are not your friends, they are not going to become them. Sooner or later they’ll be called off and there isn’t a bone in your body that makes you think they’d think twice about killing you.

You didn’t realize you’d been staring off into space for so long, consumed by the dark thoughts that plagued your mind.

“See something you like” 

His voice felt like drifting in the ocean only to be swallowed by waves, sun and a breeze turning into a hurricane. 

“W-what?” Shaking your head a little you look back up at him.

Oh.

He was even bigger when he was 5 steps away from you. Your little towel did barely cover his legs. 

How could you not stare at the Achilles in front of you. A wall of solid muscle with a little graffiti on the sides. 

“I’m talking to you princess, or are you gonna eye fuck me all day” Oh my god this is horrible.

A quick glance up and you can see his eyes narrowing at you behind the mask, you know that bastard is smirking at you. 

“I uh, I don’t know what-” He’s getting closer, like a shark circling its wounded prey. You can feel him, his heat radiating off his body, his cologne invading your senses.

He stops directly in front of you, you didn’t notice when you winced and closed your eyes, but when you slowly opened them you’re face to face with his chest, freshly shaven and smooth . Your face burns as you go to turn your head away but a hand snakes around your jaw and turns you back, lifting you head up to meet his burning gaze.

“I said, see something you like, princess?” “I don’t think this is, I don’t think -” “Jesus Ghost let the poor girl go, can’t you tell she likes me more”

You can’t even turn your head with the hold he has on your chin, your eyes darting around, hands coming up to his forearm to try and pull him off you.

You can hear Soap drop some bags on the ground and walk towards you.

Ghosts hand digs into your cheeks more, squishing your face up, cheeks turning red at the odd position he has you in. 

“Like catching a lamb wandering off to other pastures” A heat behind you registers in your brain. Someone is there, someone is Johnny.

You can feel his chest pressing into your back, can feel the thick muscles of his arm as his hand comes up to replace Ghosts. 

You can hear the blood rushing in your ears, the thwack of your racing heart against your ribs, your nose burns as their smell forces its way into your lungs. You can’t think of anything else, they’ve clouded over your living room until only they remained.  

You don’t really understand what is happening. 

Your brain is short circuiting. A lump grows in your throat. You can feel your face tingling, your hands going limp around the arm holding your face. Your breaths turn shallow and hard and you can feel the amusement radiating off both of them.

You freeze as Ghost's head leans down to yours, Johnny's grip on your jaw tilts your head upwards with no room to even flinch.

“Dinner will be ready in half an hour”

[ghouljams]

something something hiring movers online, you dont really pay attention to the name or anything, just head over to haul to grab the truck and finish packing before the movers get there to load it.

something something getting a knock on your front door an hour before your scheduled move and its four huge men that you assume are the movers because they start loading the truck when you start pointing at things and they're very efficient.

something something they keep making passes at you and one of them has groped you more than once and youre trying to excuse it as just the men being rough and tumble because you really need them to not bail on your move, so you are really really trying not to say anything about it.

something something they get you moved out of your apartment in less than an hour so youre all on the way to your new place quick as you like; youre sitting in the passenger side of your uhaul with the biggest of the four driving when you get a text from your actual movers asking which unit youre in.

something something they big guy dangling your house key between his fingers when you scooch close to the door and chuckling that he'll tell you how many copies they made if you beg real pretty for him not to hurt you.

[ohbo-ohno]

just watched 'send help' with rachel mcadams (didn't like it) but it's lowkey sooo ghost x reader sorry but like.

maybe you're a personal assistant for someone important, and the plane you're on for some work trip crashes. you and a personal guard who everyone called 'ghost' are the only one who wash up on the shore of an abandoned island. you wake up before him and do your best approximation of cpr, try to cover his body from the bugs and smack away the crabs because what the fuck else are you supposed to do. he wakes up eventually, thank god, and seems... far more comfortable than you

so you follow him around some. sue you, he knows how to make shelter, he collects rain water easily, and when you find a fruit tree, he lifts you up on his shoulders (without asking first, but still) to reach it. he's quiet, and big enough to be scary without even trying, but he's the only thing helping keep you alive.

a few days in he finds boar tracks. when he says he's going hunting you try to convince him otherwise - you don't have a weapon, how are you even going to kill that thing? it's not a prey animal, it's going to come after you! listen, not to sound selfish, but i'm kinda screwed if you go off and get yourself killed! but he doesn't listen, and you get so frustrated you storm off, stressed and overwhelmed and already convinced he's gone

you're relaxing at the fire later, arms wrapped around your knees while you watch the embers float up into the dark sky. and there's a sound behind you that nearly gives you a heart-attack, a sight that all but does the job. it's ghost, soaked in blood, dragging a corpse nearly his size by the leg behind him.

oh my god, you'd say, because he actually managed to do it. you fawn over him, making sure he's not hurt, then shift to cheering and celebrating. and he's hot, radiating with it, with the energy of a predator who completed a satisfying hunt. do you know how to cook this thing? you'd ask, and he does.

it's only when you reach for a piece of the cooked haunch that he stops you, holding you easily by the wrist. not yet, he says. haven't done much to deserve it, have you?

what? you say

had to work for it, didn't i? he says. had to earn my keep. don't see why you shouldn't have to do the same.

it's only when his hand drops to his belt that you fully realize what he's telling you. he tugs you easily to your knees, the fire at your back as he pulls your face close

[beebymoonlight]

baby mine — ghost x f!reader

when your stupid ex boyfriend kicks you out of the flat, he forgets to give you your cat back. you find the meanest looking guy in the bar to help you get her back.

type: one-shot (3.4k), ao3

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+

There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.

You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.

You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.

You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.

A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.

The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.

It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.

There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.

That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.

You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.

"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"

He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.

"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."

His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."

"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."

The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.

"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"

"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"

He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.

"Suppose."

"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"

He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.

"Wot's tha' include?"

"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."

"Tha's my specialty, love."

"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."

"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."

"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."

A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.

"'m Simon."

The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.

You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.

"Olright, love. Lead the way."

Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.

"This wot he stole?"

You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.

"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."

The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.

You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.

"What the fuck is this?"

You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.

"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."

"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."

"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."

Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.

"Who the bloody hell is that?"

You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.

"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"

Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.

"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"

Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.

"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."

Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—

Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.

He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.

"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."

"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"

"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"

"Please…"

"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.

"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"

"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.

"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."

He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.

"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.

"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.

"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—

Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.

"Ahh—fuck."

You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.

You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.

"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"

It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.

"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"

"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."

You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.

"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.

"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.

"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"

"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."

"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"

Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.

The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.

Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.

Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.

Nothing at all.

He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.

"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Never better."

Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.

Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.

It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.

She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.

"Yeah," Simon takes another sip of his tea. "This'll do."

[tinyleafwritings]

Saw this at Costco...

Johnny and Simon seeing this on display and joking that you should get in it and try it out. Or at least you think they’re joking, but they stare at you long enough without moving on that you find yourself sitting on the little pet couch, nervously watching them through the bars while they take photos “for reference.”

[rawme-price]

Imagine being the waypoint operator for the 141s comms, in charge of directing their chatter to the correct channels when needed, right?

Your station acts as an added layer of security, encrypting the route the channels take in the event they are hacked. Sure, you work with other teams but the 141 are your main group.

One...small caveat of being in charge of their comms, is that you have to actually listen to their conversations in case they request a patch to someone.

Which leads to you hearing...way more than you'd like.

Gaz: sir. Stop poking it. Soap's waitin'

Ghost: think he had health issues. Look at his femur, odd texture.

Gaz: oh shit, really? Let me see—

Followed by far too graphic descriptions of the poor blokes leg. You had to skip lunch that day. You do most days they have missions, gross fuckers act like you can't hear all the shit they say.

Meaning, of course, that you hear too damn much about their sex lives or lack thereof due to missions. It's nothing new, and given you know what they look like, it doesn't paint a bad picture.

But this time? You're shocked by the subject of conversation.

Soap: ahm tellin' you, it's been too damn long. The poor lass is crying for attention!

Gaz: why not the guy from IT? He's eager enough.

