Well, not actually stupid, obviously but.. He's not blind. He sees how whimsical you are. How nothing seems to be a big deal to you. How carefree you are even when dealing with stressful situations - granted you aren't on the field, you're part of the tech team.
Which makes it all the more worse that Ghost has a crush on you.
It's stupid. He's stupid. He's a grown man. He can't possibly have a crush on someone at this age.
But that's exactly what this is. A crush.
"Would you rather be a cat," You frown, squinting at the ceiling. You're holding one of his vests to the light, trying to see where the stitching went wrong. "Or a dog?"
He huffs, not even looking up from his reports.
"A dog. Least then I'll be useful."
He glances at you. You're laying on the couch in his office. As if you belong there. Sprawled out like a cat and.. Sewing his clothes.
inspired by this tweet đ„° cheeky deer reader my beloved
deer hybrid!reader deliberately getting caught in hunter!simon's traps just so you can feel his big hands on you as he unties you for the nth time. hearing him grumble silly doe while he carries you to a safe spot in the grass has your little tail swishing excitedly, and when he hisses at you for nuzzling into his neck and licking at his skin, you only let out a soft bleat.
the bloodstained rifle that resides on his back does nothing to deter you from continuously getting yourself into trouble. he's never aimed it in your direction, but you can't help but fantasise about feeling the metal on your forehead when he huffs something along the lines of s'like you want me to kill ya.
you can't help it. he's just so big all over, so strong and capable. you can't help but imagine those hands on your body. you want him stroking your ears, your tail, you want his thick fingers slipping between your thighs... you've seen him in his element, and a sick little part of you wishes he was hunting you instead.
would he be gentle like he always is, or would he let his frustration take over and finally get back at you for being such a little tease? would he push you up against a tree and murmur sweet things in your ear? that voice always makes your skin tingle. no matter what you conjure up in your mind, you always find yourself down by the pond; you can only wash away the need that seems to permanently cling to your skin so many times. you should really stop getting yourself worked up like this.
it's when you actually fall victim to a foothold trap one evening that he finally cracks. being held in his arms while he trudges through the woods down to his truck helps calm you a little bit, but the pain is unbearable. it doesn't help that he's scolding you again, muttering something about just taking you home with him and keeping you there so you're not causing any more trouble.
No thoughts just cat hybrid!reader being an absolute menace when sick.
Everyone knows when you're not feeling well, because you make sure they know. Clingy and starved for affection. If you're not actively skin-to-skin with your teammates then you're yowling and hissing in displeasure.
Which is how ghost and gaz end up here, trapped in your den with you purring up a storm sprawled across both of them. Little claws catching on the fabric of ghosts shorts, kneading in your sleep.
"Si, mate, I gotta piss." Gaz whispers, trying to nudge ghost without disturbing you. Last time he woke you ghost had to stop you from biting a finger off. "Can you move."
"Lost feelin' in ma' right leg two hours ago." Ghost says in lieu of answer, going stiffer when you roll in your sleep to nuzzle under his chin. He's more tense than he is on the field handing explosives. "Suck it up, garrick."
Kyle makes a grumbly noise of disagreement, the only warning ghost gets before he movesâ
"Ow!" Kyle gasps as you pounce, hissing and shoving him back into the bed. You blink at him blearily, mind visibly processing as you lean in to sniff and identify him.
Next to him, ghost laughs as you meow and curl up entirely on gaz, purring in sickness induced delight to be near your teammate. There's absolutely no way kyle is escaping anytime soon.
cw: this piece is actually super dark proceed with caution, dark!ghost, dark!simon, sunshine!reader, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence + gore, 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, meet-cute until it's not, background breeding kink, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, references to simon's past canon trauma, 18+
Ghost does not believe in love at first sight.
The concept is for children; even when he was a child, he doesnât think he wouldâve believed it then, either. There was no love where he went, even to the places where it was owed to him. In his own house, he feared what love felt like. The kind he knew was pain and misery and the terrifying reality of what it meant to always be looking over his own shoulder.
Love at first sight chewed Simon Riley upâand what it spat out was terrible, big, and caged-off from the rest of the world.
Ghost is built of many layers. Not like an onion, noâonions are easy to manipulate. With the tip of a knife, you can cut right through its skin and tear it apart, but Ghost is not built the same way. He laid concrete out in front of himself a long time ago. The things around him are rotten, curled in on itself, and it would take too long to unbury him for anyone at all to want to spend the time and try. He prefers it this way. He likes it this way. Being alone means there are no surprises, and there is no one waiting for you. There is no one to disappoint, and there is no one to prove right or wrong. There is only today and tomorrow, because yesterday has already passed, and he doesnât care to think about what already was.
Itâs Johnny thatâs brought him here. In a pub too loud, with watered-down drinks that cost a quid too much. He didnât have an excuse today to turn him down. Johnnyâs got a sister he needs to see, and his sister has got a friendâsomeone from her uni, taking the same chemistry courses, or something like that. He canât really remember, he wasnât paying attention too closely, but Johnny offered to pay if his lieutenant just gave him company in the long drive into the city.
The booth is too small. His bourbon tastes off. All he wants to do is smoke a cigarette, but heâs been staring daggers at the âNo Smokingâ sign thatâs posted behind the bar. Thereâs a ringing in his ears thatâs been following him since they got off their last op just a few days ago, and it feels strongest here in this room, with too many unknowns in too many dark corners.
âJohnny!â
A soft voice squeals. Simonâs eye twitches, and he looks over Johnnyâs shoulder to see a pretty brunette with bright, blue eyes smiling wide as she hurries towards them. Johnny slips out of his seat to cradle the woman to his chest, rocking back and forth as he hugs her. His baby Emily, he hears Johnny mutter. Sheâs got that same square jaw and strong brows, and Ghost imagines that if Johnny were to grow out his hair, itâd grow in the same matching, bouncy curls that Emily has. She sounds so happy to see him, and Ghost swirls a gloved finger around the rim of his glass as he watches.
It tastes sour, looking at something that he used to have. He wishes that he didnât want it as much as he thinks he does at this very moment.
âOh! Sorry, forgot for a wee second there. This is who I told you aboutââ
Emily steps aside, and there you stand.
Glossy, pink-tinted lips. A cardigan that hugs your frame with a knit, sunflower pattern. Light wash jeans, baby blue boots. Your fingertips are painted glittery and pink, and your baby blue purse matches your shoes.
Emily says your name, and you hold out your hand for Johnny to shake. Itâs then that your eyes move to the shadow behind him, and Ghost licks over his teeth, satisfied, when you visibly swallow and your eyes widen a little.
âAch, donât mind âim. Thaâ scary bastard is just my lieutenant, Simon,â Johnny nods his head over his shoulder. âSimon, would ye introduce yerself, fer fuckâs sake? Stop brooding over there.â
Naturally, Emily sits next to her brother, already squeezing his shoulders and excitedly telling him about some fellowship opportunity she was up for. You slip your purse off your shoulder, shuffling towards the space next to Simon. You grip the edge of the booth to hoist yourself up onto the high seat, and you smile a little when Simon holds out his hand for you.
You take it, smooth palm in his gloved one, and it takes no effort at all for him to tug gently and get you up to sit. He sniffs, looking up when he finds himself staring a little too long at the curve of your jeans, but itâs hard not to when both of you take up the entirety of the booth. Just to fit, Simon has to lean back, and you adjust your cardigan over your shoulder when Simon stretches one big arm out behind you.
âSo, uhâŠâ You clear your throat. âWhat are you drinking, Lieutenant?â
âPiss water,â Simon says lowly. He cringes a little at the bite of his toneâhe never means to be curt, but it always comes out that way. You purse your lips, tapping your nails on the wood, and you look at him over your shoulder.
âHmm,â you make a face, âso Johnny made it?â
It takes a few moments for Simon to realize youâre telling a joke. The silence must mortify you, because youâre looking down and tearing a piece of yarn out of your sweater, and Simon realizes heâs wearing his mask, and you canât see his face, and sheâs trying to break the fucking iceâ
âNah,â Simon shrugs, shaking his head. âHis tastes more like right shit.â
Your eyes flicker up, and you stare at him for just a few moments under your lashes before your hand goes up to cover your mouth. You giggle, cheeks warm, and he blinks at you slowly as your entire body relaxes. Your thigh touches his, and his fingers flex on the hand thatâs thrown behind you, twitching as he thinks about letting them graze the skin peeking out from under your sweater.
When he gets the urge to touch you under your chin, he nearly curses out loud because fuckâ
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Simon knows it as soon as he lays his eyes on you again. Staring right into yours, hand fidgeting behind you as it wants so desperately to cup the back of your neck and tangle into the strands of your hairâfuck, fuck, fuckâheâs so fucked.
He knows it, too, when youâre in his bed. Sunflower sweater draped across his floor, boots in the hallway, glittered nail-polish piercing his biceps as he tilts your head back, bares your throat, sinks his teeth into the delicate flesh there. You giggle, and itâs the rainbow after a storm. The drink of water after days in the desert, the stitch that holds the seams together, the pins that will take his broken bones and put them all back together againâ
Heâs feeling his cum dripping between your thighs when you ask him about his scars. He adjusts the edge of his mask as soon as you ask, sniffing under it as you smooth a finger over a puckered scar on his chest left behind by the ricochet of a stray bullet, one of many. You squeeze your thighs together when his long fingers move in squelching circles over your cunt, and your back arches when he slips them inside of you. You take his jaw between a few fingers and grip it tight, pressing your lips against his mask as you whine and kick your feet in overstimulation.
He doesnât want you to ask questions. He doesnât want to burst this bubble of warmth and goodness and intimacy that heâs created, because then this will be something else. Right now, heâs the mysterious, black ops military man youâve spent an incredible night with, and if you start talking, youâll learn. Youâll understand. Youâll find out why he doesnât want to talk much. Youâll discover what he is under the skin he wears, and he already knows heâll terrify you. There is nothing good about what someone uncovers under the lid he keeps over his head.
âWhere did you get this one?â You point to a particular nasty white gash on the side of his ribs. He rubs a thick hand down your bare back, cupping your ass and squeezing gently.
âOp in Baghdad,â Simon murmurs. âHand to hand.â
You touch a small circular scar on his arm.
âAnd this one?â
âCigarette.â
You push the blankets down a little and bring your knee up. Simon grips the side of your thigh, and you hike your leg up to give him a better look at the puffed scar across your kneecap.
âLook at this,â you giggle. âI fell off my bike when I was little.â
âThaâ right, sweeâeart?â
âMhm. Just like you.â
âJust like me.â
Youâre still there in the morning. Cheek smushed against his chest, leg tangled between his, arm curled around his middle. Thereâs a little drool drying on the side of your mouth, and Simon thumbs along your jaw as he watches you sleep. The glittery eyeshadow you were wearing last night has smeared across your cheek a little, and youâre glowing. A good shag and a good nightâs sleep, and you look like a right angel in the early hours.
You look like one on his couch, too. You look like one in his shirt that barely fits over your tits, watching his telly, eating the shit plate of eggs he made you since heâs never bothered to learn how to cook. You look beautiful getting your clothes back on and smelling just like him as he drives you back to your flat.
You look like his when he crowds you against the door of your place, masked mouth against your open lips as you fumble for the doorknob and yank him inside to get his pants off.
Your flat blinds him. Thereâs different colors scattered across the place. A fluffy pink carpet in the living room. String lights hung everywhere, in different colors, twinkling gently. Thereâs plants of all shapes and sizes hanging from the ceiling and overflowing from their brightly colored pots. No plate or cup is the same shape or color or even matches one another, and thereâs lamps in the shapes of mushrooms and fish sitting on your mismatched coffee and side tables. You collect everythingâmovie posters of all kinds on the walls, an entire wall of funny clocks, another wall of arts and crafts that must be homemade, framed and hung up.
Your home is what you are. Fun and colorful and happy and bright, and Simon hikes his mask up so he can bite and lick and nearly eat you as he tries to absorb all of it. There is nothing inside of this place that doesnât incite joy, and he feeds on it like a leech. He must have it, because he never has before, and whenever he lets go, he feels it less, and that cannot happen, he wonât let it go.
If it isnât your smile keeping him close, your pussy is the next best thing. You look incredible on your kneesâperched on your elbows, ass up, pushing back against him as he fucks into you lazily. Youâre so beautiful, in every position, but thereâs something about getting to push your thighs apart a little and watch you take his cock that makes his belly clench as he watches you suck him in again and again and again. Thereâs a ring of slick gathering at the base, making it nice and easy for him to kiss your cervix, and you sound so prettyâsoft whines of his name, little mewls that make his jaw tick.
