ghostheartfelt - Tumblr blog

ghostheartfelt · 9 months

Note

Hiiii! First of all I hope you're doing well <333 and second omg!! I loved your ghost smut 😭😭 I'm here to request smt if you don't mind, I've requested this before but nobody wanted to write it but feel free to not wrote it too if you don't like the plot but here we go:

Ghost breaks up with reader NOT because he hates her but because his next mission is really hard and dangerous and there was a really slim chance that he'd survive it. So he tries to push reader away to not hurt her feelings but things escalated and they break up but when he comes back from the mission they have make-up sex? 🤭 Thank you for reading all of this and if you can't write it then I understand, thank you for your time and effort 💗

*:･｡☆ a/n: hi anon~ thank you so much for being my first req!!!! And thank u so much for the support. I’m so sorry i took forever to get to this! but you bet ur sweet ass i’ll write this for you?! I hope you enjoy this regardless of how long it took me to get to it. mwah! -ur bbg cure

〔☆〕 desc: ghost is deployed on a mission in bangladesh that price explains as risky and complicated--ghost immediately thinks of you as the possibilities of survival are described as slim. him, gaz, and soap set out back to manchester, and no amount of talk is able to change his mind. he ends things off between the two of you, which arises a depressive state in you before he arrives and makes it up to you completely. (possibly takes place before ten minutes past?…. 👀)

*:･｡☆ tags: p in v, unprotected intercourse, whiny ghost if you squint, hand job if you squint, oral (f receiving), fingering, reader orgasms twice, cock warming, he sleeps with the tip inside<3, this hurt my breeding kink heart, pet names, possessive ghost, breast worship if you squint, break up and make up sex, porn with feelings. SMUTTY SMUT SMUT!!! not too bad, sadly.

—✩ N[EX]T REGRETS ✩—

word count — 4.3k

☆ (peep the song that inspires this writing...) ☆

Your hands are setting two plates on the dinner table; one for you, one for your boyfriend.

He was coming home from deployment—it’d been months since you’d last seen him, you’d lost track.

Silverware wrapped in cloth napkins are set beside the plates before you flick the cog of a lighter and ignite the candles in the middle of the table.

You turn yourself around to grab the cookie sheet of ribeye off of the counter after pushing on mittens, holding it in your palm as you place two steaks down onto one of the plates, then one onto another.

Then you take the tray back to the counter and set it back on top of the table cloth so it didn’t damage the marble.

Regardless of the fancy dinner setup, you were still in a black satin night dress and fuzzy socks. You knew Simon would just dress down himself the moment he got home.

You scooped steamed vegetables onto both plates, then potatoes and gravy with a sprinkle of chives.

When you place down the spineless wine glasses, you hear a heavy door slam causing a smile to crease your face.

Simon was home, he was going to come inside and he was going to hold you again for the first time in months. Run his hands through your hair for the first time in months. Kiss you for the first time in months.

You seat yourself gently on the dinner table, ankle crossed over the other with your elbows bent and palms pressed neatly on the wood as you wait for him to come inside.

You hear the door open, then shut, heavy padded footsteps approaching the threshold of the dining room.

Ghost is the one who comes through the archway—fully geared with the skull mask and helmet, the only thing he lacks is a rifle.

“Simon…?” You push yourself off your palms, confusion whisked on your face.

It was one of your rules, the mask stays off inside your home.

His eyes land on the neatly set table before they reach yours.

You approach him slowly and he tenses, your eyebrows stitching together in concern.

His stomach twists inside of him.

Gorgeous minx.

Absolutely breathtaking.

Beautiful perfection.

He couldn’t say anything he wanted to—and god he had so much to say.

Your eyes flicker to the windows alongside the front door seeing two other bodies.

Armed bodies.

He wasn’t staying.

“Can you all stay for dinner atleast? I made enough for everyone…” you smile softly while fumbling with the straps of his vest.

Stop touching me, you’re making this harder on me. Ghost swallows the knot in his throat.

There’s a pause before Ghost backs up.

“There’s someone else.”