Soap: no. Not really feeling that right now. Actually, you know who sounds nice?

There's that characteristic smirk in soaps voice you've long since learned to identify. You absently hear ghost prompt him to continue, wondering how the hell price tunes them out so well—

Soap: our waypoint.

You choke, splutter. Your own coughing making it impossible to hear gaz and ghosts reactions, but when you tune back in soap is viciously defending himself

Soap: no, no! Listen! Have you heard that voice?? Christ, just that and I could get a better wank than I've had all month! C'mon, ghost, I know you agree—

Ghost: you know they can hear you right now, johnny? Got anything to say?

Gaz: *chuckles* besides asking to get his dick wet? Maybe beg for a moan or something?

....silence

Soap: ....hey waypoint? You there?"

You shouldn't. Christ you shouldn't respond.

All comms are recorded, and waypoints should only talk when absolutely necessary but— but the 141 comms are wiped every 24 hours and...

You lean close to your mic, voice weaker than you'd like.

"Yes, soap?"

[tired-biscuit]

you know that trope where it’s princess + knight, but they’ve both been captured by the bad guys and the princess is now gripped by the jaw by the villain, receiving a thin cut to her cheek while remaining completely still with a defiant look in her eyes even as a droplet of blood begins to trickle out of the wound, all while 3 people AT THE VERY LEAST need to have their hands locked on the knight because he’s thrashing around like a wild animal, trying so so so desperately, violently, to get to her?

yeah, that’s porn to me.

[softaestluv]

Eat You, Eat Me

Simon rescues you from your husband.

Butcher! Simon ‘ghost’ Riley x fem! Reader

tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, killing of animals, graphic depictions of domestic violence, graphic depictions of violence, religious guilt, infidelity, please read at your own risk

ch. 7 | masterlist | ao3

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There’s blood everywhere. 

Crimson staining the concrete under you, and splattered on your husband’s sleeves. The juxtaposition of your husband and Simon solidifies itself then. Something that made your mouth water and heart race with desire when it came to Simon is repulsive on your husband. Something that lodges a lump deep in your throat, makes it difficult to swallow the tears running down your cheeks. 

Your hands shake as you reach out to the bunny lying there motionless. Fear runs through your body, raging anger, but the guilt is the heaviest. 

It’s your fault. It’s all your fault. 

The bunny was innocent. A sweet, pure thing that had nothing to do with you and Simon or your deceit. And still, your husband took his anger out on it, snapped its neck in two like it was the one coercing you to Simon's doorstep. The poisoned apple. 

He’s too narcissistic to realize it was him. Too much of a coward to confess he was the one who forced you down this dark and moldered path. One that made you lose your wedding ring somewhere in the backroom of Simon’s butcher shop when you left your dignity on your knees. 

Your husband had hardly noticed really, it’s not like he paid attention to detail when it came to you. You were shocked when he did notice, stuttering over your words, and you offered a weak apology, saying you had lost it while washing the dishes.

It was a lie, he knew it. A part of you thinks you didn’t try to convince him on purpose. That you lost it on purpose because you didn’t know how to end this any other way. It’d be easier if he was the one.

Everything else after that is black, a flurry of running after him as he storms to the backyard shed. You had screamed so loud when he picked the bunny up, the poor thing kicking its hind legs in the toughest fight it could muster. It looked so tiny in his palm, trapped in his confines.

“Been letting you feed this damn pest in my backyard and this is how you repay me?” He spat it out with fury, globs of saliva landing on your cheeks.

“Put it down, please." You spoke calmly, masking the way your chest was vibrating with anxiety. "I don't even know what you're talking about, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart. There's that damn word you trickle in. A front. Appeasement of sorts to show you still care, that this is a marriage you want. 

“I should’ve known, marrying a whore like you.”

Whore. He says it so often you don't even bat an eye. Sweetheart, whore, the words have become analogous at this point.   

You were too late after that. The sound of its cracking neck came first. Its thrown limp body on the floor. Its head makes a thud as it lands hard on the gray cement at your feet, blood splashed underneath it.

It all happened so fast you didn't have time to react besides falling to your knees next to it. The worst part is you didn't even name it. A part of you afraid of the attachment you would've grown when you knew it would eventually lead to this. Afraid of what it would mean when he finally did.

You think you black out for a few seconds, coming to in short fuzzy bursts as reality dawns on you. It's funny the way raw meat did not affect you, not when Simon was the one meticulously handling it. Funny how you were willing to lie on the butcher block next to it all, be the sacrificial lamb instead, but this draws a vizierial reaction. 

You stay still, despite your quivering fingers, until the fog clears, until your hands stop and your heart calms. Everything clashes together then, morphing into this ugly, angry monster in your chest that takes over. Years of just burying it down, pretending you were okay, boil over and your pretty bow that sealed it all together unravels. Tears in two for the first time since you've laid eyes on your coward of a husband. 

You look up at him then, at the ugly figure that has the audacity to call himself a man. You won’t be too late this time.

“You’re right.” You stand, saying it with the same conviction he spat at you, except yours has reason, a deeper meaning than insecurity. "It’s the butcher. Had me on my knees last week.”

He storms across the distance then, an anger in his eyes you're not quite used to. You don't move though, not even a flinch when he wraps his hands around your throat and slams you against the wall of the shed. Your head throbs from the impact, a panging tightness radiating from your skull down your spine. Your hands find purchase on his forearm, dragging your nails along his skin until it draws blood, legs kicking out as the bunny had in his grasp too. 

“Right on top of the meat you eat for dinner every night.” You say it between your strangled breaths and stinging lash line with tears you try your best to hold back.

His fingers tighten around your neck after that and the edges of your vision go dark, hands losing their grip on him when you physically can't fill your lungs with air. You see your mom at the edges, the abuse she endured when you were young. When she wasn’t brave enough to do something about it and leave. When she put her faith above reality. Above you.

You think maybe you should be thinking about your faith instead of hers. Muttering a prayer you were forced to memorize growing up, but none of them come to mind. None of them could help you now. This God should’ve saved you years ago.

The rest is a blur, you don’t know what you grab, or how you even manage to, but it’s heavy, and you can barely wrap your fingers around it. All you know is it makes your husband’s hands fall from your throat, falling back after repeatedly bashing his head with it.

Your cross necklace follows him, silver jewelry ricocheting off the floor. You think it has to be a metaphor, a sign from this God. Being set free from the expectations of religion, set free of the shackles that weighed you down for so long. The cross scalded on your skin melted off.

There’s blood dripping from his forehead when you finally stop, and he’s looking at you in shock, fingers dabbing at the wound like he hadn't just had his hands around your jugular. It makes you laugh, a sound that comes out half broken from your strained throat. 

“We’re done.” It's raspy, but final.

You don't look back as you walk back inside the house you've lived in for years. Don't even give him a shred of acknowledgement when you pack a duffel bag. 

You find you don't have much of importance in this house besides Simon's jacket. 

You don't even realize you've got blood on your shirt and under your finger nails until you're outside Simon's door and he looks at you concerned.

You’re not even surprised when you see your ring glimmer out of the corner of your eye, pinned to the wall like a trophy he’s won.

──────────────

🏷️: @little-mini-me-world @joyfulllittlething @yeahboyd0llfac3 @pipsysstuff @queenofbeingvain @absolutelytoasted @lulutheoverthinker @coffeenromance @frankiedafurter @emxxiy @i-llovefictionalmen4life @claudib @wordsfromshona @meidks @angelryex @kyluskaye @joufrance @goddessofchaosss @tenselyglimmeringtwilight @bunnyrilez @sousourulesthegalaxy @samiltonwk @sukunasthighmarkings101 @dottedsugarkiss @sensualsniper @mentallydestroyedfemme @jaluley @loloncookies @avgdestitute @hypertail @carbonnite-copy @potania @skzthinker @emmiecrush5-blog @tryingoutficwriting @writerforall @animerinn @shakalakaboomboomlalalalaa @grapejam23 @coffeeguzzlr @sweetestgirl1nt0wm @holybatflapexpert @sweet-honey-tears @identity2212 @strawberrygato @editfein @yofshiw @haven-1307 @scorpiankh @mvstercvrd

[forest-sofa]

Ghost x Office Cleaner Part II

Hello!!! It took so long to write this theres one part i really couldnt write the way i wanted so i just decided to leave it as it is and be okay with that ! I hope you all enjoy!!! No warnings just some mean teasing teehee.