âSimonâSimon, pleaseââ
He doesnât like to hear you beg. You deserve whatever you ask for, whatever you want. Those big eyes should never desire anything. He never wants to see you pout or blubberâhe wants you relaxed and pleasured and incoherent from how fed you are in every aspect, and heâs going to fuck you right into this mattress until he gets you right where youâre meant to be.
You tell him he looks funny in your bed, surrounded by the squishmallows and fluffy teddy bears, but he doesnât mind. He didnât realize what a proper bed could do for his back, because yours has springs and memory foam, and his body just sinks into it just right.
He gets woken up in the middle of the night by his phone. Wheels up at 0500, and now heâs dreading getting into his truck. Thereâs something warm on his chest, and for a moment he thinks itâs you, but then he blinks into focus when the thing on his chest moves and stretches, staring down at him with curious green eyes. Itâs a chunky tuxedo cat, and itâs wearing a black bedazzled collar.
ââello,â Simon mutters, scratching under its chin. The big thing just nuzzles against his hand before moving to the end of the bed to curl up between your feet.
Simon tries not to think about you on the drive back, and he tries not to think about you as he puts his gear on; but thereâs a bouquet of fake sunflowers on a secretaryâs desk mocking him, and when he goes to put his gloves on, thereâs still glitter on his fingertips.
You are everywhere. You are in the warmth of the sand that gets under the fabric of his mask. You are in the water that sustains him on hour fifteen of sitting on a rooftop. He sees you in the bright red that trickles from the hole in his targetâs forehead, matching the red of the strawberry plushie that you were holding the morning he left.
He notices himself more. How much space he takes up. How loud his voice is. He compares the way his cock looks in his hand now to the way it looked in yours, and he has to swallow the groan that threatens to break when he thinks about the way you thumbed at the tip and cooed about how pretty he was. Delicate, pretty hands, not at all like his ownânot at all like the roughness of his palms, the scars along the backs of his hands, the blood against his raw knuckles from beating a hostile into the ground just to feel something.
Just to feel anything.
Standing next to you, it is all too clear what kind of man Simon Riley is. Heâs not a man at allâheâs nothing more than an extension to his rifle, and when the trigger isnât getting pulled, heâs just not that fucking useful.
Johnny is in a mood. Scowling like a brat. Glaring at the back of his head. Hitting him with his shoulder whenever they pass by each other. Simon is indifferent, and Simon pretends not to care, so he takes it in stride, but it makes his teeth ache with how annoyed he is.
âWhat the fuck is wrong with ye?â
He doesnât like being scolded, especially not by his sergeant; but he sits there, and he takes it, because what Johnny is telling him isnât a lie. Thereâs a girl that woke up in an empty bedâa sweet one, with glassy eyes, and she thinks heâs a two-faced asshole that slipped out when she wasnât looking. A girl that can do casual, but not a girl that can tell him about the dreams sheâs too scared to write down and lets him rest his head on the same pillow where she rests her own. Too intimate, too many words, too many times he came inside of her and told her thatâs where itâs supposed to beâin yâr pretty pussy, baby, right thereâ
Heâs never done this before. He doesnât apologize. He doesnât stick around where he knows he doesnât belong, and he never thinks heâs done anything wrong enough to warrant some kind of apology. With Simon, you get what you get, and he doesnât think he advertises himself as someone warm, empathetic, considerate; but heâs sitting here, his truck still running, and thereâs a decaying plastic-encased bouquet of yellow tulips resting haphazard in the passenger seat.
Heâs been waiting on your doorstep for more than five minutes. He sees you peeking through the window in your kitchen, and his eyes find yours through the blinds. He narrows his eyes at you, squeezing the bouquet until the plastic crinkles under his fists. It takes a couple more moments before you open the door, and Simon sniffs under the mask when he sees your eyes again. Theyâre big and wet and sad.
He never wants to see them like this again.
Youâre sweet, so you take the flowers from him. You purse your lips as you stand there, trying to keep your lip from wobbling, but itâs very clear youâre trying not to cry. You hug the flowers close to your chest, and Simon brings his hand up, tucking his gloved fingers under your chin and tipping it up.
ââello, sweeâeart,â he murmurs. âWere yâlookinâ for me?â
âN-No.â
âYâr a bad liar, baby.â
It takes a few minutes to get you settled. Sitting on your couch, batting at your tears with the sleeve of your sweater as Simon turns the kettle on in your kitchen. The cat weaves between his legs as he steeps the tea bags, and when he comes back into your living room, youâre staring at the droopy tulips, rubbing a thumb over the petals.
ââere,â Simon murmurs, setting down a mug in front of you.
âIâŠâ You wipe under your nose. âI-I donât need your pity, Simon.â
âNot here for thaâ.â
âI know Johnny said something to you, and I really donât want to talk about itâa-and if thatâs why youâre here, I really donât want to talk about it.â
You pick up one of the stuffed animals that sits on your couch. Itâs a goldfish, fat with stuffing around the middle, with a comical smile and rainbow-colored scales. You hug it, resting your cheek on it, staring at Simon through wet eyelashes as he stiffens uncomfortably. Crying, emotions, talkingâhe doesnât do any of these things. This complicates things. Relationships make things more difficult, and connections mean he has obligations, and heâs already seeing now what this kind of thing will be between you.
Itâs too much.
Itâs not enough.
âHe did say somethinâ,â Simon mutters. He sniffs, looking down at his gloved hands. His fingers curl into fists as they rest on his thighs, and he lets out the breath heâs holding harshly, shaking his head. He doesnât understand what heâs doing here, but the thought of getting up and leaving seems worse. âDidnât sit right witâ me.â
You tuck your legs underneath you, and he watches as you absentmindedly knead the stuffed fish. You hum lowly, sheepish, and then you open and close your mouth as you try to find the words to say.
âI know weâŠâ You flinch a little. âIt was justâŠI know it was just a day. A night.â You rub your nose. âI feel so stupid. I donât want you to feel bad. I donât want you to feelâŠlike you h-have to come here andâŠexplain, IâŠâ You close your eyes. âI-I justâŠI really like you, Simon.â
I really like you, Simon.
He leans his head back against the back of your couch. Something in his chest squeezes tight, and he swallows hard as he listens to you say it again and again in his head.
I really like you, Simon. I really like you, Simon. Donât you like me?
âOh, love,â Simon breathes. He turns his head to look at you, and youâre already looking at him. You have the fish to your chest, hugging it tighter, and he reaches over and touches under your chin gently. âYâdonât want this. Yâdonât want me. I know yâthink yâdo, and âs sweet, but yâdonât want this.â
âTell me why,â you say softly. âConvince me, then.â
âDo youâŠdo you even know wot we do?â He asks. âThe kinds of things they ask us to do? Wot Iâve done tâget here?â
You shake your head, and when his hand opens up, your cheek finds his palm, resting there, nuzzling.
âWeâre murderers with fuckinâ passes,â he whispers. âThere isnât a line we donât cross. No boundary we donât ignore. They killed my whole fuckinâ family, and then I came back for more, because thaâs the kind of life I live, and thaâs the kind of work I do. When I come home, I have someone elseâs blood on my clothes, do yâunderstand thaâ?â He leans closer, touching his nose to yours. âWe go places thaâ no one comes back from. Even nowââ He pinches your chin between two fingers, ââI strangled someone with these very hands, love, thaâs the kind of man I am. Look at meââ
You flutter your lashes, meeting his eyes, and he shakes his head.
âThaâs wot I do, love,â Simon grunts. âAnd the worst part of it is thaâ I fuckinâ like it.â
You lift a hand up and wrap it around his wrist. There is no resistance as you draw his hand off your face and hold it instead, intertwining your fingers and resting them in your lap. His hand dwarfs yoursâlong, deft fingers and spread palm that covers your own completely. You scoot a little closer, getting up onto your knees, and Simonâs eyes follow you as you abandon the stuffed fish to put one hand on his shoulder and the other cupping his masked cheek.
âYou didnât say no.â
âWot?â
âYou wonât say no,â you whisper, sliding the hand on his shoulder up to caress the back of his neck. âTo me. To this.â
âBecause I canât,â Simon groans. âNeed you tâdo it.â
âBut IâŠâ You lean down and press your forehead to his. âI-I do want it. I want you. YouâreâŠâ You kiss him through the mask, a soft press of your lips against his. You feel him kiss back, and you pull away slowly. âPlease. Please, Simon?â You kiss down his cheek, thumbing under his eye, and he lets out a shaky breath as you fall into his lap, knees on either side of him. His hands come up easily, cupping under your thighs, and you whine as he drags your hips forward, a slow grind that makes you shake. âWonât you try? For me?â
Getting Simon into your bed is too easy. He looks nice here, underneath you. You press down onto his chest for leverage, using it to help throw your hips back against his. Heâs deep, pulsing inside of your cuntâyour rhythm stutters every time he touches your cervix, but his tight grip on your ass keeps you moving.
Youâre so wet. Youâve never been wetter with another man. Sweat, tears, slickâevery part of you leaks when youâre with Simon. You dig your nails into his chest, and he grunts, when you start to feel your orgasm creeping up on you, you arch your back to get friction onto your clit and squeal when Simon gets the hint; he lifts you up and plants his feet against the bed to fuck up into you and force your eyes into the back of your head.
He tastes like you after awhile. After spending days in your flat, his kisses start to taste as sweet as the pastries you make, and he starts to smell like the citrus soaps you keep in your bathroom. You get a whiff of lavender from his clothes after using your laundry detergent, and he sleeps like the dead after round two inside of you. Cum cooling between your thighs, mouth fixed to your throat, fingers stuffed inside of you to keep warm as he breathes in a sigh of relief until heâs deep asleep. He still doesnât take his mask off, but he gives you his mouth, and you fix yourself there, mouth against his, kissing him feverishly whenever he exposes his lips just for you.
âWill you miss me?â You ask. Heâs standing at the door, pulling his jacket on. He flips the hood up over his head, clicking his tongue as he fits a hand into the back pocket of your jeans and squeezes, pulling you towards him and into his chest.
âMhm,â he mutters. You giggle, cupping his cheeks, and when he puts his thumb between your lips, you let him open your mouth, tilting your head as he spits onto your tongue before kissing you wetly. You wrap your arms around his neck, charmed bracelets jingling as you try to climb up to him. He bends, gripping you under your thighs before he hoists you up and against the wall. You moan, scratching along his back.
âDo you really have to go?â You whisper between kisses, and he hisses in response.
âGot to,â Simon sighs, but you smile wide when you hear the sound of his belt buckle. âBut I can be late.â
Like you, Simon feels like heâs seeing the world for the very first timeâall in color. Food has taste. Views have beauty. His gun feels heavy, and his cot is cold to the touch. Time finally has durationâit hangs and drags now, minutes and seconds taking too long as he sits in a dark room and listens to his captain explain an op he could care less about. His leg bounces impatiently, fingers twitching as he watches the screen and tries to pay attention.
Complicated. Difficult. Not enough and too much.
You are so beautiful. Your name lights up his phone, several pink and yellow emojis beside your name that you entered yourself.
we miss u! xoxo
Thereâs a picture of you and your cat. Youâre seated on your couch, a pink blanket in your lap, a selfie of you holding up your cat in one arm. Simon clenches his jaw when he sees that youâre practically nakedâin just a yellow lace bra, blanket covering your lower half. You send another picture after a few seconds, and Simon licks over his teeth. Another selfie of you, cleavage on display, and he can see the little rhinestones that are sewn into your bra. He can also see the little butterfly clips you have in your hair and the darling smile you wear.
He comes in his fist later, selfie on display in one hand, his mind on the sound of your voice. Itâs never happened so fastâjust a few languid tugs, and heâs spilling over his thighs like a teenager.
Itâs all he thinks about. The blood runs warmer, easier. His gun fires quicker. Heâs got tunnel-vision now, eyes on his prizeâthe sooner he finishes, the quicker he gets home, so he sinks his blade into throats and keeps his feet moving. He keeps quiet, keeps steady, and as soon as heâs got his target in his sights, he pulls the trigger without a second thought.
âGot somethinâ on yer mind, LT?â
Simon narrows his eyes. Johnny looks smugâa ghost of a smirk on his face, face red from sweat and his own cheekiness. Simon just leans his head back against the side of the helicopter, looking outside as the ground gets farther and farther away.
âNever pegged ye fer the type.â
Simonâs hands dig into his rifle.
âAlways liked thaâ one,â Johnny continues. âGot a sweet face. Always wondered why she never liked me. Guess she likes âem big ân scary.â
âCareful, Johnny,â Simon warns, glaring at him.