It’s a lie, it’s a lie. It’s such a lie. Ghost

Something inside your chest tightens and you swear that it’s your heart.

“What?…” You scoff lightly, your eyebrows pinching together in disbelief.

Don’t make me say it again. Ghost inhales sharply.

“Simon…” you tilt your head slightly, extending your hand to touch him.

“Please, let me try to be better for you, give me a chance…” your lips quiver.

You don’t need to try and be better for me. Ghost thinks.

He knew you’d been reading articles on how to be in a relationship with someone in the special forces—he’d found out and closed the lid, sat you in his lap and kissed you so softly, telling you that you were perfect for him and you didn’t need an article to tell you how to love him.

But you know it’s real when Ghost jerks his shoulder away.

You know it’s real when you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood as tears start welling in your eyes.

You know it’s real when Ghost’s eyes evade yours.

You know it’s real when Simon turns around and he doesn’t spare you a goodbye.

You especially know it’s real when the door slams shut and rattles the walls around you.

It’s surreal, but you expected this.

He must’ve found someone on base, you thought.

You feel your knees give in beneath you, and you’re met with the floor.

A hysterical sobbed scream leaves your throat as your trembling hand lifts to drag down at your lips.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

Ghost stands for a moment on the doormat outside of your home.

Gaz’s hand finds a place on his back, the other holding his vest as he guides the larger male towards the truck they’d arrived in.

“Didn’t have to do that, Ghost.” He says, followed by a sigh.

“Did.” Ghost replies back as he seats himself in the back. “Wasn’t lettin’ her get my dog tags—she’s been through enough bein’ with me.”

Soap turns his head over his shoulder after sitting in the front passenger seat.

“Ay, L.T, we all know y’ll make it back t’ya pretty lass.” He says. “Y’r one of we bes’ fighters, ain’t that righ’, Kyle?” Soap’s elbow bumped into Gaz’s ribs.

Gaz utters a strained noise before nodding, hands wrapping around the wheel.

“‘M not takin’ that risk, now shu’up ‘n drive. Cap’s gon’ ‘b pissy enough.”

His head turns to look out the window as he feels the wheels of the truck roll down the driveway.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

It’s been seven months. Two-hundred-thirteen days.

All you do is work, eat, and sleep.

Eating, not as much as you should.

You couldn’t cook, couldn’t get yourself up from your bed the second you got home from work to start the stove.

You either sleep all day or not at all, there wasn’t a balance.

God, your living room was disgusting. Snot tissues were littered across the entire coffee table, empty champagne glasses, crusted food plates and crushed soda cans.

You’d resorted to hiring a maid just to clean your living room—which was the only room you stayed in for five months straight while your depression started getting progressively worse.

You lay on your side with a weighted blanket draped over you, holding you down comfortably.

Simon stayed in your head, even after half of a year. He invaded your head. It drove you insane.

At the same time, you were scared of the day that he wouldn’t be your first and last thought each and every day anymore.

You bunch the blanket closer to your chin, your wet eyes have drenched the little area to hell.

Things just have never been the same since Simon left the house–-you still happened to feel his presence next to you, hovering over you.

“There’s someone else.” His words settled an uneasy weight on your shoulders that you still were unable to shake off.

A splutter of sobs escapes you once again, tears blurring your vision as they fall and your nose starts to clog.

You try to breathe in, but you feel as though there’s not enough air around you. You breaking into a coughing fit is enough for you to push the weighted blanket off of your body and heave yourself up.

Spit and drool creates several small strings between your lips–you’re practically foaming at the mouth from how hard you’re crying.

Tears flutter off your eyelashes and further blur your vision, so you try and rub at your eyes with the heels of your palms desperately.

You stand up wobbly and start towards the bathroom, you didn’t have the energy to walk the extra couple of steps into your bedroom to use your own bathroom, so the guest bathroom would have to do for now.

You turn the shower knob and pull it out towards you after undressing, then step into the warmth and sink onto the shower floor, hugging your knees to your bare chest and letting the water run over your face.