Masterlist // Part I //

Waking up in your own bed was… strange. Your mind was fuzzy, a headache was already starting to build and you couldn’t even remember how you had gotten home.

Your legs felt like someone had picked up some baseball bats and beaten them to a pulp. You glanced around and sighed, trying to think of what had happened yesterday, those men. The man with the skull mask. 

He stood at your doorway, leaning against it glaring at you. You yelped at the sight of him, he seemed amused at the fact you were so scared. “What are you doing here? How do you know where I live? How did you get in?” He just glared, he hadn't even taken off that stupid mask, “HELLO? I asked you a question ""Aish Ghost, why d’yah have to be so rude” The other man appeared behind him, at least he looked normal and a bit nicer than his counterpart. 

“Don’t worry bonnie, we just wanted to make sure the wee cleaner got home safe, and maybe to use your house to look for your lovely little boss.” Crying seemed like a great option. Not only did he not answer your question about knowing where you live, but also refused to acknowledge getting through a locked door, and now they were saying they were staying here. “Why are you looking for him, who are you?” 

“Soap, lets just deal with her and move out, Laswell knows a safehouse not far from here” “Ghost look at her, she's harmless, just a wee little lamb, and she’s our best chance at finding him at the moment, maybe she knows something”

“I-I don’t know anything I swear please” Tears finally welling up in your eyes has Ghost rolling his eyes at you and telling Soap they should leave and let her do whatever civilians do. “We don’t have time to babysit Soap” “Aye I ken, I ken LT, but look at her. What if someone comes after her to tie up loose ends” “So what if they do?” “Are you saying we shouldn’t help?” “Choices have consequences, maybe she’ll learn not to work at sketchy russian companies” “Ghost..” Soap glanced in your direction with a sad stare. He definitely seemed to be the nicer and more relaxed one of the two, if either of them had to stay you hoped it was him.

“Besides. Laswell has some intel for me, I have a lead to follow. You can stay here and tell the Captain about our uh… situation” Soap gave you a little wink before patting Ghost on the back and heading off, his boots stomping loudly around your little apartment before you heard the front door close. 

Ghost hadn’t done anything. Hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. He only stood at the door watching you. 

“Can’t you go with him? You’re right I dont need a babysitter, you two can fuck off out of my house”

Nothing. Not even a blink. Huffing you got up. Marching straight up to him, with a confidence that could only be from your lack of sleep and wearing off adrenaline, and slamming your bedroom door in his face.

Stepping back you exhaled slowly. Sort of thinking he’d break down the door in anger, but he didn’t. In fact you didn’t hear him do anything. Exhaustion hitting you like a truck made you slink back into bed and fall into a peaceful void of slumber filled with the scent of tobacco and pine. 

Waking up and seeing the moonlight through the cracks in your curtains was another strange thing to see.

What was even stranger was the man standing at the foot of your bed peering down at you making you scream. The shadow didn't even move as your terrified little body ran towards the door and straight into, you guessed it, another man. 

Squirming and trying to escape his hold was fruitless, you couldn’t hear his Scottish voice over your own heartbeat and panic but that soon subsided when he flicked on the lights and you saw Ghost was the one who had sent you into a panicked frenzy.  

“Jesus Ghost you couldn’t have waited on the couch” “Needed t’make sure she wasn’t in contact with anyone” “G-God who would I be in contact with, I don’t know anything p-please just let me go”. 

Ghost just huffed and rolled his eyes. Johnny gave a sympathetic look towards you “Ah lassie, we cannae do that, you know that.” 

With his arms around you, Soap walked you further into your room and back to your bed. 

“You worked for a very bad man bonnie” “And now he’s disappeared” You shuttered. Looking over at the man crowding your room. His presence alone made you feel suffocated, like there wasn’t enough air in the room for all 3 of you. You could feel yourself starting to swallow down breaths like you just came up from underwater. 

Tears in your eyes made Ghost roll his eyes again. “Give me y’er phone”.

You looked up at the man holding you still, Soap, he gave an encouraging nod as if you were looking for reassurance and not a ‘You don’t have to do that”. “It’s okay bonnie you can give it to him”. He dropped his hands from your arms and took a small step back from you. 

“I don’t want to do that” “Not asking again”His voice teetering annoyed as Soap speaks up, “We know where it is bonnie, just wanna do this all nice and willing, we don’t want to fight you”. 

Your palms start to sweat, a flush creeping up your face. Now, you weren’t nervous about them finding anything about your ex boss on your phone. You’d given that company the deluxe break up package of deleting everything about it off your devices. Emails and phone numbers blocked, texts gone, photos of the building cleared out. No, you weren’t worried about any of that.

It’s more your….er….. literature choices. 

It was partially embarrassing to think these two massive hunks of men could stumble upon what you read late at night, what you’ve never shown to anyone. It was self care you think. You don’t need a man in this horribly lonely and depressing town. You just need a good evening with a glass of wine, your favourite toy and your phone. “I-I, I can’t um I can’t let you do that” You give a glance up at both of them, Ghost is staring so intensely you think you might buckle under the weight of it. They definitely think you're hiding something, which, technically speaking you are hiding something, but it’s more for their own sanity and resolve than anything. Yeah. Yeah. You are protecting them from the filthy porn you read. “It’s for your own good, um it’s, it's nothing but no, no you can’t” 

A small awkward chuckle leaves you before you notice Ghost’s slight shift in posture. His eyes scan the room and see your taunt charging cord lead to your pillow. Your eyeline follows his and widen. You glance at each other one more time before both lunging for it. You somehow get it to first, rolling over in the process and landing on the other side of the bed. They're both there. Defensive positions. Soap completely blocking your only escape. 

“W-we can talk about this, just I just have to get rid of something I swear it's not what you think it is.” “Bonnie, every time you open your mouth you make it worse for y’erself. Do you not hear how you sound? Come on lass, we’ll excuse the lying if you just give us your phone” “IM NOT LYING” God you want to rip your hair out, you want to scream and push them out of your little flat, you want both of them gone and to never see them again and to move to a new place and find a real job that isn't an apparent crime ring. 

“If you ain’t lying give us the phone” 

Fuck you are such a crybaby. “Please don’t make me” “We all know we can take it by force bonnie please we just need to make sure you’re telling the truth” A ray of hope. Soap walks forward till he’s beside Ghost. You try so hard not to stare at the empty doorframe. You can do it. You’re quick, and small compared to them. You can wiggle your way out of this and hide your phone somewhere. You mock defeat, a heavy sigh leaving you as you slowly take your hand from behind your back.

They relax just enough for you to gain a sense of confidence. You leap forward, climbing over your bed and gunning for the doorway.

A solid bar slams into your stomach, knocking all the air out of your lungs and launching your phone. You scramble up but Ghost is already lifting you off the ground and tossing you to the bed. Soap walks over to pick up your phone. You are fighting for your life, squirming and clawing like a feral stray who just got caught. Ghost is holding you down. You're flat against the bed with him on top of you. Wrangling you to stay somewhat still. His thighs and weight crushing your back as he fights to keep your arms down. You tire out in a few minutes earning a small chuckle from Soap. You’re sure your face is flushed red. Hair a wild mess as it sticks to your face. Your captor is so kind to push it out of the way. “Now that your little show is over, we’re gonna need that password”

You press your face into the duvet and shake your head.

You hear a sigh above you. “Lassie we've been incredibly kind to you, don't make us hurt you” 

Something tangles in your hair, you feel it snake its way to your roots before tugging harshly. A small whimper escapes you as your neck is craned, you feel his breath on your face “Or do.” His arm reaches out to Soap who hands him your phone, you try and squirm your way out but his grip only tightens. 

He swipes up to your lock screen and holds the phone to your face. “Open y’er eyes” Your head shakes. “Open”

You know you’ve lost. They're gonna see exactly where you left off as soon as you open your eyes. 