âI justââ
âNo, listen âere,â Simon snaps. âWe donât talk about âer. We donât mention âer. She is off limits, to you or anyone else. As far as yâr concerned, she doesnât exist, yeah? Repeat it back tâme.â
âDonât know who yer talkinâ about, LT,â Johnny says after a few moments. Simon looks away, shaking his head.
âGood boy.â
He doesnât go back to his flat. There isnât anything there that he wants; everything he needs leads straight to you. Youâre cooing when he comes through the door, murmuring lowly as he drops his duffel bag and shoves his masked face into the crook of your neck. He crowds you against the door when you shut it, and you giggle as he takes deep breaths of your perfume. His hands grab at your waist, sliding down the backs of your thighs, feeling over the soft skin and biting at your throat even through the mask.
âWhat happened, teddy bear?â You mumble, scratching the back of his neck. âWhat did they do to you, huh?â
Dog, mutt, devour. Heâs been away for too long, been starving ever since he left, and you take it with a smile. Simon is never too much for you. Simon is never too rough or too loud, and he is never too far into your space or too attached. You drink it so lovingly, and you never push him away.
He watches you carefully as you help him take his gear off. You start with the weapons. You slip the gun out of its holster on his chest, emptying the chamber and taking the magazine out. His grip on your waist tightens at the sight of you handling it with such ease, and you just shrug as you set it aside.
âIâve been practicing.â
You unload all of his throwing knives, from his thigh holster and from inside of his boot. You find another small pistol attached to his boot, and you sigh as you unload it the same. Your hands find the buckles of his thigh holsters, and when you slide it off of him, you settle on your knees and tip your head back to look up at him.
He caresses the back of your head, and you swear you hear him purr. You lean forward, pressing your cheek to where his belt is. You kiss there, right against his zipper, and his fingers tangle into your hair just enough for you to feel a little pressure. Heâs still gentle, still kind, but his eyes are so dark. You wonder if the way he looks at you now is the way he looks at his targets. Is this hunger the sameâthe same for you as it is to get the job done? They say love and hate are so alike, so intertwined; is that why he keeps coming back? Does he chase this feeling all the time?
What is it that you are?
An addiction? Or a necessity?
You take his dirty clothes from him as he undresses in the bathroom. Shirt, jacket, belt, pants, socks, boxersâyou eye him with a smile, biting your lip, and Simon winks at you from under the mask as he slides a big hand down his middle.
âWot?â He asks. âLike wot yâsee, love?â
It would be impossible not to. Thick arms, tattoos on display. Unforgiving muscle and fat. His hands ungloved, you can see the split of his knuckles and the bruising from where he mustâve hit somethingâsomeone. Then your eyes skim over the curls just over his cock, which hangs heavy and red between his thighs. Simon has no shameâhis nakedness is not something he cares to hide, especially not to you. You stand on your toes and gives his cheek a kiss before taking his clothes to the laundry room.
Youâre at the sink when heâs freshly showered. Thereâs a bottle of peroxide next to you, and youâre wearing gloves, and he watches as you have his pants half in the sink as you work on scrubbing at the fabric.
âWot âappened?â Simon asks. You hum, shrugging, ringing out a bit of the fabric.
âJust some blood. Iâll get it out. What do you want to eat for dinner, baby?â
Simon thinks thatâs the moment he knew he was in love with you. Hair pinned back, baby pink matching lounge outfit with the tiniest shorts heâs ever fucking seen, scrubbing out the blood from his clothes as you talk about supper.
He knows he was fucked from the moment he met youâbut itâs now that he knows heâll never leave.
Heâs reminded again of that feeling when you call him angrily from your flat. Heâs pushing a trolly in the store, eyes sweeping over the selection of chocolate in the baking section. You were baking chocolate scones and would be making some ganache tomorrow, and heâs squinting at the paper you gave him with your list when his phone starts ringing.
ââello, love?â
âSimon, are you serious?!â
âWot happened?â
âThereâsâSimon! Thereâs a grenade inâŠin the jar!â
âWotâs thaâ?â
âThe jar with my powdered sugar. I found a grenade in there!â
âOh. Mmm. Right. Leave it there.â
âSimon! And are you taping ninja stars under my tables? I found two already!â
âDunno. But sounds like someone âad a good idea, wanted tâbe prepared, yâshould leave them there.â
âSimon, you areââ Thereâs a pause, and then he smiles under the mask when you laugh. âJust get my chocolate and get back here, please.â
You have no idea what Simon was talking about. You donât understand what it is that he was running from. Thereâs so much of himself that he was meant to show to someone else. Heâs been hiding for so long, and not just underneath the mask he wearsâbut thereâs a man under it all, and you love when he comes out to meet you.
Maybe he is a little terrible. Maybe he really is just the thing you donât need. You think about that a little too long when the water in the sink runs red again, his shirt an entirely different color from whatever it is that he had done before he got home. Maybe he really is wrong for youâit crosses your mind when youâre dusting the shelves and find a loaded pistol in the vase that used to hold your apology tulips.
He lives an entirely different life than you. He drags colors into your home that you tried so hard not to embrace, all the black and blue and grey that youâve always felt could swallow your entire selfâbut you donât know what the alternative is. There is no one else in the world that looks at you the way that he does. There isnât anyoneâs hand that feels the way his does when itâs against the side of your face or tangled between the strands of your hair or warm between your thighs.
You donât think anyone else would mean it if they saw you crying and threatened to kill whoever had made you so sad; because he does mean it, doesnât he? He would do it if you asked, wouldnât he?
Thatâs love; youâre convinced it is. Love is the boundaries you say you wonât cross that you step right over without thinking. Love is the places you say you could never go that are already behind you. Loveâreal loveâis the doorway that Simon keeps passing through even though he promises you that this is the last time whenever he leaves.
âLook at meâha, Simon!âlook here.â You fit the headband onto over his head, fitting the cat ears on top of his head. He grunts a little, sighing through his nose, and you warm up the makeup remover between your hands. Delicately, you start to rub it into his face. He closes his eyes, and you carefully work your fingers against his skin as the eye-black begins to run easily. âAlmost done.â
You use a warm cloth to wipe his face. The eye-black comes off, but the scars remain, and when he opens his eyes, you know that you havenât really taken anything away from him. Thereâs still something that weighs heavy on his shoulders, and you lean forward to get closer to him, keeping your voice quiet.
âWhat was it this time?â You ask, putting both hands on his face and keeping his eyes on yours. He blinks, and he goes somewhere else. Heâs thinking about it. Thereâs something heâs looking at, somewhere far away, over your shoulder.
âHe begged me not to,â Simon murmurs. âTold me their names.â
Moms. Dads. Partner. Children. They always have names at the endâas if attaching themselves to another will make their deaths harder. Men are singular beings. Rarely are they life support for another.
âItâs okay,â you tell Simon. You close your eyes as you rest your cheek against his.
âIt is?â
âUh huh.â Itâs so warm here, arms around him, face tucked against his. âI forgive you.â
Itâs okay. I forgive you. Everything is just as it should be.
âYâdonât know wot I did,â Simon counters. âWot IâŠgot outta him.â
âIt doesnât matter,â you say softly. You squeeze the towel out, wetting it again with warm water before passing it over his face again. You hold him under his chin, catching the droplets of water, and you smile as you kiss his nose gently. âIt never does. Never will.â
âButââ
âI made your favorite,â you interrupt, plucking the cat ears off of him and tossing everything into the laundry basket. âThereâs brownies in the kitchen. I want you to try.â
Is Simon really committing heinous war crimes when his reward is chocolate decadence and wet pussy?
You look so cute. Youâre wearing a flowery pajama set, tiny shorts and cropped shirt, something that leaves nothing to the imagination as he pulls the gusset of your panties to the side and sinks into you easily. You brace yourself against the back of the couch, sitting up in his lap. Simon groans when your tits are right in his face, pebbled nipples poking through your shirt fabric, and he reaches up to pinch them between greedy fingers as you sit right down on his dick and take him to the tilt.
âFuuuuuuuuckââ Simon breathes. The wet squelch is making his head spin. His wet girl, his pretty girl, his sweet girl. He sharpens his teeth when he leaves, and you dull them when he comes home, letting him sink his teeth into you and eat. You keep him in balance; the push and pull that he always felt he struggled with is nonexistent now that youâre here. When Ghost used to get put back into his duffel, Simon felt like what was left behind was almost too much to take. The nightmares, the torture, the disregard for what was moral in favor of what got the job doneâit is gone with you. Your absolution resolves him of this debt.
How can he feel heâs done anything wrong when youâre calling him teddy bear and taking his cock like this?
You drag the hem of your shirt up slowly, and when your tits are bouncing, bare and sweaty in front of his face, Simon loses his train of thought. His mouth falls open, tongue hanging out, and you cup the back of his neck to draw him close until his lips wrap around your nipple and suck. You whimper, keeping him there, slowing your hips to watch him let go for just long enough to spit on your chest and lick it right back up.
âFeels so good, teddy bear,â you whine. âYouâre so bigâŠâ You wiggle your hips until just the tip of him is inside you, and then you sit back down, drawing out a long moan from the both of you. His hands fall to cup under your thighs, and you feel like youâre melting as his tip prods against a squishy spot inside of you and makes you see double. You grab onto his shoulders, digging your nails in, crying. âOhâright t-there, babyâright thereââ
âRight there, sweeâeart?â
âMhm! M-MoreâŠâ
âMy sweet girl,â he mumbles, and you squeak when he grips the fabric of your shorts, grunting as he tears the fabric apart. His fingers cup both sides of your ass, spreading them, using the new leverage he has on you to start picking you up and bouncing you with nothing but sheer strength. Youâre thick everywhere that he needs you to beâhips, stomach, thighs, all the perfect places he hopes any girl heâs with will be. They never quite had it the way you do; when his fingers dig and feel nothing but softness, he hisses because it feels so good to grab onto you. It makes his mouth water. It makes him so fucking hungry. It makes his cock ache and his balls heavy, and heâs going to come if he keeps seeing your breasts sway like that as you take his cock so well. âFuckââ He shakes his head. âFuck!â
You lick into his mouth just as he loses control. Fingers under his chin, tongue around his teeth as he holds you down on his lap and fills you nice and warm. Your hips stutter, and he lets you lean back just enough so you can touch your clit and squeeze around him. You look down between your bodies, touching tenderly where youâre connected, like youâre fascinated by how much of him fits inside of you.
You settle after a few minutes. You rest your palms on his chest, squishy muscle supporting you as you lift your hips and let him out. You lean over him, whining when you feel fluid slipping down your thighs and gathering underneath you.
âYouâre thinking too much,â you whisper as you slip your shirt back on. Simon hums as he holds you in his lap, cock twitching as he watches you move your hair out of your eyes and lick your own fingers.
âGot a lot on my mind,â is all Simon gives you. You let your knee fall open, and you use your fingers to swirl between your folds before you guide them up and into Simonâs mouth. He chuckles, taking them, and you lean forward to kiss his cheek just as you pull your fingers back out.
âYouâre not supposed to think about things,â you murmur. âHow many times do I have to tell you, Simon?â You cup one side of his face, making him look at you. âYou could never do something wrong. Everything is okay.â You smile. âYou believe me, donât you, teddy bear?â
Itâs so easy to believe you when you look at him like that. Youâre so prettyâyou always are. There is nothing terrible about your mind. Your brain isnât rotten between the flesh as his must be. There is no blood forever under your fingernails, and you donât sleep thinking about the graveyards you fill with your heavy hand. You donât know what it feels like to have a gun burn in your palm, and youâve never heard the screaming of someone who only has one limb left to spare. You donât know how long it takes before a father will give up his children, and youâve never seen your tombstone so clearly that the callous of your hands feel like the rock itâs made of.
Whatever you say must be true. Whatever you forgive him of must be good enough. There is nothing you cannot give, and there is nothing you can say that wonât be absolute reality. He feels like he poisons you every time he touches you, but when he takes his hands away, the skin underneath looks the same, and your smile never fades. You donât bruise like other people do when he puts a hand on them. You donât flinch when he raises his arm. You donât scream when he comes close to you.
He hears your laughter wherever he goes. Heâs kneeling now, bone digging into the ground as he lifts up his arm that holds a blade high. The bullet would be quicker, but this feels better. It pierces the neck, flesh giving away to its sharpness like a hot knife through butter, and Ghost licks over his teeth as he watches something sacred leave their eyes. For a moment, he feels bad about what heâs done. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, looking for his alternate reality.
I am no good. There is nothing good in me. I am not made of it.