Sobs cause your body to twitch and jerk, the heat in your eyes making your eyes burn as your breathing grows unsteady over the stream of water above you.

You just wanted him home.

But, he wasn’t yours to want home anymore.

He wasn’t yours to crave anymore or to love.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

A door slams so hard air causes the fabric of his shirt to flail in the wind.

Ghost had spent months struggling with the actions of his decision, where he had hoped that the choice would break you free of your shackles of worries when it came to the blonde when he was away.

He spent every night and every rising morning worrying someone would take his place. It would’ve been his fault, he knew that, and it made him want to scream at the top of his lungs until they felt raw in his chest.

He presses the lock button on his keys, hearing the locks inside the jeep click, then he jumbles with his keychain looking for the house key.

Ghost’s hands are shaking as he pinches the specific key and jabs it into the door lock, turning it.

When he hears the all-familiar click, he immediately pulls off his balaclava and pushes himself through the front door.

There’s silence–pure silence throughout the house except for the sound of running water.

She’s showering.

A short amount of relief washes over him as he bends to untie the laces of his boots, placing them aside.

When he stands, his eyes scan over to the living room and he feels his heart sink in him at the sight of the absolute mess made of the living room.

An overflowing laundry basket and take-out boxes that made the room stink of old fried rice.

He throws his bag behind him against the wall before he walks himself towards the pile of laundry and begins pulling out shirts and pairs of pants to fold against his knee.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

You took a two hour shower, most of it being of you shredding any form of emotion from your body that you could.

Now you were sitting on the fur-covered toilet seat, running your lotion-coated hands along your freshly shaven legs.

You told yourself you would try going to a club to replenish your sex deprivation.

Steam finally clears from the mirror allowing you to look at yourself in the mirror. Your hands pull the towel off your head, wet hairs sticking to your shoulders.

The bathroom smelt of your coconut milk shampoo and body wash–it smelt divine.

You thumb up your white laced bra and panties, plug in the blow dryer and scrunch your mop in your hands as you wave the blow dryer over your hair.

It seems like hours, being only nearly ten minutes until your hair is somewhat dry, but your arms are tired, so you unplug the dryer and wrap the cord around it.

You leave the bathroom and walk back into the living room, pausing in motion at the sight of it being clean–your laundry being neatly folded on the coffee table.

“Kris? Is that you?” You call, not too loudly.

She had a key to your home, but she had stated she wouldn’t be available this week due to some personal reasons she wasn’t required to go over with you.

You walk over towards the couch and drag your hand along the cotton material.

There was no reply to your call, which concerned you. You hadn't contacted any of your family members to come visit.

You slowly turn yourself around and the breath is practically stolen from your lungs.

Simon’s standing across the room from you, clad in a black t-shirt and jeans, a belt secured in the front.

You watch his eyes drag up and down your exposed body, watching as he inhales sharply while his eyes narrow.

“Love,” He mumbles.

Your eyebrows furrow and you lift your neck up. “Why–why are you here?” “Will y’let me explain?” He sighs.

“Does she know?” You reply quickly with a shaky voice.

“Does wh–”

“Does she know you are here, Simon.”

There's silence, then he licks his dry lips.

“There is no she.” He says flatly.

“No,” you scoff, running a hand down your face, eyes darting to the side as you listen to him walk closer toward you. “No…no. No–I remember specifically…” your angry, now.

Simon catches your lips in a firm kiss, but you push him away, and the look in his eyes makes your chest ache.

“Please,” Simon’s eyebrows pinch together.

“Stop, just stop.” You seethe, pressing your finger into the midsection of his chest making him back up some. “You said there was someone else, you said–”

“I was lyin’, there wasn’t.” He pauses, frowning.

“Bullshit,” you shake your head. “Fucking bullshit, Simon Riley!”

“Let m’talk.” Simon says gruffly, his tone stern.

You swallow thickly and lower your head in defeat after nodding, finger lifting so you can chew on your cuticle bed.

“I…I let a debriefing get t’me. Said there wasn’t much’a chance of survival–can’t say much, y’know that…but I didn’t want y’to have to go through that.” He explains.