Unfortunately for you what your reading is incredibly incriminating; a girl being taken by two masked burly men, they hold her deep in the woods but treat her like a lost treasure they found.

Your face starts burning again. You open your eyes and curse Apple at the same time for having face ID.

Ghost tosses your head down and you’re thankful you can hide in your blankets again. “Well, well, well. I see why the little lamb was so adamant and embarrassed” “I’m not embarrassed” It comes out muffled and you hear a snicker behind you. 

You can hear Soap walk over. “Oh Lt, I feel a bit bad now”.

“Don’t have to Johnny. The little bird is fantasizing about us” “NO I AM NOT” You go to reach for your phone now that Ghost has been using it and not holding your arms. You don't get very far before they're back under his grasp.

“Read a little outloud Johnny” 

“N-No please don’t i’m sorry I lied and tried to hide my phone, please I dont know anything I just, I wanted to delete my history its, i-its inappropriate” 

“Aw look at that” Ghost leans down again and lifts your head “She does have mannars afterall” 

“Mhm aye that was very nice of you bonnie” “This all it takes to get you to behave, hm? A little rough housing an embarrassment? This what's in those books you read?” 

“Ish Lt now you're being mean to her, come on let her up”

Ghost slowly gets off you. You stay with your face hidden in shame. You know they're going to find a lot more than just a story there. Multiple tabs were opened  the last time you got into reading. You enjoy a visual example of what you read and that involves opening incognito and twitter. 

You hear them walk out, phone with them and start to sniffle. Why did this have to happen to you? It is so frustrating and stupid and humiliating to have two men barge into your life, basically start controlling it, teasing you and you have to find a new job. Well you won’t stand for it. You are leaving. As quietly as you can, you get out of bed and slide to the floor. Grabbing your two suitcases and opening them up. It’s nothing you haven’t done before, you were only at this job for two years or so. Moving to a big city will do you good. Easy to find a job, easy to make friends and not be isolated from the rest of the world. You start slow, opening your drawers as softly as possible. Sorting through a mess of clothes and little trinkets you’ve collected from your time being here and some from different lifetimes of yours. 

Taking as much as you can stuff you grab - all your socks and underwear first, you’ve made that mistake before and run out before you can find a new place to settle or clean them.

Short sleeve, long sleeve, sweaters, undershirts, pyjamas. You don't bother folding them any particular way, when you get to a motel for the night you can re-organize yourself and figure out you could go. 

You’ve heard Austria is nice this time of year.

You can hear them, if you strain your ears enough. A low murmur. The TV isn’t on, because if it was, the lights in your room would be dimmer and flickering a little. They are just sitting there. You start to feel…. Nervous. How will you be able to actually get past them? Obviously high up, trained military men with outside help. No phone to check what time it is, or the weather, or call a taxi (or the police, though you doubt they’d be much help). Did you even have cash on you? Or anywhere in your apartment? You had a lot saved up, if you could get to a bank you could withdraw some of it and keep doing that till you find a new home.

The same issue arises. How to get past the guard dogs in the living room with all your stuff. 

Your front door opened to a small space where the kitchen was to your left and living room was to your right, a small hall then brought you to a guest bathroom and right across was your room - fit with its own en suite.  

You move there next. A small toiletries bag that could hold a pretty good amount of things was being stuffed to its limit as you tried to fit everything in your bathroom inside. Shampoos and conditioners you tried but didn't like were left behind, old makeup, some random hairbrushes you don't even remember getting. All in all when you were done your bathroom was almost barren. You closed the door and stuffed the bag into your suitcase. You were all but done when you heard a knock on the door. The colour drained from your face. You took a slow glance around your room. Drawers slung open, clothes you weren’t bringing thrown all over the place, two suitcases packed in the middle of your room.

“Bonnie? Can we talk to you for a second?”

You were relieved it was Soap and not the other one. “U-uh one second was about to shower, I have to put something on, d-don’t come in” “Jeez bird we weren’t going to”

Fuck. Of course he’d be here too. 

“U-uh one second I have to, I was supposed to do laundry tonight I hardly have clean clothes” “Can borrow some of ours if its such a issue” “NO, no thank you I would rather not” Scrambling to shove the suitcases under your bed and throw your clothes into your closet was making you sweat.

You heard them jiggle the doorknob, “come on lass we have some good news” “Okay, okay I’m here”

You open the door a crack but they just push right past you. “H-Hey, you can’t just walk in here” Ghost tosses your phone to the bed and then stalls. 

You can feel sweat on your hairline start to build up as both men glance around the room. There’s no way they know, they’ve been in here maybe 3 times. They couldn't have memorized everything in your room. 

You can hear Soap sigh, “Well, other than a few er hobbies you seem to have-” Your ears turn red from how much that embarrassed you, “We found nothing on your phone, you have been officially marked as clean bonnie” 

“Well that's good then, does that mean you can leave now” You can't contain how happy that would make you, you glance back to the other one who's already glaring at you.

“Negative” His voice rings out. 

“But I -I i’m clean right so why even stay here I can’t do anything” “Can run away before we’re done with you” Goosebumps erupt on your skin. Your pounding heart is getting louder and you’re sure both men can hear it. Blood rushes into your head and you can taste a metallic sting on your tongue.

“I don’t um, what are you talking about?” You can’t stop staring at Soap. His eyes hold something you can't decipher. You hope he has a better time noticing your pleading ones.

You know you can’t turn around, you can feel him there. Breathing on the crown of your head. You are acutely aware of the fact these two men tower over you…and the fact you are no longer thought to be in contact with your criminal boss, you are now at loose end, for you don't even know the military, to clean up.

Holy fuck are they gonna kill you. Now that you think about it this is setting up to be a murder scene, one in front, one behind - no escape. 

“Are you guys gonna kill me” It slips out before you can even register you thought it. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Soap is looking at you with a small chuckle. They are so going to kill you and hide your body.

“No lassie, god why would you even think that. We’re just gonna hole up here because apparently our safehouse isn't as safe as we thought” Oh. Oh. OH. 

“Wait what, what do you mean hole up, you’ve already been here for days and found nothing, what more can you do?” “Found nothing on you birdie, still finding your boss” Why do you always forget that he’s behind you. 

You can feel him step closer, his breath on the shell of your ear as he leans in “Aside from your little pastime” You're getting very irritated with how red your face has been getting as of late. A crimson hue engulfs not only your face but you can feel the heat down your neck as well.

“Aish come on Ghost, you know our little bonnie gets all shy about that” “Mhm she does your right, gets all embarrassed and squirmy” Oh my god. They're teasing you on purpose, trying to get a rise out of you. 

“Unpack birdie you aren't going anywhere” A pat to your head was all you got before they both left the room. You stood there dazed and watching before the sound of your door clothing broke you out of it.

[forest-sofa]

hiii everyone !!! thank you to everyone who read my first ever fic!!! i am currently working on part 2!!! I still think i write in a really cringy way but i'll never improve if i dont try so ! i am trying LOLOL

YAY okay thats all!!!

[girlbob-boypants]

If you misuse the term "purity culture" to be about your ship wars instead of about the abuse and sexualization of teen girls then imagine me doing this to you

[ghouljams]

mmm ghost who wears briefs instead of boxers, no shame in answering the door with the bulge of his cock clearly visible when his poor neighbor knocks. can't help the little smirk that twists his lips when your eyes dart to the thin grey fabric and nearly bulge themselves at what you find. wonders if a nervous thing like you would let him put you on your knees right there in the doorway or if you'd fuss before his big hand guided you to nose at his cock. just the thought has him twitching in his pants, knows you saw it too the way your eyes dart to his in embarrassment.

or maybe you're embarrassed about the loud moaning and wet sounds that spill out of the flat behind him, porno still playing full volume on the TV.

either way you stutter out the cutest little apology with your head hung low to avoid looking at him before you scurry away. if he weren't working he might just follow after you, let you get a taste of the cotton you'd seemed so eager to try and stare a hole through.

[tinyleafwritings]

Fun Secrets to Take to the Grave

You're pretty sure the couple next door is keeping someone locked in their basement, but that's Johnny and Simon's business, not yours.