There you are. Sitting on your knees between his thighs, cheek nuzzled against his jeans, sparkly, glossy lips curled into a wicked smile as you fist his cock and coo up at him. When you kiss his tip, you leave it shining, and then your tongue comes out of your mouth, and itâs over for him. There is a heaven inside of you. When you suck, his mind blurs, and his jaw aches with how hard he clenches it as you dip your head and take him deep. You whine because you like it. No oneâs ever liked Ghost the way you like him. No oneâs ever seen the mask and giggled the way you do. Thereâs no one that looked at the layers heâs made of and thought to use their fingers to lift them up to tuck themselves inside. His shell is not a barrier, itâs merely an illusion, and there you areâblinking up at him, bouncing in that sunflower sweater, wet eyes like diamonds. He feels warmth in his hands, and he thinks itâs from how hard heâs just come, but when he opens his eyes, itâs merely blood soaking into the fabric of his gloves.
The house is dark when he comes home. The cat is staring at him from her spot by the window, blinking slowly as he toes off his boots and passes by her with a soft scratch under her chin. He finds you in your bed, face against your silk pillow, wearing fuzzy purple pajamas and hugging a well-loved stuffed bear. Your nightlight is on, casting soft shadows of a moon and her stars, and Ghost finds himself watching you for more than just a moment. He stays there in the doorway, rooted to the spot, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you snooze.
You wake up when the bed dips from his weight. Groggily, your hand moves, searching for him, and when you find the fabric of his hoodie, you close your fist around it and pull him until heâs nearly on top of you.
You taste sweet. When you kiss, Ghost chases the sugar sweet that still lingers on your lips, and you seek the ash from the cigarette he smoked outside. Your knees fall open, and Ghost settles between them. Too big, but he forces himself there anyways, one big arm wrapping around you and under your back before he yanks it into an arch and bites against the side of your neck. Where he saw blood earlier, all he sees is the give of your skin under his teeth. Instead of begging, instead of screaming, he hears your soft whine, a breathy call of his name that makes his cock so hard, he has to yank down the zipper of his jeans before he cuts himself on it.
Where he saw death in their eyes, he finds nothing like it in your own. When he is inside of you again, he tells himself heâll never leave. His body has new purpose, and this is it.
Youâre sleepy all over again once you come. Draped over his chest, palm rubbing against his solid middle, legs tangled between his. You smile at him as he turns his head to look at you, and he slips his hand under the hem of your shirt to caress you at the base of your spine.
âGood day at work?â You mumble, snuggling into his side. Simon tightens his grip on your middle. When he feels the flesh squish under his hand, he breathes nice and easy. Just what he expected. Exactly as he prefers.
âGood day, love.â
âYou got all the bad guys, teddy bear?â
Simon licks his lips. He thinks about who had the unfortunate opportunity of being at the end of his scope today, and he thinks about who itâll be tomorrow. He likes this routine. It satiates something nasty in him, but heâs never been quiet about the way it makes him feel. Itâs what drew you to him, wasnât it? He told you about all the horrible things that exist in his head, and youâre still here, youâre still in his bedâit wasnât enough to push you away, so thereâs no need to hide this dark truth from you. If anything, you might want to go again.
His cock twitches at the thought.
âNo,â Simon tells you, and you shrug, closing your eyes.
âThatâs okay. Thereâs still tomorrow.â
Simon feels something ache under his ribs when you say itâlike taking the words straight out of his mouth. You are so in tune, it would scare him if he wasnât already convinced that you were meant for him.
But even if you werenât, Iâd chain you to this bed. Never let you go.
He wonders what color your blood runs. He doesnât think it would be redâyouâre too pretty to have blood be such a color. Maybe itâs pink. Purple. Maybe itâs yellow. Maybe it glitters just like the sparkles you love to wear.
Maybe it runs black. Maybe, underneath it all, you and Simon are one and the same. Maybe you are rotten inside. Maybe youâre an illusion, too, maybe what he sees is just a mirror-view, and the real you hides and plays your limbs with puppet strings and masks the horrible, terrible, evil things that live inside of youâ
You pat his chest a little, pouting, an annoyed breath leaving you as you close your eyes.
âGo to sleep, Simon. Itâs late.â
It is late. Youâre right. Always right, his smart girl, always telling him how he needs to hear it so his mind settles and his body relaxes.
The first thing everyone notices about you is the color pink.
Pink scrubs. Pink pens. A pink clipboard covered in tiny pastel stickersâhearts, flowers, and a little cartoon bandage with a smiley face on it.
The second thing everyone notices is that you arenât afraid of Ghost.
Which, according to the entire base, makes you either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.
You hear the warnings your first week.
Soap leans against the med bay counter one morning while you organize gauze rolls, watching you with mild disbelief. âYe know who that is, right?â
You glance up from the gauze rolls. âWho?â
âThe big skull mask bloke who walks around like death himself.â
Gaz laughs from the doorway. âLieutenant Ghost. Terrifies recruits for fun..? Breaks doors instead of knocking. That one?â
You blink once.
âOh.â
Soap waits for you to react properly.
You simply shrug. âHe seems nice.â
Soap nearly chokes.
The truth is, youâve already met him.
It was two days ago. He walked past the med bay after training, boots heavy against the tile, gear slung over one shoulder. Heâs massiveâbroad shoulders, tall enough that the overhead lights catch on the edges of the skull mask he never takes off.
You looked up from your desk.
And you smiled.
âGood afternoon..â a pause to look at the name Velcroed to his chest âLieutenant Riley.â
He stopped walking.
People donât greet him like that. You could tell by the way the hallway went quiet.
He stared at you for a moment through the black eye sockets of the mask, eyes dark and unreadable.
ââŠAfternoon.â
His voice was low. Almost.. hesitant?
You nodded politely and went back to writing on your clipboard.
Like it was completely normal.
After that, you greet him every time you see him.
âHi, Lieutenant.â
âMorning, Lieutenant!â
âHope youâre having a nice day Lieutenant.â
He never smilesâat least not that you can seeâbut he always gives a small grunt of acknowledgement. Thatâs enough for you.
What you do notice is that he never shows up to the med bay.
Which is a problem, because everyone is required to attend a monthly checkup.
Soap comes in complaining the whole time. Gaz jokes through the entire exam. Even Captain Price shows up on schedule.
Ghost?
Doesnât come at all.
Three days after his appointment passes, you spot him turning the corner of a hallway and nearly run into his chest.
You stop just in time.
He looks down at you slowly.
Up close heâs even bigger.
You smile.
âHi, Lieutenant Riley.â
ââŠWhat.â
You check your pink clipboard.
âYou missed your checkup.â
He stares at you through the mask.
ââŠNo I didnât.â
You turn the clipboard around so he can see the neat list written in pink ink.
SIMON RILEY â MISSED APPOINTMENT
He exhales slowly through his nose.
âNot goinâ.â
You tilt your head a little. âWhy?â
âDonât need it.â
The tone clearly says the conversation is over.
So you write something on your clipboard.
âOkay.â
He seems surprised by that. Like he expected an argument.
He steps past you.
Then you add sweetly, âIâll just have to keep finding you until you do it.â
He stops walking.
Slowly turns his head.
Youâre still smiling.
ââŠYou serious?â
âMhm.â
You tap the clipboard. âYouâre overdue.â
He studies you like heâs trying to figure out if youâre joking.
You arenât.
So over the next few days, you keep finding him.
In the hallway. Near the training room. Once outside the armory.
Every time, you smile.
Every time, you remind him.
âYour checkup is still overdue, Lieutenant.â
By the fourth time, he finally walks into the med bay himself.
You look up from your desk and brighten immediately.
âOh! Hi, Lieutenant Riley.â
He sits in the chair like a man being sentenced.
âDo it quick.â
You nod happily. âOf course.â
You move through the exam like you would with anyone else. Pulse first. Your fingers rest lightly against his wrist while you count.
His skin is warm.
âHeart rateâs good,â you murmur, jotting the numbers down on your pink clipboard.
You reach for your stethoscope next. âDeep breath for me.â
He obeys, shoulders rising slowly.
The med bay is quiet except for your pen scratching across paper.
You donât rush. You donât treat him differently.
Heâs just another patient.
âAlright,â you say gently after a moment. âNext I need to check your throat.â
He goes still.
You pause.
âOhâright. Mask.â
âYeah.â
Thereâs a small moment of silence before you ask softly, âWould it be alright if you lifted it just enough for me to see?â
You wait.
Most people would probably push him. Demand it. Try to force the issue.
You simply stand there patiently.
Eventually his hand lifts to the mask, pulling it up just enough for his mouth to be visible.
You donât react. Donât stare.
You lean a little closer with the small penlight. âOpen please.â
He does.
You check his throat quickly, professional and calm.
âAll good.â you say a moment later.
He lowers the mask again.
The rest of the checkup is quickâblood pressure, reflex test, a few more notes on your clipboard.
When youâre finished, you smile.
âAll done.â
He stands from the chair.
Thereâs a brief pause before he gestures toward your scrubs.
ââŠPinkâs not regulation.â
You glance down at yourself.
âI know.â
âWhy wear it then?â
You shrug. âBecause I like it.â
He stares at you for a quiet second longer, eyes unreadable behind the skull mask.
Then he turns toward the door.
Halfway out, he stops.
ââŠThanks.â
The word comes out rough. Quiet.
But genuine.
You watch him leave before looking down at your clipboard and writing the final note beneath his name in pink ink.
When your Dragon lover decided to take you and fuck you within an inch of your life whilst in the middle of cooking the fruits of his latest hunt, it was only then that you realized how many few things there were to grasp onto.
You cry out with each brutal snap of your Dragonâs hips as he fucks up into you. Your nails desperately claw at the stone wall of your shared den as you try and gain some purchase. You writhe against his cock in attempts to push back and meet his thrusts. But itâs futile as your hands keep slipping.
A loud grunt of displeasure leaves you and your Dragon lover picks up on it instantly. Sensing your struggle his claws dig into your waist, their size so large it wraps around your soft belly and sinks into the pliant flesh. He uses his hold to help bring you down even harder on his overwhelming length. But you still whimper, a pout on your face.
âWhatâsâ f-fuckâ w-wrong, my heart?â Your Dragon lover asks breathlessly, wanting to fix whatever displeases you so that you can lose yourself in the pleasure only he can provide you.
âNeed somethinâ to hold onto,â you whine, pussy fluttering around his cock and your loverâs jaw drops. Willing to do anything he can to make you do that again.
He lowers his head, hovering over you and swallowing your plump form within his. This new angle allowing his length to sink in even deeper to your tight heat and hit right into that spot that has your vision flashing white.
âHold onto my horns, let me keep you steady, sweet treasure,â Dragon lover growls.
Your hands immediately snap up to grip onto his jagged horns, nails digging into to help ground you from the blinding pleasure. Your Dragon lover roars, his horns more sensitive to your touch than he thought. Ecstasy blows through him as he picks up pace, brutally slamming his cock into your depths. Kissing your cervix with every deep pump of his hips.
One clawed hand snakes down to your clit and he rubs right circles into the bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. Knowing he wonât last long like this but unwilling to finish without feeling you cum all over his cock first.
When you finally explode all over his cock, your cum spraying across the den wall, your Dragon lover buries his cock inside you to the hilt and cums right along with you. Making sure his load floods your fertile womb. He holds you both up as you two work through your release, bodies shaking and sagging with exhaustion. He nuzzles into your neck, unable to keep his head up for a second longer.
âUse me, ruin me, my mate. Rely on me always to give you what you need. Whenever you need it,â Dragon lover rumbles into your skin reverently. Sending a delicious shiver down your spine and a certainty that your lover will always be there for you.
BEGGING for more livestock guardian ghost!! maybe the farmers try to introduce a ram to the herd in hopes of making babies and it has its sights set on reader!! (an excuse for jealous ghost ily)
Anon ur brain đ€ jealous Ghost who doesnât know how sharp his teeth can be <3
part 1 + part 2 + part 3
The leaves were changing and falling from their trees when the farmer brought a new ram into the pasture. The stud from the neighboring farm made himself at home, welcomed by sweet ewes who wiggled their tails enticingly at him and rubbed up against his flank. Ghost paid him no mind, the ram was more than content with the ewes to try and size up the unfamiliar dog stalking the field. Until it was YOUR tail the ram was chasing.
How could he resist? You with your downy, soft ears and sweet voice, it was no surprise he coveted you above all the rest and made his favor known. Head down, showing off his big golden horns as he head-butted you affectionately in an effort to catch a whiff of your heat-sweetened scent. The farmerâs daughters always coddled you when your heats came around, but this time they wanted the best stud in the county for their prized sheep! And prized you are, what wonderful lambs youâd bring to the herd.
