tiny brain hairball i horked up over the weekend, ghost x medic!reader (reader is butcher from dead dog's devotion), tw for wounds and woundfucking and suchlike :))
"Settle down."
A rough moan cuts through the last syllable. Your command falls on deaf ears, Simon's abdomen spasming below your hands with reckless abandon. Chasing touch that you promptly halt, palms pressed into the pillowy expanse of his stomach and side.
He pants beneath the mask, like a dog, and humps the air next to you like one too.
"I said–"
"Butcher," hitched breath, low timbre. Ghost's heavy tongue slurs across your callsign in the fucked-out drawl reserved to when you ride him to tears, "Butcher, fuck– please..."
Half hard and delirious—if he were any more capable of forming words you think he'd beg for you to curl your fingers inside him. Right there, love, tha's it, don't stop... don't you fuckin' dare stop–
The mask sits crooked across his nose. You imagine his face all screwed up under that, imagine that the muscles in his jaw work hard to contain the desperation with which he keeps pleading with you and fail to do so all the same.
Ghost bucks his pelvis and almost the entirety of his lower body. His knee misses your cheek by mere millimetres—you've just about had it.
The groans and pants turn wet now, and pained. Spine arched up and towards as though he cannot decide which relief to seek; agony or touch. Ghost bends at the waist finally, away from where you kneel next to him, but your hands are as relentless as they've ever been.
Work him until the glint of tears in wide brown eyes catches your peripheral and has you scoffing.
That makes it worse, somehow, if the completely out-of-it state of him could even get like that.
"Fuck's sake, Simon, if you don't hold still already…," you trail off, wrist tight with the effort to keep the angle that ceases the bleeding while he writhes to and way from you. He keens at the sound of his name, all of him drawn taut before that, too, snaps.
(Ebb and flow, a familiar tide set out to drown you all the same.
An ocean cannot escape its nature. Why had you ever assumed he could?)
He isn't really listening anymore, you can tell by the amount of blood coating your hands, seeping into your sleeves slick and heavy. Your lungs fill with the stench of it, iron and salt at the back of your throat. Ghost's movements grow sluggish right as you think that, maybe, this can be salvaged.
Fuck it, you think, and your legs move before you can stop yourself. thrown unceremoniously over his middle before you bracket his hips, knees stretched apart and no longer touching the grimy safehouse floorboards.
He goes infinitely more slack with the weight of it. You, hips flush to him like so many times before. An image worth reminiscing about—overshadowed completely when you force two fingers right into the depth of his torso. Seeking, applying enough pressure to allow your free hand to procure a roll of gauze from your pack. No more flailing around.
Later, when you sit alone in the infirmary and file away each of his noises for later times and and a dark bedroom, you will tell yourself it was a purely medical decision, that you needed to make sure he would stay awake right there, beneath the weight of you on him.
(The truth is uglier than that; more devout. You like taking him apart, like that he delivers himself into your hands time and time again.
That he is so willing to bear the meathook you cleave into his flesh if it doubles as the needle crafting his sutures.
The taste of him isn't much different from this memory.)
"See how easy that was? Behaving yourself?"
You can't help but give the hard outline of his cock a teasing swivel of your hips as you peel yourself off his broad thighs. He moans in anguish at both the contact and subsequent loss of it. And he nearly growls when your two finger retreat methodically from the wound in his flank and return almost immediately with a hard push, push, push.
It must feel somewhat hellish against the bruised and broken ribs laughing up at you from his deathly pale chest, all this movement, but you have the hole in his flank to tend to, the one gushing blood even against the white cloth you press into it.
The gauze is rudimentary first aid at best, and too bright in your narrowed field of vision but your last AAJT went to a Private evaced hours ago. This is all you have—and if the pleading groans coming from below you are anything to go by, you aren't the only one falling into a natural rhythm.
You are a creature of habit just like him, the routine of your hands in him and his hands in you and you on him and him all over you is nothing if not that; practiced and familiar and always reoccurring. It will not differ this time around. It can't.
(But it does, no?
A final round of prayer. Are you not tired of hiding behind your own altar?
You've seen Simon come apart beneath you before, willingly—lamb to slaughter, to surgery, to salvation. Are you sure this isn't what an ending looks like?
... can you be?)
With everything that has happened to Ghost?
The whine he lets out as you brush your bare digits across the flayed edge of the wound just this once, for him—because it's him, because you cannot deny him when he sounds so close and so broken, even when it makes no sense to you—is a balm to the evil voice in your head.
(No one else would treat him with such reverence. Your dog needs no leash when the only blood he licks is his own, is from his wounds, is on your hands. Slick and red-hot and always reoccurring.)