Part 13: A secret about change 𓉸 Ghoap/Reader | Neighbor AU | Masterlist | AO3 𓉸 cw: dubcon, manipulation, coercion, implied kidnapping and imprisonment, implied noncon, drugging?

You feel numb when you reach your front door. A chip of paint is peeling below the doorknob, and without thinking, you tear it the rest of the way off. Flecks of white paint mingle with the remnants of blood concealed beneath your fingernails.

After you’ve quietly shut the door behind you, you break down in ugly, heaving sobs. Too many emotions flood your system—relief that’s soured by guilt that’s weighed down by fear and that’s tinged with frustration. You don’t know what you’re going to do. Johnny and Simon have raised the stakes and shown you what they’re capable of. Not that you truly doubted it before, but there’s no more hiding behind “allegedly” or “supposedly.” You sat on their couch and smiled and sipped tea and now someone is dead.

But could you really have saved them? You can’t even save yourself, not when your bloodied fingertips unconsciously make their way to your lips. There’s a part of you that doesn’t want to be free. It wants to crawl into the lap of danger and snuggle with its belly up, begging for pets and treats.

It doesn’t help too that when you fall asleep that night, you dream of your neighbors’ parting gift to you. You relive every brush of their lips, every lance of their tongues, every ounce of simmering heat. What was seconds in reality is stretched out and repeated, but even then, you’re insatiable, so you cling to them just as tightly as they grip you. All things must end, though, and Simon nips at your ear and Johnny murmurs in the other (You’re so good at keeping secrets, love, what’s one more?) and the basement door beneath you forcefully swings open and darkness consumes all three of you.

You wake up, breathless, gasping, and alone again.

The morning unravels as you teeter between fearful anxiety and fervent anticipation, mentally preparing yourself for when your neighbors summon you again. You agonize over how you’re going to face them knowing what you know now—how they secretly took you down to the basement to meet their fourth victim, how they chain them up like animals ready for the slaughter. How encompassing their hands are when gripping your face, how ferociously they kiss like they’re trying to subdue you.

But soon enough, it’s the afternoon, and they’ve yet to contact you. Every notification from your phone gets you skittering to immediately check it, but it’s never them. At one point in the day, the doorbell rings, and you bolt to the door, but it’s just a package that you’d forgotten about.

In the evening, you’re reorganizing a bookshelf for the third time when you hear your neighbors leaving their house. Johnny’s laugh comes through first, warm and boisterous. It draws you to the window. You peek out through the blinds and watch as Simon fixes the collar on Johnny’s jacket, his hand lingering for a moment afterward. When you press closer to the glass, you can make out what they’re saying.

“Still checkin’ my gear, L.T.?”

“Someone’s gotta.”

They lock eyes, holding each other captive. You inhale sharply and keep the air trapped there like they might hear you if you don’t. Your neighbors only soften when they’re looking at each other. That’s the only time you ever see their bodies truly relax, expressions mellowing into something craveably beautiful. It’s always been fascinating to behold this love that coexists so effortlessly with violence. Do they share a look like this when they’re alone in the woods, standing over freshly disturbed earth? Do they share it with their pets down in the basement, fingers curled around a thick, metal chain? You’re the intruder this time, shamelessly spying on the exchange until they both turn and walk down the street.

Neither of them spare a glance towards your home.

You don’t hear from Johnny or Simon that day or the next day or the one after that. Gave you a taste of everything you ever wanted and then make you sleep in the doghouse until you’ve learned your lesson, you suppose. After enduring so much for so long, you break form once with a brief meltdown and a mild sassing, and you’re immediately put in timeout. Stuck in limbo, not invited in, not free to leave, forced to sit perfectly still and wait until they give you the release command. It’s worse than when they left to bury their dead because they’re right there within reach, simply ignoring you.

There’s also a chance they’ve lost interest. How fun could it be to have you over when there’s no prisoner for you to pretend to ignore? Or maybe they’re busy setting up the basement for their next captive, and that next captive is you, where they sent you down there so you’d have a preview of your new living arrangements.

(But what if it’s not you? What if when they left the other night, they were off to search for their next pet? Someone who listens and behaves and doesn’t keep little secrets from them.)

Irrational bitterness festers once again, making a home in the pit of your stomach and giving you something to gnaw on in your solitude. The thought of a fifth victim is unbearable for more reasons than you’re willing to admit.

On the following morning of silence, resentment gets the better of you, provoking you to tug on your end of the leash. Since Johnny and Simon don’t seem to be interested in what you’re up to, you go out for a coffee and do not tell them about it.

You have a horrible time. You’re unable to shake the sense of self-inflicted danger that builds with every second that passes, forcing you to constantly peek over your shoulder, praying you don’t spot two colossal shadows tailing you. There’s a line when you get to the nearby coffee shop, and no amount of nervous foot tapping makes it go faster. Once you’ve finally placed your order, you tuck yourself away at a table in the back and helplessly watch as the barista takes their sweet time making each drink, unaware of the precarious situation you’ve placed yourself in.

This wasn’t the best idea, poking the bear that lives next door with your rule breaking. But you’ve got a craving for autonomy and attention, and you won’t be able to settle until you’ve clawed back even the tiniest amount of either. And besides, they might not even notice you’ve stepped away without giving notice, Johnny and Simon are just toooo busy to—

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ.

Oh shit, oh fuck, that’s them calling, isn’t it? Your phone vibrates on the table in front of you, having been banished from your hands because you didn’t trust yourself to not text your neighbors. You spring forward like a jackrabbit and lift it up.

But once again, it’s not them. It’s a call from a number that’s not in your phone. A familiar number torn to shreds at the bottom of your trash can, a number you’ve repeated in your head like it’s an incantation that might protect you.

A deep chill runs through you. You don’t answer the call and remain frozen while it goes to voicemail, flinching when your phone vibrates again to notify you of the new message. Your spine curls in on itself as you hunch over and listen to the recording.

“This is Detective Callum Bennett with the—” Oh no, it’s really him, this is happening. “—Police Department. I’m trying to reach—” You’re going to throw up. You’re going to pass out. You’re going to throw up and then pass out right here in your local coffee shop, all while lamenting your life choices. “—to discuss a missing persons case. Please give me a call back at—”

The number he leaves is the one you know. You immediately delete the message and clear the record of the missed call. With everything that’s on your plate already, you really didn’t need the police to pile on to your problems as well. 

The missing person from the bar is all over the news now. Notably absent from all the articles, though, is any mention of the one who coincidentally disappeared from the same location a year ago. You’ve even searched for them by name, but nothing recent shows up, so as far as anyone else is aware, the police are not actively investigating this cold case. A secret between you and the authorities, apparently, and not one shared with your neighbors.

This could be your chance to escape once and for all. You could meet up with this Detective Bennett and tip them off on your neighbors’ transgressions without Johnny and Simon knowing. The police would have to look into it if you mention there are four potential victims, right? You could even let them know about your date that mysteriously stood you up and whose fate is unknown. And you’re a witness now too. A true witness. Although their face is still blurry and indistinct in your memory, you know you saw a person trapped in that basement.

But at the same time, how are you going to explain why you’re only now coming forward with this information? You don’t think the excuse of it was none of your business will hold up very well in a court of law. You’ve been tossed a lifeline, but your messy involvement and failure to act has tangled the rope. If you’re not careful, you might hang yourself by mistake.

The barista finally calls your name. You gather your befuddled cluster of conflicting emotions and shamble over to the counter, grabbing your coffee and heading out the door. The sips you take from your drink are bland and tasteless, nerves muting any flavor, so you end up tossing it before you get home. A waste of a coffee, a waste of a morning. It was certainly not worth the consequences of partaking in naughty and forbidden behavior, running around on your own without permission.

You’re nearly home now, but nearly won’t cut it. Before you get too close, you stop and take a moment to steel yourself. Eyes closed, fists clenched, deep breaths. Rehearsing the excuses that might placate your neighbors, considering what lip service you might dare to offer, regretting which freedoms you might have to concede. One last weary exhale, and you continue on.