You shy away, at war with your instincts and so very nervous with all the attention he was lavishing you with. Ghostâs ears are pinned flat against his head, watching you freeze up when your instincts push you to be still for the ram. To let him mount you. And Ghost canât have that, especially when he sees your eye gloss over with tears of frustration.
âLooks like youâre better at hasslinâ than you are fuckinâ, best you go sort that out somewhere else.â He looms over the ram, horns and all, and glares down at him.
Ghost rumbles a pleased sound when you lean into him, nose under his chin like a proper pup. It satisfied the angry, spitting part of him thats salivating over the thought of taking the rams throat between his teeth and shaking his massive head to snap his neck.
The ram puffs up, âwhat do you know about it, mutt? Mind your business.â
âYou made it my business, leave the little lady âlone.â Ghost bites.
âSheâs just a little shy is all.â The ram smiles down at you, clicking his tongue like how you would to calm a frightened animal. You ignore him. The ram huffs at the way you hide behind your guardian then gives up, nose high in the air as he stalks to the barn.
Your fast puffs of breath warm Ghostâs throat as you press yourself up against him with a pitiful whine, âmâsorry-â
âHush now.â He grunts and herds you back towards the barn. With night falling, the barn is warm and noisy with the sounds of the ram mating his ewes, sneering at you and Ghost with a prideful flick of his tail as he ruts into a soft body. Too bad Ghost has a point to prove now.
Now the ram can watch with the rest of them while their Guardian takes your scruff between his teeth and rolls you over, making your little tail twitch and wiggle in the playful response the ram was hoping to get from you.
They wanted lambs right? How about some more raggedy mutts running around the pasture instead?
You wandered too far. Always one for going further for that better berry patch or shadier groves, especially now that Ghost was here. You explored the woods around the field without fear, the wolves driven miles away and not bold enough to return. Youâre free to swim in the stream and laze around the plush moss, it was your own little oasis. But you donât notice the dark clouds or feel the static in the air, not until the sky opens up.
The rain is ice cold and so dense you canât see through it more than a few feet. In seconds you are drenched and shivering, frantically trying to find some reprieve from the downpour. You run in the direction you think your pasture is in, blinding groping along familiar towering boulders when you find a crevice. Close to the ground and probably some small animals den, you wiggle and stuff yourself inside. Itâs bigger than you expect, big enough to curl into a tight ball as you sniffle and try not to get mud in your mouth. The thunder rattling in your ears only makes you whine, wishing for the safety and warmth of the barn.Â
He hears you. He canât smell you in the rain but he follows your warbling cries as far as he can. Youâd taken too long to come back to the herd, probably napping by the stream and unaware of the darkening sky. He doesnât make it far when the rain starts, left to follow your tracks in the mud. Smart lamb, stuffing yourself in a hole too small for predators like himself to dig you out. He tries anyway, claws raking through icy mud but it only startles you further, pushing yourself to the very end of the burrow and bleating in distress. He can taste your fear scent in the back of his throat, heady and raw and the animal part of his brain revels in it. Digging harder and faster with a deep snarl, reaching in and groping around to feel even a bit of you. Heâs able to wedge his head in, eyes zeroing in on you in the dark as you wrap your arm around yourself like a shield.
You really do start crying when you see him, big fat boo-hoo tears. Not because you are scared, you just wanted to go home. But home came to find you.Â
âG-Ghost-â you bleat miserably as he noses at your cold ears and lets you grab at him, dragging him in and soaking up the warmth radiating off him.Â
âDonât hide from me like that.â He growls, a warning you ought to be better about listening to. He gives you a long suffering huff and squeezes in with you, the rain beating down on his back as he reaches in to pull you from corner.
âShouldnât wander âs far. Now lookât you.â He grumbles, his fur is rough and scratchy against your face as you press into him, tucking under the spiked collar and breathing in the smell of home and herd.Â
âYou found me.â Your voice, clogged with tears, has him rumbling, claws digging into the mud beside your head. You donât understand it yet, but that's okay. Heâll always find you, no matter how far you roam. But maybe that's why you let him do what he does, let him snuffle and nip at your soft, downy ears with the same teeth that snap bone and rend flesh. You donât know any better when you lean into him, making yourself small and neat for him to latch onto and tuck away under his ribs, right in the hollow space near his heart.Â
He thinks you just might want the same when you stick your cold nose in the space just below his ear and sigh like you have nothing to fear from him. You donât even push him away when he starts drooling, feeling his hot, humid breath on you like a brand as he huffs your scent. You only wrinkle your nose a bit and let him move you to wrap your legs around him, crushing you to his chest.Â
You think he may be rocking you, much like what you do with the small new born ewes, only his big meaty paws are grabbing at your hips and pressing them down onto him. Youâre pulsing and warm, he can even feel it through your layers. Heâs only warming you up, lamb, quit running from him.Â
At least out here the others wonât come looking when they hear your soft sounds and hiccups when heâs got you under him, rutting against your puffy little sheep cunt with his teeth digging into your shoulder. Not enough to bleed, never, only to hold you still like an unruly pup. It was enough, more than enough to get him there, relishing in the weak mewl you give when his thick tip throbs against your puffy clit. It was disgusting, the way you go from shivering in fear to rolling around in the mud like youâre in heat, humping against each other in the dark.
Your fingers are shaking when they reach up, but you sigh when your fingers slide under worn leather, curling around the cold iron spikes, tugging it tighter and tighter. Feeling your plush cunt through thin fabric and the pressure around his throat has him snarling, teething and drooling on the unmarred skin on your shoulder. Is this what itâs like to be devoured? Is this what the others are so scared of when the wolves howl outside the barn? You extend your neck into his waiting maw and hope they understand, to be devoured is to be loved. The marrow sucked from your bones and delicate flesh stuck between his teeth, burrowing so deep in his cracks and crevices that heâll never be rid of you.Â
simon riley is an unwilling cat hybrid owner. but you're so pretty, he can't turn you away.
he'd just moved into his house when he met you. the neighbours cat hybrid who didnât want to spend time with their owner. you hung out in simons yard, lounging in the sun.
he's on his way out when you stop him. just laying there, your shirt riding up slightly to expose your stomach. simon didnât mean to stop and talk to you, he just found himself unable to ignore you.
it progressed from just talking to simon inviting you in out of the cold. to joining him for food and attempting to sleep in his bed, but he always sent you home. no matter how deep you sank your claws into him, he always sent you back.
your owners weren't bad people. you were just unhappy there. admittedly, they knew not to get another cat hybrid, that you didnt feel comfortable having others in the house. but they did it anyway.
in retaliation, you rehomed yourself.
simon didnt let you stay the night, but you got to spend all day with him. sat on his lap, nuzzling his neck in a way that made the bell on your collar jingle.
after a year of this, simon got the call.
we're thinking of rehoming our kitty and you get first pick.
of course, he immediately said yes. you just so happened to be in his lap, sharp teeth dragging over his neck for his attention. you'd think it would be enough with his hand resting on your ass while he texted your owner back.
no, you wanted more.
and now you were going to get all the attention you wanted from him. you went to leave when it got dark, but simon pulled you back.
"not tonight, sweet'eart," he mumbled, stopping you from leaving his home. "you're staying with me."
Being a broke college student, you can't afford a new car and can hardly afford to fix your current rust bucket.
So you take it to the sketchy mechanic most of your friends told you to avoid. People call him ghost. He's some ex-military, you think, a real ugly mug and general weirdness about him. But...he agreed to take a look at your car for free, so you can at least see if it's an issue you can ignore for another day.
Only for him to tell you no, your car is on it's last legs and just fixing the essentials will put you out of your home. So you beg, plead for some way to drop the price, and watch as ghosts smile grows, scars pulling at the skin "oh, love, I know jus' the thing."
He bends you over the workbench with his oil-stained hands, and doesn't bother to prevent the dirt smudging onto your clothes.
You ask him to put on a rubber at least and he shoots back "I'll do it for free if you let me finish inside."
Which is how you end up sitting uncomfortably on the single chair in the workshop. Every shift makes you grimace, ghosts cum steadily leaking out after the two loads he pumped into you.
He fixes your car and true to his word doesn't charge you. Still, you get a firm pat on your ass and a muttered "come back again, love. I'll change yer shitty tires for free if you blow me."
...you try not to think about how your car is running smoother than it has in months on the ride home.
You find yourself on your boyfriend's lap, positioned with your back pressed against his muscular chest. he's bouncing you on his thick, throbbing cock with deep, rough thrusts, making you feel every inch of him each time he slides his length against your gummy walls. "F-fuck, ba-babe..." you slur, voice a pathetic mewl.
You're stuck in his lap, legs spread wide and shaking. your dress is bunched up and your panties are down by your ankles as he keeps both hands locked on your hips while he fucks you on his cock like you're nothing but something to use.
At this point, you're hardly coherent. In fact, you're barely able to breathe through the choked little gasps that leave your mouth every time he lifts your hips and slams you back down again, burying his cock in you all the way to your womb and stretching you around him.
His car shakes just enough to be suspicious as you get ravaged in the parking lot of the bar he took you to to meet some of his childhood friends. The plan had been to get you to meet some of the guys he'd grown up with, and hopefully get you all on good terms, but you couldn't seem to behave for one night.
A couple drinks enough to get you tipsy paired with your loud nature had been enough to get you to go too far.
"He's -hic- totally my bitch, you guys," you'd said with a grin that took up your whole face, waving your hand dramatically. "He acts tough, y'know, all big and quiet and scary or whatever, but I swear to god," you leaned in across the table like you were telling a secret, all conspiratorial and smug, "this man says yes ma'am with a mouth full of my p-"
"Thatâs enough," heâd said then, right next to your ear, and you should've stopped, but you didn't.
The second everyone laughed, clearly loving how you were revealing such intimate details about their secretive friend, you only immersed yourself further into the moment. you'd let out this airy little laugh and nudged his thigh under the table, like you were just being cute.
"You guys donât even know," you'd giggled, your voice a little too loud. "Heâs literally obsessed with me. Like, whipped. If I even hint that I want something? Heâs already got it in the cart. If I want it in bed? Heâs already on his knees. Like, heâll beg for it, beg, and heâs so good at it too, you guys, itâs actually adorable,"
He didn't even say anything as he excused the two of you from his friends, hauled you out of the booth, and dragged you out towards the car for a "talk", and now here you are.
Your boyfriend remains surprisingly focused, but you can tell he's furious. His huge hands are gripping your hips so rough that his thick fingers leave indents on your flesh. Soft, breaTHy groans leave him as he stares at your fucked out expression, watching the way you shudder on him and struggle to take him in.
"You think you're so cute and funny, hm?" he grunts, his voice hoarse and deeper than youâve ever heard it. "You think I'm your bitch?"
He punctuates the question with a sharp thrust that makes your whole body jolt, your eyes fluttering shut as a broken cry escapes your lips. His mushroom tip hits right at the deepest part inside you that makes you see stars. He's so deep inside that you're sure if you looked down right now, you'd see him bulging out from your tummy
"Saying all that shit in front of my goddamn friends?" His hands push your body forward so that he's arching you harder to get deeper inside you. You can feel his huge, fat cock rubbing against your sweet spot with each thrust now. "Y'sat there and lied to their fuckin' faces like I don't handle you whenever I want."
You try to respond, but you can't whimpering and moaning stupidly to try and convey that you didn't mean it, but with how he's splitting you open, you can't.
"Shouldâve carried you over my shoulder out of the bar the second you opened that your mouth," he snarls, hips snapping into you harder. He drags you back onto his cock and stretches you out with each thrust.
His hand moves from your back to your throat, wrapping around it to guide your head back so you're forced to hear every word he sneers against your ear.
"Does this feel like I'm the one begging, baby?' he mutters, dragging his cock out almost all the way before slamming it back in, grunting as your body tightens around him. "Youâre dripping. Can barely fuckinâ hold yourself up."
"Ngh, I-I'm sorry!" you mewl, lips parted as moans leave your lips. His cock feels so good inside you, and each time he pushes himself in completely, his cock leaves a soft kiss on your womb. His fingers squeeze, sinking into your skin as he pulls you down onto his cock, impaling you over and over. His breath comes hot and heavy against your neck, his tongue lolling out to lave over your sweat-sheened skin, tasting you.Â
His free hand finds your nipples, rolling and pinching the stiff peaks roughly, sending jolts of electric pleasure shooting straight to your core. Your tits swell in his palms, aching and tingling from his groping, the hard points of your nipples feeling warm as he rolls the pads of his fingers over them, groping your breasts shamelessly while sinking his teeth into the column of your throat.
"Still got something to say? Huh?" he snaps, squeezing your throat hard enough to make your vision sparkle as he keeps driving into you, relentless and heavy, like heâs trying to fuck the brat out of you. "Go ahead. Say it again. Tell me Iâm your bitch." You try to catch your breath, head swimming, and whisper something like "I didnât mean-" but he shuts you up with another hard thrust that makes you gush around his cock.
His hips rise and fall with powerful thrusts, his massive cock disappearing into your plump, soaked pussy again and again. The thick, pulsing shaft stretches your entrance obscenely, your slick walls struggling to accommodate its girth. Each thrust forces lewd, wet squelches from your core, the obscene sounds of your juices being stirred up and splashed around his dick.Â
"Stupid mouth, always running," he breathes against your hair, his grip on your neck tightening just slightly. "Sayin' shit that makes me want to lose it. But I still show up for you. I still take care of you. I still let you act like a fuckin' brat because I love you."
You moan, turning your head to press your lips against his, hoping it shows him that youâre really sorry and love him just as much, and to your delight, he accepts it, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your mouth in response, his tongue rolling over yours. The head of his cock kisses your gummy sweet spot with every thrust, battering against the entrance to your womb, as if he intends to force his way inside and shove his cum right into your depths.
Suddenly, with a sudden, sharp tug on your hips, he pushes you forward off his lap. Before you can catch your balance, he's gripping your hips and pulling them back, shoving your upper body down onto the seats so youâre folded in half. The leather is cold and smooth against your palms as he positions you in front of him with him fucking into you from behind.
He wastes no time, gripping your hips hard enough to leave finger shaped bruises on your skin as he hilts inside you with one brutal, balls-deep thrust. The angle is different like this, allowing him to plunge even deeper, his spongy tip slamming into your cervix as he grips your hair and tugs your head back.
You're forced to arch your back, neck craning to look up in front of you as your boyfriend sets a vicious pace pounding into your slick pussy. Drool drips down your chin, a strand of saliva connecting your lower lip to your chin as garbled moans and desperate cries spill from your plush lips. "Fu-fuck, Iâm s-sorry baby... f-feels so good, I... m-more please..."
Your words come out slurred, broken by every hard thrust that rocks your whole body forward, his grip iron tight on your hips as he keeps you exactly where he wants you, bent over in the seat like a perfect little mess just for him. The second that needy little more slips out, he lets out this ragged groan through gritted teeth, one hand releasing your hip only to come down with a sharp smack on your ass, making you jolt and whine.
"Oh, now youâre sorry?" he growls, voice dark and low, laced with that edge of fury heâs barely holding onto. "Didn't sound sorry when you were running your fuckin' mouth back there."
Your plump pussy lips hug his shaft like a vise, stretched taut around his girth and glistening with your juices. each time he draws his thick cock back, you grip onto him, almost sucking him back in. Your soaked cunt makes the filthiest squelching noises as his cock plunges in and out.
Your boyfriend groans unabashedly, head thrown back as each thrust brings him nearer to orgasm, his eyes fluttering shut. With one last thrust, he slams your hips back against his groin, grinding your ass into his pelvis as he hits your cervix.
His cock jerks and throbs, pulsing as it paints your insides white with his hot, thick cum. Rope after rope of his seed floods your womb, filling you to the brim.
The feeling of his hot cum gushing into you triggers an overwhelming orgasm of your own. You scream, back arching almost painfully as pleasure crashes through you like a tidal wave. Your pussy clamps down on his spurting cock, the muscles rippling and milking him for every last drop of him.
He grinds against that sensitive spot deep inside you, rubbing and thrusting as he rides out the aftershocks of his climax. Every movement sends sparks of ecstasy shooting up your spine, drawing out your own orgasm. Your juices gush around his shaft, mixing with his cum as it squirts out around his cock with each press against that soft little sweet spot.
As the last spurts of cum paint your insides, your boyfriend leans over your back, his chest pressing into your shoulders as he pants heavily. His hands release your hips to trail slowly up your sides, almost tenderly, as if savoring the feeling of your sweat slicked flesh.
He huffs, low and warm against your skin, pressing a kiss to your shoulder now that heâs spent and still inside you. "Now we're gonna get you cleaned up and you're gonna tell my friends you're sorry for acting up. Let 'em see who you belong to."
it sickens me that there are so many men that simply never engage with anything made by women and they don't question it and they aren't questioned about it. they don't listen to music by women or read books written by women or watch movies written and directed by women or stop to look at paintings by women at museums and they're just allowed to go thru life never considering women as artists with no challenge or criticism whatsoever. meanwhile as a woman it's impossible to escape the male artistic point of view
i wanna beg joel to slap me and proceed to cry when his heavy hands do it too hardđââïžđââïžđââïž
warnings: fauxcest, reader calls Joel Dad, Joel calls reader kiddo/kid, face slapping, overstimulation, sizekink, dacryphilia, hint of breeding kink, hand kink, age gap obviously, mention of it being too much for reader, Joel is kinda mean but loving, he laughs at her a little, Joel is big and strong and heavy and reader canât move under him, I need him so fucking bad holy shit
âWhereâd you hear about that anyway?â Joel asks, his eyebrows raised. He puts another log into the fireplace, where a crackling fire is warming your living room. You shrug, your cheeks hot and red.
âIâŠdidnât.â
Joel looks over his shoulder, wipes his hands on his jeans, and gets up. He looks so big from your spot on the couch, tall as a skyscraper when you look up at him.
âYou came up with that all by yourself, kid?â
You shrug again. Youâre pushing it, you know you are. It took Joel weeks to finally fuck you after you begged him to, to see past the fact that youâve been calling him Dad for the past six months, ever since you came to this place.
âCâmon,â he says softly, walking over to you and looping one thumb through the belt loop of his jeans. âSpit it out.â
âWhen youâŠtook me on patrol. And we found that raider, and you thought he might have information on who tried to blow up the gateâŠyou slapped him.â
Joel doesnât answer for a couple of seconds, then he sighs.
âKiddo, I tortured that man for information. You want me to stick a knife in your knee, too?â
You blush further, and shake your head, but keep looking up at him, expression hopeful.
âChrist almighty, youâre serious, huh?â
Another nod, and Joel sits down next to you, pulls you against his broad and warm body.
âYou want me to slap your pretty face?â His voice is low and quiet, an undeniable tenderness laced through it. âSweetheart, itâs gonna hurt.â
âI like your hands,â you mumble, and wrap your fingers around two of his, your thumb tracing the lines on his big palm. âI like how strong they are.â
Joel chuckles, and lets his hand drift up and down your thigh.
âDonât say I didnât warn you, kid.â
***
âPlease, Dad,â you say, eyes wide, and Joel thrusts into you again, a low grunt falling from his lips.
âYouâre too pretty to hit,â he argues, and places his hand on your stomach, applying pressure gently until you see stars. He fucks into you deep, and not gently, but slow. Heâs thorough. Taking his time, pressing his fat cock into you until itâs on the brink of painful, his full body weight on top of you.
âPlease,â you beg again, and wiggle your hips impatiently when Joel stills inside of you. He stares down into your face, his breath coming in huffs.
âYou mean it?â
You nod frantically.
âYou want your old man to hit you?â
A hint of disbelief in his voice, but something else, too. Anticipation, maybe. You know Joel likes his strength, especially compared to your lack of it.
âYes,â you breathe, eyes wide and glued to his. He clears his throat, his cock still deep inside of you. You know youâre fluttering and squeezing around him, you canât help it.
âAlright, kiddo. Alright.â
His hand leaves your stomach, he slides it up your sternum and over your throat, then grabs your jaw.
âBite down,â he orders, âdonât want ya to accidentally bite your tongue.â
You obey, and he nods. Then his hand is gone from your face, and you close your eyes in anticipation, but Joel speaks again.
âLook at me.â
You do, your hips twitching upwards involuntarily. He chuckles at your impatience, and you whine, needy and desperate for him to start rutting into you again.
Then, his palm collides with your face, hard. The impact knocks your head to the side, and all the air in your lungs leaves your body with a wheeze.
âOh fuck,â Joel groans, and his hips push you further into the mattress, as he tries to fuck you deeper. His brain catches up, realises heâs already all up in your guts, and he drags his cock out of you, then slams back into you. Your cheek burns and stings, but the shock of the impact is somehow worse. Joel has never fucked you like this before, so uninhabited and out of control. You register your own moans and whines, as you lay under Joelâs heavy and big body, and simply take it.
He slaps you again, and your pussy spasms around him, your body unable to keep up with all the sensations youâre feeling. You feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, from the delicious pain, but also the sheer amount of stimulation. They roll down your cheeks, and Joel chuckles.
âI told you, baby, didnât I? Yâdonât know how to handle a beatinâ.â
He picks up the pace, his cock hitting your cervix with each thrust, and suddenly itâs all too much. A sob wrecks your body, because you feel so good, so much, because Joel is everywhere, and you canât help it, you start to cry.
âOh baby,â Joel coos, never stopping, âyou need a break?â
You move your head, half head shake and half nod, and Joel laughs quietly, his body pressing you into the mattress as he thrusts in and out of you.
âHow about you come for me, see if you feel better then? All wound up, kiddo.â
âYeah,â you breathe, your hand digging into Joelâs biceps.
âYeah,â he agrees, âyou just let go, sweetheart.â
And you do. It feels like your whole body tenses up, and you whine, as Joel presses his cock into you repeatedly. Erratically, your hips move upwards to meet his, but it doesnât matter youâre not meeting his thrusts, heâs too strong anyway. Just keeps fucking into you, as you twitch around him, your eyes wide but unseeing.
He almost never comes at the same time as you. He likes to wait it out, watch you twitch from the overstimulation. But today he grunts as soon as youâre done, and you feel his thick ropes of seed spill deep into you, your hands going limp with satisfaction and sliding down his arms.
âThere ya go, kiddo,â Joel mutters, his cock still spurting and twitching inside of you. âThere you go.â
His movements still, and heâs breathing heavily, his heavy body resting on top of you. Itâs hard to breathe, but you donât mind it, your eyes fluttering closed. Youâre exhausted, satisfied, plugged up with Joelâs cock, and used. His lips find your cheek, and you make a soft, satisfied sound.
The creatureâs hand closed around his throat with effortless certainty, lifting him from the floor as if he weighed no more than a book left open on a table. The chambers lurched in Victorâs visionâbed, wood, the skeletal silhouettes of instrumentsâbefore his back struck the stone wall with a dull, sick crack.
His breath left him in a strangled gasp.
âDo not speak,â the creature said softly.
The voice was wrong for such a bodyâtoo careful, too precise. Victor clawed at the fingers around his neck and found them unyielding, like iron that had once been flesh.
âYou presume much,â Victor hissed when the grip loosened enough to allow words. âYou come into my house andââ
âI come into your house,â the creature murmured, âbecause you would not come into mine.â
He tilted his head, the lamp-light cutting hard lines over a face both man and not-man: seams, shadows, patches of color turned strange by the hand that had arranged them. His eyes gleamed a sallow gold in the dimness.
âYou called the mountains my home,â he went on. âYou called the ice my comfort. You demanded I vanish from men. I obeyed you when I could. I watched. I froze. I starved. I waited. I am tired of waiting.â
Victorâs gaze darted past him, toward the narrow window that overlooked the dark water. Beyond the pond, the smaller manor sat in candle-soft silhouette, a gentle yellow square in its upper story like a watching eye.
A bridal eye.
âYou forget yourself,â Victor croaked. âYou forget who gave you life.â
The creatureâs mouth bent into something that might have been a smile if it held any warmth at all.
âOh, I remember,â he said. âI remember the first breath in my lungs and then the first repulsion in your eyes. I remember your footsteps fleeing down the stairs.â His grip tightened, just enough to make Victorâs vision spark at the edges. âYou made me. And then you called that act a crime.â
âI will not fashion you a companion,â Victor spat, fighting for air. âI will not loose a second fiend upon the world.â
The creatureâs eyes flicked again toward the pond.
âThen you should not have left me alone to discover what loneliness is,â he said. âYou should not have shown me what it is to watch others walk two by two while I wander the earth alone.â
Victorâs breath staggered.
The creature stepped closer, his voice droppingâtwisted into something far more dangerous by the refusal heâd been dealt.
âI asked you gently,â he said. âI begged you for a being who would look upon me without recoiling. Someone who would know the winter Iâve crossed. I asked you to give me a life I might hold, if only so I need not howl into the snow.â
His lip curledânot in malice, but in a grief flayed raw.
âA companion,â he breathed. âA single grace from you. You deny me that.â
Victor followed the creatureâs gaze despite himself. The little house across the water, so charmingly appointed for a brideâflowers, ribbons, a room set aside where you might dress and pray and tremble before being led to him. He had insisted you sleep there tonight, away from the noise of the main house, for âquiet reflection.â
âShe is innocent,â Victor whispered. Though he had hidden you away like guilt itself, the words came easily to him now.