Your house is in sight when you turn down your street, but the light at the end of the tunnel is obscured by a pair of hulking silhouettes. Johnny and Simon are right outside their house.

Your brisk pace is cut off at the ankles, collapsing to a halt. Your neighbors are standing in their yard, shovels in hand, digging up a garden bed near their front door. It’s not a visual you ever wished to see, but at least you aren’t witnessing it while out in the wilderness with your arms and legs bound.

“Ah told ye, we shoulda put in a boxwood. Azaleas are just too much trouble. Not even my mam bothered with azaleas.”

“You’re the one who wanted some color.”

“Yeah, but not azaleas.”

They’ve yet to spot you, seemingly too engrossed in discussing the dead shrub in their midst, but you’ll have to pass by their house to get to yours. Although your legs want to spin you around and sprint back the way you came, you resist and will them to continue forward. If you move quickly and quietly, you can sneak by, hide away in your house, and plan your next move.

“Oh, there ye are, hen!”

You don’t get very far. You immediately stop when Johnny calls out, lingering at the end of the walkway to their home, keeping at a distance. But Simon raises an eyebrow and Johnny beckons you over with a wave of his hand and two pats on his thigh. You take cautious, measured steps to close the gap.

“Hi, guys...” you greet once you’re just at the border of their reach. From here, you can smell the dirt and sweat on them and can see how their shirts cling to their bodies from their laboring. “What are you up to?”

Johnny leans on his shovel. “Just a wee bit o’ landscaping. Gonna rip out this dead thing and replace it with something fuller that fits the space better.”

Simon abruptly turns to you, staring you dead in the eyes with an intensity that paralyzes you on the spot. It has you wondering if this is it for you.

“What’s Johnny’s favorite plant?” he asks.

Huh?

“Huh?”

His chest rumbles with a low, staccato chuckle. Johnny shakes his head and that worries you further.

“A full bush.”

...what the fuck is going on?

“Aye, the man knows me well,” Johnny remarks, affectionately bumping against Simon and clearly enamored by his joke. Simon looks so pleased with himself too.

You, on the other hand, are dumbfounded by your neighbors’ cavalier attitude. This isn’t how you expected the conversation to go.

You thought they’d be mad. You purposefully didn’t inform them of where you went, and you were even gone longer than you meant. Maybe they really didn’t notice you had left. Maybe they really don’t care anymore. But even if they aren’t bothered by your petty act of disobedience, you thought they’d at least address the elephant in the room that’s been trampling you for the past couple of days. But no, it’s just you that’s tormented by their actions. For them, it was just another foster pet that’s come and gone from their lives. It’s as mundane as swapping an azalea for a boxwood.

It irks you, how dismissive they are. Rubs salt in the same wound that they dug into your flesh, and the stinging displeasure leaks through the cracks of your facade. Simon notices.

“What’s the matter, neighbor? Didn’t like the joke?” he questions. “Or maybe you’re not happy to see us after all this time.”

There it is, that hint of malice you had expected earlier. You should have reveled in a good thing when it was absent, now you’ve pushed your luck.

“That’s not it. I’m just having a rough morning,” you hastily insist.

Johnny plants his shovel in the ground with a violent thrust. His now free hand glides to rest on the small of your back. “Why don’t you come in and tell us all about it then? That’ll cheer ye up.”

The offer revives your panic in full and gets you digging your heels in.

“That’s okay, I’m sure you’ll want to finish your digging before it gets too hot out.”

“Shrub’s not goin’ anywhere,” Simon argues, tossing aside his own shovel. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Oh, I don’t need any tea, I–”

“We got decaf,” Simon states, as if reading your mind. He must have because otherwise, how would he know you’ve had enough caffeine fueling your anxiety for the morning.

“Since yer lookin’ a little jittery,” Johnny clarifies, but then swiftly changes the subject. “Really, hen, yer gonna hurt our feelings, makin’ us think you didn’t miss us.”

“I didn’t say that,” you refute.

The hand on your lower back presses with more force, guiding you along.

“Maybe you’re sick o’ seein’ our ugly mugs.”

“They’re not—”

The door opens.

“Speak for yerself, Simon. I know for a fact that she likes how my face looks.”

“I like both of your...”

The door closes behind you, and you trail off. You’re inside your neighbors’ house again, effortlessly corralled back onto the path of a death spiral, where you’ll go round and round until you expire. So flummoxed by your situation, you don’t watch where you’re going and proceed to bang your knee into something that rattles on impact.

“Careful there, neighbor,” Simon chastises.

Glancing down, you see that you’ve bumped into a wire dog crate which has made its way into the foyer. For a second, you hope your neighbors will offer up a kiss for your banged knee, but that kind of treatment may only be reserved for when you’re truly suffering. Perhaps you’ll break both your legs and then see what sort of remedy they’d be willing to apply.

Something bothers you about this cage, though. This isn’t the first time they’ve had a suspiciously large dog crate out in the open, but this one is black. The one you’ve seen before was silver.

“Is this new?” you ask.

“Oh, yeah, the old one was all bent and beat up from one too many escape attempts,” Johnny explains with a fond chuckle as if he was chatting about a rambunctious little scamp. “We like getting a new one each time anyway. Fresh start and all.”

“Are you...getting another pet?” you inquire, smiling defensively.

Johnny casually shrugs. “Never know when you'll come across a stray that you can't just leave out in the cold.”

Rancor bubbles and resurfaces. You tighten your smile. “I see. That’s generous of you.”

After maneuvering around the cage, you follow your neighbors further into their house. Back at their beck and call, you reluctantly take your normal place on the couch and see your normal view of the basement door. But nothing seems normal about it. It’s a different feeling knowing the basement is empty. A worse feeling, maybe.

True to their word, you don’t see a trace of blood on the basement door. There’s no more blood on the door and no more blood on your hands, all washed away and out of sight. You know it was there, though. You’ll always know what’s been spilt in this house.

Johnny plops down unceremoniously in his chair across from you, legs spread and hands on either of his knees. Simon settles in his own chair with his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest.

“So what’s botherin’ you, neighbor?” Johnny prompts, beginning the interrogation.

Your gaze dithers between Johnny, Simon, and the basement door. Your clammy hands clasp together politely in front of you and your back straightens to proper posture.

“Oh, well, I didn’t sleep very well again last night. And then I went out for some coffee, which took forever, and...”

And you got a call from a detective who’s investigating multiple missing persons cases, one of which almost certainly has their bloody fingerprints all over it.

And it was mean of them to ignore you for so long, leaving you high and dry when you’ve always done your best to meet their expectations.

And you don’t want them to get another pet to stash in the basement, choosing someone else over you.

And you don’t want to be the pet in the basement that they’ll one day discard like all the rest.

And you don’t know what you can do to prove to them that you’re worth keeping.

“And the coffee wasn’t even that good.”

Confessions won’t solve any of your problems, though. You swallow all your secrets and conceal them with a pleasant smile. Your neighbors mimic it back.

“You went to that place on Brooks, right? They’re always servin’ burnt shite, hen. You gotta go to the one on Somerset instead,” Johnny proclaims.

“One at Terrace is better,” Simon refutes. 

“Ye only like that one better ‘cause they’re faster.”

“That’s why it’s better.”

While your neighbors debate their preferred coffee shop, you fight to keep your composure intact. You’re able to keep up appearances for now, but your veneer is worn down. Chipped and peeling, barely masking the turmoil beneath it.

It’s difficult to put back together something that’s been shattered. Try as you might, the pieces won’t quite align like they’re supposed to. Even if Johnny and Simon can continue as if nothing happened, you can’t. You can’t go on living your life as you did before in pretend ignorance, can’t go back to playing happy neighbor in hopes that it’ll keep you safe forever—not after what you experienced in that basement. You need to adapt and evolve and find a way to take a step back from the edge of the cliff you’re always standing on, never knowing when you’ll feel two sets of hands on your back shoving you off.

Change is scary, but your neighbors are scarier.

[forest-sofa]

Eating this story up!!!!!

[ladykelsi]

werewolf!Soap has gotten robbed by a one night stand.

you were desperate. short on rent because your siblings couldn’t be bothered to return the money they borrowed from you after you’d been pressured by your parents to just give them what they wanted.

so you got creative and got busy. the bar was your usual place to strike. you went after the loud and boisterous fucker with the bad haircut after he’d declared that drinks were on him at his table for the night.

it was Soap’s own fault, really, for bringing you to his place. he was a good lay, which was a bonus. enthusiastic, a little too passionate. you hated how soft his eyes were when he pinned your hands above your head and made a point to set a slower pace, hated how praises seem to tumble out of his mouth when he trailed his lips down your skin before he littered you with bites and nips. his chest rumbling with something sickly sweet as he nuzzles his cheek against your neck and inhaled thickly as if he’s trying to breathe you in.

you didn’t sign up to be worshiped. didn’t sign up to be revered by a complete stranger. one you planned to steal from anyway, yet here you were. trapped under him as he pushed you over the edge again and again while your nailed raked down his arms.

he was eager to please too. eager to eat your pussy before and after he stuffed you full of cum. you went the extra mile to ride him to tears for good measure and he returned the favour by folding you in half and fucked you till the neighbours called and complained to keep the noise down.

but slept like a log right after. you almost did too with how much he wore you out but you forced yourself to stay away and pry yourself out of his heavy arms. which gave you the perfect opportunity to take what you want from him.

you struck gold that night. found a fat wad of cash in his wallet and a couple of expensive watches on his night stand which were worth a fortune.

you cast one long look at his sleeping frame. handsome motherfucker, this one. burly arms with a big hairy chest and legs to match. your fingers traced the faint, jagged line running along the side of his head to his chipped ear.

part of you wished this could’ve lasted longer. part of you wished you met him under different circumstances. but alas, life goes on. this would be the last you saw of him and he’d be glad to be rid of you.

or so you thought.

not even half a week lapses before you heard a knock at your front door. your blood ran cold when you opened it to find Soap’s familiar grin flashing vividly before he pushes his way in and pins you down, clasping a hand over your mouth before you can even think to call for help.

“there ye are, little thief.” he heaves over you as you squirm helplessly under him. “yer scent was far too easy tae find, lass.”

it’s not just that he’s heavy. he’s strong too. much stronger than you’d like him to be. you’re reminded of how he’d used that strength a two days ago to mold you to his bed without much of an effort.

you attempt, through tears, to mumble apologies under his palm. your hands try to push him away, to crawl out from under him. but he won’t budge and he won’t let you go anywhere.

just like last you saw of him, you’re trapped under him.

“not here fer that, sweet thing.” he pants into your neck. “i came tae finish what we started.”

it’s only then that you feel his cock pressed against your thigh. his hands pawing over the layers of your clothes and slipping underneath.

it’s only then that you realized that robbing him wasn’t your first, nor worst mistake.

willingly throwing yourself his way like a lamb to slaughter was.

[profbuppy]

theres a sweet little bird ghost's been keeping tabs on.

lurking at the cafe across from her work with a ratty baseball cap and a surgical mask, making the baristas flinch every time he pulls it down to take a pull off his too-sweet london fog. soft, pretty, put together. like she's made of gold wire. he likes to watch her walk down the sidewalk in her heels and her pencil skirt, likes to watch her toe the heels off and get into sweats as fast as she can once she gets home to her fancy modern flat, the wide open kind with all the windows and edges.

he could easily grab some real high-octane surveillance toys from base, but he's a bit old fashioned, a bit analog. all he needs is the scope of his unloaded rifle and a feed from the spy-cams he placed while he was out. he can hear his own breath heavy on the abandoned rooftop he's been occupying. it's an everything shower day-- shes out on the couch in a thin robe with her hair covered, licking her way through a pint of vanilla ice cream. shes indulgent. her life is just as sweet as her.

ghost reaches down to palm himself as his cock strains against the zipper of his cargoes. he grinds down with the heel of his hand when her robe slips off one shoulder and he can see the soft edge, the bounce of her tits. this is what's satisfying about taking a perch the old fashioned way: the light bouncing from her heart shaped lamp outlines her soft curves and then arcs off into the night right where ghost can catch it and bask in it. it's rare, incidental, more rewarding.

he likes the chase more than the catch. his broads really all break down and sob the same way when he decides to be finished, to reap what he hasn't sown. then they're quiet, and he can almost pretend they're just sleeping next to him.

this one has a few weeks of entertainment left for him. she's working overtime, tonight, and he's in the cafe across from her building glancing into the one florescent office as the sun starts to sink. the cafe closed 30 minutes ago, and he can see the barista mopping the same spot on the floor passive-aggressively. he'll squeeze a few more minutes out of this spot before he leaves.

he finished the last third of his tea in one long sip, letting it flow down his throat like honey, like blood. it's a cozy cafe with nice, fat cushions, little string lights, plants. he's worked past the initial impression he makes and become a tolerated regular, if not a welcome one. first impressions are important, but seconds and thirds can really make or break the game.

ghost blinks. it's pretty late.

he blinks again, and the sky is darker, opening his eyes gets a little harder. he stands to go lurk on a rooftop, to watch her walk home in the dark. make sure nothing untoward happens to her without his say-so. it's a smooth, predatory unfolding he's done a thousand times. this time, stars bloom in his head and he stumbles, nearly going to a knee. he knocks over the empty mug on the flimsy cafe table, and the barista rushes to support him. fucking humiliating. years and years in the sas, and he-

a narrow, steady arm is pushing between ghost's shoulderblades and bringing him to the ground, and ghost still feels relaxed, exhausted, like the second before he falls asleep. he tries to struggle, but can't manage it, lets this fucking civvie fold him onto the lemon-fresh damp floor as he succumbs to whatever the hell was slipped into his drink, lurking under the tablespoon of honey.

in his last blink of consciousness, he can feel himself being dragged behind the counter, over a step and into the kitchen, and he can see the face of the person dragging him.

and your eyes have a bit of a familiar cast to them, your breath a familiar hitch. it's his hitch. he's slipped up.

when he falls into fuzzy almost-sleep, he feels almost warm.

[softaestluv]

Eat You, Eat Me

Simon rescues you from your husband.

butcher! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader

tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, religious guilt, infidelity, oral sex male receiving, face fucking, smut, a little derogatory, 18+ MDNI

ch. 6 | ao3 | masterlist

──────────────

The door is too loud when you close it behind you, wincing when the floorboards creak under you, toeing your shoes off to place them at the entrance like they were there the whole night.

Like you weren’t two orgasms in and too many kisses to account for from a man that wasn’t your husband.

Your husband’s there, on the couch, some show blaring on the TV that you hate. You pause behind the couch, eyes trained on the back of his head, the shape of something you’ve grown to despise. You try to steady your breath, grasp onto any control before it shifts entirely, but you sound louder than the TV speakers.

You cross the distance, counting each step you take like a ticking time bomb. One. Two. Three. You turn to face him, prepare for the look of disgust he must wear. Prepare for the way your world is about to crumble underneath you.

Except when you lift your eyes, he’s dead asleep, passed out from drinks at the pub, and a twisted part in you wants to laugh. An ugly maniacal cackle, one that will make you keel over and make it hard to breathe.

You think it’s the only time this God has looked out for you. The only time you’ve believed in fate.

It becomes a routine every week after that, laid out on the butcher block like you’re the raw poultry Simon slices into.

You feel like you are.

He rakes his eyes down your frame, slowly, calculated like he’s thinking of every reference point to press his knife into your flesh. Drags his knuckles over your throat so he can feel you gulp, count how many breaths you manage to wheeze between your lungs. Digs his fingers into your breasts and presses his palm against your heartbeat like he’s measuring your pulse and imagining all the blood thrashing under your skin. Strokes your ribs with feather-light touches, counting each one down to the fat of your hips.

That's when he really grips, dimpling your flesh and watching as it gives under his fingertips. He does the same to your thighs, reverence only a butcher could have for warm flesh and fat. And when he parts your legs, he takes his time, like he’s committed to touching every part of your body, split you in two, and make you bleed.