âInnocent?â The creatureâs voice deepened. âAnd I am not? I did not ask to be born.â He leaned in, the glow of his eye catching every tremor in Victorâs face. âYou have something you will not give me. You hoard it. You call it virtue. You call it propriety. You build it a prettier cage.â
His gaze returned to the far window, to that soft square of light.
âI think,â he said thoughtfully, âI should like to look at your cage.â
Victor lunged then, a wild, useless effort.
The creature scarcely seemed to move. He simply shifted his weight, swept one arm, and Victorâs body left the wall with brutal speed, crashing into the bookshelves.
By the time he could drag himself upright, the balcony door stood open to the night, curtains flapping in the cold, and the creature was gone.
Out across the water.
Toward the smaller house.
Toward you.
For you had met him once, twice before.
Long before he had words, before his gait found certainty, before Victor called him abomination instead of achievement, you had descended into the cellar where Victor kept his secret.
You were not meant to be there. Victor had forgotten to lock the door. Or perhapsâGod forgive youâyou had simply been too curious.
He had been chained then.
A great, shivering form, stitched with brilliance and cruelty in equal measure, standing barefoot on the damp stone. His head had lifted slowly when you entered, as though the faint rustle of your skirts were thunder.
Those early hours belonged to a mind not yet awakened. Eyes too human in their sadness, too lost in their silence.
Victor had meant to show him to you as a triumph.
âPerfection,â he had said.
But when the creature breathed, when he lookedâtruly lookedâVictor recoiled from the very life he had summoned.
You had not.
You had stepped forward, heart pounding, but steady.
And in the cold, in the dark, in the stench of chemicals and loneliness, you had shrugged off your own cloak and draped it over his vast, trembling shoulders.
âI am sorry,â you had whispered, your voice shaking with pity you could not explain. âIt is clear you were made to stand alone in this world, Adam.â
Adam. A name.Â
He had watched you with those solemn, newborn eyesâeyes that knew neither malice nor mercyâand lowered his head as if accepting a crown.
Your cloak had swallowed him awkwardly, the fabric too small to cover his great frame, but its warmth had been the first gift he had ever received.
And he had remembered your scent.
That faint trace of lavender and winter air, pressed into the wool, the first softness he had ever been offered.
Victor never understood why the creature, on awakening, had searched the air as though looking for someone. Why he had quieted for a moment before his rage shattered the world.
But the creature had known.
And you had forgotten.
Or tried to forget.
Now he crossed the water not only with vengeance in his heartâbut because he knew the light in that small house.
He knew the warmth of the voice within it. He knew the scent of the cloak that no longer hung around your shoulders.
He was coming back to the only soul who had ever looked upon him without dread.
He was coming for you.
Ă Ă Ă Ă
The glass dome caught the candlelight like a captive star.
You sat before the mirror in your wedding dress, hands folded in your lap, and watched the imprisoned butterfly turn in slow, aimless circles behind the curved glass. Its wings were pale and fine, dusted with faint veins of gold.
Victor had caught it in the garden three days ago, smiling with a rare boyishness as he coaxed it into the jar.
âA keepsake,â he had said. âSo you will always have a little summer, even in winter.â
Now the creatureâs frail body tapped against the invisible barrier, an endless, soundless plea.
Your reflection studied it with you.
White silk clung to your bodice, the lace at your shoulders trembling whenever you breathed too deeply. A veil lay pooled in your lap like a second, paler sea.
Outside, the pond whispered softly to itself.Â
The balcony doors were open, and the sheer curtains billowed with each sigh of wind, wrapping the room in a restless, almost living motion.
You felt more like the butterfly than the bride.
âTomorrow,â you told the glass softly, as if you could bargain with it, âit will be done.â
Dawn, vows, a ring slid onto your finger by a hand that always felt more like a physicianâs than a loverâs. Victorâs eyes, clever and distant, on yours. The cold, careful kiss before guests. The rest of your life, measured in corridors and expectations and children you were expected to bear for a legacy you did not quite believe in.
âI do not wish to be ungrateful,â you whispered. âI simply⊠I do not wish to be his.â
The butterfly beat its wings once, twice. The softest, most futile rebellion.
Somewhere outside, a dog barked. The sound cut through the quiet, then died as if turned obedient mid-cry.Â
You frowned, turning slightly in your chair. The house had seemed so safe when Victor first brought you hereâsmall, separate, forever watched by the great main manor across the pond. It was almost a dollhouse beside a cathedral.
Tonight, the distance felt like an ocean.
Another gust of wind pushed at the curtains. The candles shivered. Your reflection wavered in the mirror, your own face dissolving into shadow and light, shadow and lightâ
And then the shadow did not move with you.
Your hand tightened on the edge of the dressing table. Slowly, without meaning to, you raised your eyes.
Behind you, where there had been only the open balcony doors and darkness beyond, something vast now stood.
Not Victor.
Not any man you had ever seen.
The figure filled the doorway, shoulders nearly brushing the frame, an outline cut in black and silver. Moonlight caught along ragged edgesâfrayed coat, rough stitching, the gleam of skin that did not match itself. His face was half-shadowed, but you saw the eyes: unnatural, dark but bright and intent as a predatorâs.
Your breath locked in your chest.
For a moment he did not move. He only watched you watching him in the glass, the two of you layered over each otherâyou in white, him in darkness, bound together in the mirrorâs thin world.
Then he stepped inside.
He crossed the threshold with a slow, deliberate grace that should not have belonged to such a heavy frame. The curtains wrapped around him, then slid off as if afraid to touch. When he passed the candles, their flames guttered, shrinking from the chill that seemed to follow him like a cloak.
He closed the balcony doors behind him with careful fingers.
You surged to your feetâso swiftly that the chair behind you toppled with a clatter, its wooden legs skittering across the floor like a startled thing. Silk gathered and whispered around your ankles, your own breath catching like a trapped bird as you tried to flee himâyet found the room had shrunk to the span of your own shadow.
The chamber, which only a moment ago had felt wide as a hymn, closed around you like a held breath.
Four walls.
One doorway.
And his breathingâdeep, deliberateâfilling all the spaces between.
He did not rush.
He advanced with the slow certainty of dusk swallowing day, as though time itself bent to his stride. As though you were a wild creature he meant to corner without startlingâyet the look in his eyes held nothing soft.
It was hunger. Not the hunger of flesh, but of years starved of mercy, sharpened on loneliness until it gleamed like steel.
Your back pressed the wall.
The plaster kissed your shoulder blades with a cold that felt like judgment. Your palms flattened helplessly against it, searching for escape where none could be found. Your heart thundered loud enough to shake your bones.
He heard it.
His gaze dippedâalmost absently, almost tenderlyâto the frantic pulse leaping at your throat.
âIt is youâŠâ my Adam, you breathed, voice trembling between fear and memory. âAfter all these years⊠what are your intentions?â
Your voice did not break. Instead it roseâclear, bright, trembling like a candleâs flame in a stormâ a tiny defiance against the silence tightening between you.
He stopped a breath away.
So close the air between you felt carved to fit only the two of you. So close the lamplight trembled along the seams that bound him, those terrible marks of the hands that had assembled him out of brilliance and ambition.
And as he looked at youâsomething inside him shifted. As though the murderous intent that had carried him across the water had struck a memory too bright, too gentle to coexist beside it.
For a heartbeat, the rage behind his eyes collapsed inwardâthe way a storm falters upon recognizing the place it once called home.
His face tightenedâconflict, fury, longing all warring at onceâand the blade of his intent dulled.
The hand that had been poised to strike trembled. A lightning-flash of confusion passed over his features, as if some part of him whispered, Not her. Not the hand that first warmed me.
The hardness in his expression loosened. A flicker, fleeting as a moth-light, softening the brutal line of his brow as though your nearness unsettled him in ways he knew the name of:
Did my fury bring me here, or my longing? Am I an executioner, or supplicant?
God, give me one heartbeat that is not hers. If I raise my hand, I fear the world will end. If I lower it, I fear I shall fall to my knees before her and beg her to stay as if she were breathing itself.
What am I, without my vengeance? What am I, that her voice can still the tempest in me?Â
A monster, yesâbut hers⊠if she bid me.
God help meâif she touches me again, I shall never remember how to let her go.
The strong line of a jaw that belonged to one man, the softened curve of a mouth that had belonged to another. . . It should have disgusted you.
It did not.
Because you knew these features.
âTo take,â he said quietly, âwhat he denies me.â
The words brushed over your skin like a cold fingertip. Simple, yet vastâlike a sentence carved on a tombstone whose meaning you only half understood, and yet whose shape you recognized.
Your breath caught. And before you could think better of it, you whispered,âAnd⊠what is it he denies you?â
The phrasing trembled from your lips like a candle flame bending in a draftâsoft, trembling, yet impossibly bold.
He lifted his hand, but he did not touch you. His palm found the wall beside your head instead, fingers spreading as if he might steady the whole room.Â
The position caged you more surely than iron bars. His other hand hovered, just shy of the silken sleeve at your shoulder, as if there were an invisible line he did not yet dare cross.
âOne learns from oneâs maker,â he murmured. âHe gave me a world in which love is a thing to be glimpsed and then snatched away. A thing for others. Never for me.â
His gaze slid toward the dressing table. At the glass dome.
âFor him,â he said, very softly, âit is a bride in white behind a window, promised, waiting. . .For me, it is a creature in a prison.â
He pushed off the wall and crossed the small space to the table in two strides.Â
You could have run then, perhaps, but some part of youâsome treacherous, spellbound partâremained where you were, watching.
He bent over the butterfly.
His large hand closed around the glass, dwarfing it. For a moment he simply held it, his head inclined as though listening to the frantic, useless tapping within. Then, without visible effort, he squeezed.
The dome shattered in his grip with a brittle, crystalline sound. Shards fell, tinkling, to the table, then to the floor. The butterfly burst from the ruin in a desperate flurry, its pale wings beating, beating, beating as it fled toward the open airâ
But the doors were shut.
It circled the room once, twice, and then found the narrow crack between curtain and pane, pressed itself against it, and slipped through.
A brief, luminous ghost. Gone.
He watched it disappear.
âSo fragile,â he said. âSo determined to escape its glass.â
âYou will kill me, then,â you whispered. Not a questionâmerely the shape of one.
He turned.
The murderous intent in his gaze had vanished fullyâbut something infinitely more dangerous had risen to stand beside it.
Recognition. Memory. That cold stone cellar.
Your cloak around his shivering shoulders.
Your voiceâsoft, trembling, humanâbegging forgiveness on behalf of a world that had birthed him in pain.
âI meant to,â he said.
He stepped toward you, and the room seemed to fold inward, drawn tight around his shadowâeach footfall slow as a tolling bell.
You felt your own eyes sting.Â
âThis is not how I remembered you,â you whispered, shaking your head, a tear slipping unchecked. Your hand roseâhesitant, achingâand cupped his cheek.
âWhy?â you breathed. âWhy would you come to do this?â
âI came,â he said, voice roughened as though shaped by winter itself, âto lay your death at his door. To make him taste the torment of losing what he holds dearâas he cast me aside after dragging me into misery.â
He stood before you, so near you could feel the cold clinging to his garments, the breath of stone and night woven into every seam.
Your breath wavered.
âAnd now?â you askedâscarce more than breath, a single trembling thread that bound you to him.
He looked at you then.
Not as vengeance.
His mouth bent, tender and broken, as though some lost smile struggled to be born upon lips that had never learned such a thing.
âHow can I?â he murmured. âYou⊠who first beheld me as more than the sum of my seams? Who reached toward me with gentleness?â
His throat tightened; the words nearly undid him.
âYou make me yearn to be gentler than the monster he swears me to be.â
A strange, wounded radiance stirred in his eyes.
âI will grant you this,â he said, voice low, as though each syllable were a stone he carried. âA choice. A true one.â
He turned slightly, gesturing to the open door, its darkness trembling like a held breath.
âYou may run, if your heart commands it. Go back to the world that knew you first. Leave me to my exile.â
His gaze fell thenânot in shame, but in something heartbreakingly close to sorrow.
âI will not bar your path. Only his.â
The admission felt like a fracture in the air between you. When he lifted his eyes again, there was a rawness thereâbare, unhidden.
âBut if you flee⊠and if some wandering truth of your spirit calls you back to meâŠâ
He drew a breath that shuddered in his chest.
ââŠI will follow. Not to claim you. Not to cage you. Only becauseâŠâ
His voice cracked softly. ââŠI know not how to unlearn the longing of the only mercy this world ever gave me.â
He stepped back.