You should hate it. A sacrificial lamb on the altar. But you don’t. Can’t really when it’s the first time anyone’s looked at you, all your sins and broken promises pushed aside, stripped you bare until all that was left was your bleeding layers, heartbeat, and quivering lungs that barely fill with air.

And he never asks for more, gives you his tongue and fingers without having to ask. Eats you out like you are a feast to be had, lingering between your folds like you are delectable. Two, three orgasms before your clit is so swollen and throbbing and you have to push weakly at his shoulders to stop.

He always comes back up with a smirk, lips and chin glimmering with your slick. Makes you taste it too, kissing you breathless like you weren’t already dizzy. Sends you home with a dazed smile on your lips, knees wobbly, thighs raw from hid stubble, and a pussy so drenched from his torment.

You use your mother as an excuse for your late-night returns, and it works, by some metric. Your husband believes it too.

It’s enough. It should be enough. It’s not. Not when you come home wanting more. Gluttony is a sin, but isn’t infidelity?

It takes weeks of coming home and hiding in your closet, burying your face into his coat, and imagining the taste of his cock before you act on it. Pressing your fingers to your tongue and picturing the weight of him in your mouth. You haven’t even seen it, just felt it through the seams of his jeans when he grinds it against the back of your thigh.

And it feels big. God, does it feel big.

You’re sure it drives you crazy more than it does him to be tightly confined, throbbing and leaking for attention. You think you want it more than he does because he doesn’t even touch it, doesn’t even palm himself when he’s got your thighs on either side of his cheeks.

Disciplined and controlled just for your pleasure. He even pauses when you finally work up the courage to ask, an expression on his face you can’t read because you can never quite read him. You think you overstepped your boundaries when you fall to your knees and he just walks away without a word, dragging a chair, so the legs scrape loudly against the floor.

You gulp when he sits and spreads his thighs wide before patting his lap twice.

“Come ‘ere.”

It’s unfair the way the sentence, the command, goes straight between your legs. And for some awful reason, you crawl your way over. Knees and palms hitting the concrete floor as you inch closer.

You should feel like the predator in this situation, stalking your prey with hunter eyes, except you feel like much less. An animal trapped in a cage, crawling towards the danger instead of running away in fear like you should. Towards the danger that wants to eat you whole, the danger that’s so fucking big that his thighs dwarf your shoulders with eyes so heavy as he watches you.

Possessive. Covetous. You’re not his to be had.

You look up at him through your lashes, lips parted as you glide your palms up the inside of his thighs. He cups your jaw, thumb running along your bottom lip as his face turns nasty when he sees silver glimmer on your finger.

“Take tha’ fuckin’ ring off if yer gonna suck my cock.”

You move so quickly your knuckles hit his balls and he grits his teeth, fingers tensing at your jaw. You stammer out an apology, face warming as you rush to stuff your ring in your pocket. It’s the first time he’s sounded jealous about it, and not just amused by the fact that your husband’s not meeting your needs.

He pushes his thumb into your mouth a little angry, stamping down onto your tongue until your mouth opens wide. He unbuttons his jeans with his other hand, pushes his boxers down just enough to free his already hard cock.

He’s big. Awfully big.

It’s the first thing you thought when you initially saw him and it rings true down to the girth of his cock. Thick and fat and veiny and red and so fucking big it makes your mouth water. Curly tufts of blonde hair peek through the base and something in your gut almost makes you groan at the sight. It’s a little ugly, and a little crooked, but you like that. It’s him.

You hate doing this for your husband, all you can taste is disgust when he has you on your knees, but Simon, Simon has you salivating like a dog, crawling across the floor like his pet, eager to be sat on your heels with a promise of something more.

And you must be taking a long time, sitting there staring wide-eyed at his angry tip because his hand curls around your hair and tugs you forward lightly. He tilts his head expectantly, jutting his chin up and then down as a silent command to go on.

He guides you forward with the thumb in your mouth, hooking in your cheek, and pulling you until your lips brush the tip, replacing it with his cock instead.

You breathe on it first, panting softly to catch your breath, and you haven’t even had it in the back of your throat yet. You’re hesitant, despite how badly you wanted this, licking from base to tip before swirling around the fattened tip. Your lips follow, dragging along slowly as your ring-free hand wraps around the base, pressed against his blonde pubes.

Your restraint slips away when a bead of precum dribbles from his tip and you catch it with your tongue. You moan as you taste it, salty and a little bitter, but all Simon. It ignites something hot and searing in your core, animalistic pride or maybe it’s possession that this is Simon’s cock on your tongue, his hands in your hair and digging into your chin.

Your lips wrap around him then, sliding just slightly past the tip. His grip tightens in your hair at that, but his face remains still, a silent tell. It’s a tight fit, lips spread wide around his girth so much so that it stings, but you push further. Until you can’t anymore and your throat starts to constrict.

You come back up for air, and he tsks like he’s disappointed you didn’t take him whole.

You try again, tears welling in your lash line as you take him deeper, and you attempt to bob back up, but his hand are quicker, pushing you deeper until his head notches against the back of your throat. You gag, nails digging crescents into the hair in his thighs, but he forces you down, somehow by some miracle, until your nose presses into the blonde hair.

It hurts, and you’re gurgling around him, saliva dripping down his length, but it’s not enough for him.

“Jesus, bird, jus’ gotta breathe through yer nose.”

He says it like it’s so easy, and you’re trying really, but his shaft is so heavy against your tongue, and you like it, god, you like how suffocating it feels to have him stuffed between your cheeks. Your eyes roll to the back of your skull, and you groan obscenely around him.

He chuffs a laugh, “You like tha’?”

You nod, brows pinched as you look pathetically up at him. He just blinks, a smirk on his face like he isn’t buried to the hilt in your mouth.

Then, he rolls his hips, once, and you scratch at his thighs, tears spilling onto your cheeks, but the sick part that takes over when you’re around Simon makes you moan again like your body likes having him there, that deep, pressing into places your husband hasn’t even touched.

When he finally releases you, you scramble for air, lungs filling so rapidly it burns. And you’re a little dizzy from the mixture of tasting him and the lack of oxygen. Then he starts talking and all you can do is press your thighs together weakly at the deep cadence.

“Act all innocent, don’t you? Whole time yer moanin’ while someone fucks yer mouth.”

He guides you down again, tongue gliding along, but he lifts you back up, repeating it once, twice, again and again, until there’s a steady rhythm of bobbing. He lets up on your head when you follow the pace he sets, coating him in so much of your saliva that it collects at the base of his cock and makes his hair wet.

It’s a mess, you’re a mess of tears and saliva, and a neglected pussy that’s throbbing around nothing, but he doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand that you only like because it’s him. Because it’s his cock in your throat making it near impossible to breathe.

“Suck yer husband off like thi’?”

And his voice sounds so steady, no inflection to it like he isn’t getting his dick sucked. The sentence hurts, landing somewhere hard in your chest. A reminder. Something permanently burned into your skin like a scarlet letter.

He pulls you off, “Huh? Can’t hear you.”

The words scald even more because you don’t and he knows that, knows that this version of you is reserved just for him. And he wants to hear it, some form of jealousy twisted in his own chest. But you don’t even get the chance because he pulls you back down and your response is just a choked noise.

All you can do is shake your head, and he smiles, scars on his lips and cheeks straining at the tug.

“That’s my girl.”

He draws it out like he means it, patting your cheek twice, thumb pressing into your cheek to feel the curve of his cock in your mouth. Eyes dilated and heavy. And you feel that, tuck it into the cavity of your chest to chew on later.

It’s a few more pumps before he presses deep again, before he groans low and guttural, holding you tight, and finishes in your throat. You swallow it, as best you can, gulping it down, and taking it for your own as he stays put in your throat.

When he finally pulls out, he’s gone soft, and there’s a sticky amount of saliva and spunk beading from your lips and his tip. You lick it clean, greedy, and maybe a little filthy, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

“That’s myyy girl.”

He says it again, a little breathless this time. Repeating it like he’s hammering it into your chest, so you don’t forget.

It’s the first time you’ve felt proud to be someone’s.

──────────────

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[forest-sofa]

Salivating at the mouth rn