Slowlyâsolemnlyâas though before an altar, he opened his arms. Empty. Offered. Vulnerable in a way no weapon could wound further.
âYou may stay,â he said, his voice roughened with sincerity. âOr you may fly.â
A heartbeat passedâquiet and aching.
âOnly choose freely,â he whispered. âFor love coerced is no love at all.â
You stared beyond his shoulder, through the faint blur of the balcony glass, the great manor burned against the nightânot with flame, but with expectation.
Hundreds of windows glowed like watchful eyes, music drifting through the dark like the dying notes of a dream.
Your future stood there, waiting.
Your prison, illuminated.
Your breath caughtâa small, shuddering thing. And then you moved.
It was not the graceful flight of a heroine sung in ballads.
It was a breakingâa gasp after drowning, the desperate lunge of a soul choosing itself for the first time. Your skirts snagged on a chair; it spun like a startled bird behind you.
Your hands tore the door open.
You ran.
The corridor narrowed like a throat swallowing you whole.
Portraits swam past in gold blurs, their painted eyes aghast, as though even the dead understood the peril of your choice. Your veil streamed behind youâa pale ghost chasing its own living mistress.
Then the night airâcold, sharpâkissed your face as you burst through the front doors.
And you froze.
Victor stood in the courtyard, the moon catching on the pistol gripped in his white-knuckled hand.
His eyes were wild, bright with the fever of purpose.
Your heart lurched.
You turned backâinstinct, terror, loveâall braided into one blinding command.
You ran for Adam.
He was already on the first landing of the stairs, descending fast, his enormous frame thrown into stark silhouette by the torches.
You collided with him, hands fisting in his coat.
âHe means to harm youâ!â you gasped. âAdam, heââ
âCreature!â Victorâs voice split the nightâfrantic, triumphant, unhinged.
âVictor, wait!â you cried, stepping forward.
The shot came like the sky cracking.
A savage burst of sound.
A bloom of smoke.
Heatâsharp, bewilderingâseared through your side before thought could rise to meet it.
Your knees gave way.
Adam caught you before you reached the ground, his arms closing around you with a gentleness that broke the dark open.
For the first time, true horror shattered his faceâat the blood staining his hands, at the truth dawning in his eyes.
Victorâs feral snarl faltered. His pistol dipped. His face blanched into disbelief.
âYouââ he breathed, the word strangled. âNoânoââ
But Adam did not spare him a glance.
He gathered you closer, as though shielding you from the very night that dared touch you. Your blood warmed his cold hands, spreading, claiming him.
When he finally lifted his gaze to Victor, the world seemed to stillâas if every tree, every stone, every star held itself silent in dread.
And when he spoke, it was soft.
Soft enough to haunt centuries.
Soft enough to be mistaken for tendernessâuntil one heard the promise beneath.
âYou aimed for a monster,â he breathed, âand instead extinguished the only light that ever reached me.â
Your vision blurredâpain, fear, the cold creeping in like a tide. But his face was the anchor.
Adamâs face.
Adam, who shook like a great oak in a storm, holding you as if he feared the world might wrench you from him.
âDo not leave me,â you whispered, fraying at the edges. Your fingers clutched at his coat, desperate, trembling, âTake me with you.âÂ
Ă Ă Ă Ă
The storm had climbed the mountain with them.
Thunder rolled across the peaks like an ancient drum. Lightning carved the sky into white-veined glass. Clouds pressed low, heavy, wet, their shadows swallowing the jagged cliffs.
Adam reached the summit at last.
He moved with brutal, breaking urgencyâyet he laid you down with reverence, as if afraid the rock itself might bruise you. The flat stone jutted toward the heavens like an altar abandoned to time.
Rain misted over your skin.
Wind caught at your hair.
And above you, framed against the crackling sky, stood the only face your eyes sought.
His knees struck the stone beside you, trembling under the fury of the storm. Water coursed down his temples, along the seams at his jaw, across the mismatched planes of his face.
Lightning flashedâbrief, blindingâand you saw it:
How beautiful he had become to you.
How human he looked in agony.
His hand hovered above your cheek, shaking fiercely, as though the very nearness of you hurt him.
He dared to touch you only with his fingertips.
A feather-light caress.
The kind a man grants the dying love he cannot save.
âStay,â he whisperedâ a heart breaking open into the rain. âOnly⊠stay.â
Your vision wavered.
His face drew close enough that you could see the sorrow in his gazeâraw, unarmored.
Lightning strobed again, carving his features in silver.
He bowed his head over you, voice splintering.
âI carried you here because this is the highest place I know. If you must⊠slip beyond meâŠâ His breath hitched, a sound torn from the ruined center of him. âThen let the last thing your eyes behold be the face that loved you.â
The thunder swallowed the rest.
He leaned lower, his forehead touching yours with a gentleness that shook the mountain more deeply than the storm.
In the flicker of lightning, in the hush between two heartbeats, in the trembling cradle of his handsâyou saw nothing but love.
Ă Ă Ă Ă
Adam moved like a man half-dead himselfâsilent, grim, unthinking except for the single purpose carved into his bones.
He gathered flowers for you.
Not plucked gently. Not chosen delicately.
Ripped.
Whole stalks torn from the mountainâs thin soil, their roots still clinging with earth. He laid them around you in trembling handfulsâwild alpine asters, pale heather, blood-bright poppies that should not have grown this high.
He spread them like a shroud. Like an offering. Like a crown.
The wind keened. The storm roared. The mountain shivered beneath the coming strike.
Adam did not.
Lightning cracked across the skyâso close the world split white. The air burned. Ozone stung. A jagged spear of fire struck the rock scarcely ten paces behind him, exploding stone into shards.
He did not flinch.
He stood above you like a monument carved from griefâunmoving, unbroken, unblinkingâwhile the heavens tried to tear themselves apart.
Rain slid down his cheekbones.
He looked down at youâyour lashes still, your chest still, your blood bright against the flowers heâd given you.
Lightning flashed again, painting him in blue fire.
âIf I cannot keep youâŠâ He swallowed, the sound raw, cracked. ââŠthen let the earth remember that once, just once, I was loved enough to wish to deserve it.â
Thunder rolledâdeep, ancient, shaking the mountainâs spine.
He leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours, and for the first time since he had risen from Victorâs tableâ
Adam wept.
One soundâlow, shuddering, carved out of a soul that had never been given permission to breakâescaped him.
Then he rose.
And he stepped back.
And he kept stepping.
And he turned awayâleaving you there among the flowers he had laidâ
walking into the storm, into the dark, into the world that had never wanted him.
Ă Ă Ă Ă
He was gone.
The mountain felt emptier than the sky.
And in the breath he left behind, something in the air changed.
The storm drew breath.
The wind stopped moving.
The world held still.
A single crack of white-hot fury split the sky openâand lightning slammed downward with the force of a divine decreeâan explosion of blinding light that struck you, not the earth around you.
father figure joel where heâs the only good thing in ur life in Jackson and having the biggest crush on him and being bullied bc of it but he looooves it
warnings: fauxcest, reader calls Joel Dad, Joel calls reader kiddo, Joel is readerâs father figure but itâs mentioned theyâre not related, teasing/bullying by strangers, Joel gets off on everyone knowing you have a crush on him, frottage
You moved in with Joel a while ago, back when the nights were so cold only a few houses were insulated well enough to make life in Jackson bearable. Everybody had to share their homes and privacy for a couple of months, and out of all the roommates you could have been assigned, Joel was definitely your favorite.
You both kept to yourself in the beginning, Joel sleeping on the couch downstairs and you in his bed, but thereâs only so much time two people can spend living together before they start to get to know each other. Joel shook you gently by the shoulder when a nightmare tormented you, and you brought him food and tea for a week when he had a bad case of pneumonia.
Youâre not dressed warm enough, he told you one day when you were on your way out to go to the Tipsy Bison. Go put on another sweater, kiddo.
Alright, Dad, you said with an ironic roll of your eyes, and although it was a joke, you noticed something flicker across Joelâs face. From then on, something changed. He became more attentive towards you, made you breakfast before he left for patrol, knocked on your door to say goodnight every evening.
You enjoyed it more than you should. There werenât many people your age in Jackson, and it was easier to let Joelâs quiet care wash over you, than try to find something similar elsewhere. So you found yourself thinking of how he squeezed your shoulder with his big palm every time you had a hand between your legs, how his deep voice said your name and called you kiddo. It was messed up, but after a while of indulging, nothing else could get you to finish. Doing that in Joelâs bed made your cheeks burn with shame, but it only added to the fire in your stomach.
Tommy caught on, of course. Teased you for it endlessly, you have a crush on all your Dads? You know, Joelâs never gone home with anyone from the Bison, I reckon youâve got a chance. Youâre lucky he canât legally adopt you, or youâd be in a bit of a predicament, huh?
These comments were usually accompanied by a good natured pat on the back, and you always laughed, right, Tommy, Iâll keep that in mind. You didnât mind, you knew Tommy only joked like that because he had no idea just how well he had seen through you. When someone overheard his teasing, you thought nothing of it.
***
Joel knows, of course. It would be hard to miss, the way your breathing hitches sometimes when he touches you, the sounds from behind your closed door when you think heâs asleep. His brother is an ass sometimes, but heâs not wrong, not this time.
Of course Joel tries not to indulge you. He doesnât blame you, either, his own brain has been warped by the apocalypse, too, and heâs glad your little fantasies donât seem to be of violent nature. So he tries not to treat you differently because of it, keeps making you breakfast and bringing you little trinkets whenever he finds something pretty on patrol.
People have started joking about your little crush with him. Rubbing elbows at the Tipsy Bison, I heard that kid of yours is in deep, huh? He always laughs, shakes his head, answers something that takes the heat away from you. You donât deserve to be bullied or made fun of, he wonât allow it. Not while youâre his kid.
He doesnât tell anyone about the way it makes his cock all heavy while he walks home to you after one too many glasses of whisky. Tells himself itâs the warmth and comfort of the bar, not the comments about the way you blush every time he looks at you. Still, he adjusts his jeans before he unlocks the front door, his fat bulge all too visible, even in this light.
âHi Dad,â you say and flash him a grin from the couch, all bundled up in your favourite blanket, a book in your lap. Joelâs cock gives a weak twitch, and he thinks he might have to try shooting himself again.
âHi sweetheart,â he drawls instead, taking off his boots, âwhat are you still doinâ up? Thought youâve got the early shift in the kitchens tomorrow.â
âI do, but I started David Copperfield,â you answer, holding up your battered hardback. Joel sighs, slips out of his jacket, and walks over to you, his joints cracking when he sits down on the couch.
âTen more minutes, then,â he answers, palm brushing over your shin. Even this innocent touch over your blanket is enough to make you shiver, and Joel feels his by now fat cock pulse in his boxers. He canât wait for you to finish the chapter, so he can relieve himself of this pressure.
âWill you wake me tomorrow?â you ask with a yawn, âI always oversleep.â
God, how glad he is sleep comes so easily to you. He can barely go a day without waking before the sun is up.
âSure thing, kiddo.â
âThanks, Dad,â you mumble, and Joel closes his eyes very briefly. Itâs a joke, a nickname. Itâs definitely not meant to make him almost come untouched in his jeans like a fifteen year old.
âIâll put you to bed,â he says, getting up with a soft sound of discomfort. You like to be tucked in, and Joel likes the way you look when youâre all tuckered out.
You tell him youâve brushed your teeth already, as he walks up the stairs behind you. Hop in, he tells you, holding up the blanket for you. You hesitate, eyes all wide and hopeful.
âWill you stay with me tonight?â
He should say no. He should jerk off in the bathroom, pray for an hour, and leave Jackson forever.
âSure,â he says instead, and you make room for him. He climbs in, glad the sheets cover his not so little predicament. Thatâs when you slide over to him, pressing your face into his side like youâre a dog nuzzling him, and without thinking about it, he turns onto his side to spoon you.
Your eyes go wide, and Joel feels like every drop of blood has left his body. You can feel it, his heavy and fat cock pressing up against your body, and despite the horror he feels, itâs also a relief. Finally itâs getting what it wants, your heat and pressure and touch.
âJesus, kiddo, Iâm sorry,â Joel mumbles and shifts his hips away from you, but you follow his movements, and Joel canât help the grunt escaping his mouth, when you start to grind against him. You whimper in response, something that sounds suspiciously like Dad, and he really really shouldnât, but he slides his hand down your stomach. He can tell how aroused you are, it would be plain cruel not to help you out. And Joel Miller isnât a cruel man, though he knows heâs not a good one either.
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romaincrisis
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