His hand reaches down to lift your chin, thumbing at any stray tears making their way down your cheeks. “Forgive me, lovie.” Simon leans down to close the gap between you both again, this time you submit and his hand cradles the back of your head.

The kiss is slow and passionate–gentle with its hints of dominance.

“Missed you…” He mumbles over your lips, hands finding your ass to knead the supple skin.

You gasp slightly, but cave in to his touch instantly. “And I missed you…”

“Please…never do that again.”

His forehead rests on yours a moment, fingers toying in your hair by rolling pieces between his fingers.

“‘M sorry.” He murmurs.

He wasn’t the type to apologize, you knew that. His apologies were sincere and meaningful.

Your hands grip his shirt.

“Over half a year, Simon…” Your voice is so low, you couldn’t even call it a whisper. “This whole time…”

“I know…I know…” He mutters into your hair, taking in your scent.

“Will y’let me make it up to ya, love?” Hot breath rakes over the side column of your neck.

You simply nod, and that’s all enough for him to pick you up by your thighs and for you to wrap your legs around his waist and rut against him.

He guides you both into your bedroom, seating you on the edge of the bed.

“So fuckin’ sexy when y’r half-naked ‘n angry…” Simon chuckles dryly as he drags a finger up your clothed cunt.

“Simon…please…” you mumble into his shoulder.

“I’ve got’ya, gorgeous.” He says cooly while laying you flat on the bed.

Simon slips his fingers past your panties, his cock twitching in his pants at the feeling of your wetness spreading along his fingers.

“Ffff..uck, babe, you're so wet for me ‘lready…” he whispers.

You gasp as his finger slips up and down between your folds, making you twitch as he passes your throbbing clit.

“So fuckin’ divine…” he purrs above you, eyes full of love and lust. His other hand finds a place on your thigh, squeezing the flesh as he works at your warmth.

You whine, watching as his teeth bite at the lace lining of your panties, pulling them down as his eyes don’t stray from yours.

“Oh…fuck…” you bite your lip gently, the action making you fanny flutter to the point of aching.

“Jesus…” he breathes against your thigh, pressing his lips along the skin and sucking it until he’s satisfied with the markings.

Simon scoops up both of your legs by the crooks of your knees, spreading them apart as he shifts down to rest his knees on the ottoman spread across the end of the bed.

A shuddered moan releases from you as his tongue prods at the hole in your cunt, then drags up to swirl around your sensitive bud.

Your hand grabs a tight hold in his hair, making him groan against your core and increase the pressure and sensation in your stomach.

A whimper leaves your throat as he sucks and laps at your pussy, making you buck into his jaw.

“Jus’ like that, baby,” he growls onto you, pressing a wet kiss onto your clit. “Y’gon cum all over m’face like a good girl?”

You mewl and cry out as Simon slips a finger inside, your back arching and thighs jerking.

“Simon!” You gasp loudly as your fingers dig into his back over his shirt.

His tongue drags flatly up your cunt, collecting all your juices—he’s practically drinking you.

Another finger pushes inside gently, curling inside that same spot he’s able to find so effortlessly each time that makes you go wild.

“Gon’ c…cum…” you stutter meekly.

“C’mon then,” he urges. “Cum f’r me.”

Simon quickened his pace and the pressure, pumping his fingers in and out, in and out.

Like he was starved, his face presses closer into you, tongue toying at your clit making you twitch against him.

There’s an unbearable heat between your legs as you feel a knot tie in your abdomen when Simon levered his fingers deeper into you.

“Good…” he groans, pressing his tongue inside with his fingers as your walls clamp around him desperately, a strained moan leaving you as your orgasm snaps.

You cum, hard, and grip his shoulders with both hands as his fingers fuck your orgasm back into you before he finally pulls his fingers out to coat your thighs in your climax.

Simon sucks out his work, then spits it back out onto your heat, slapping your pussy and releasing a deep groan.

He licks his fingers clean, his tongue sliding between each finger.

You lift yourself up by gripping his belt, slightly wobbling before his hand finds a spot to rest on your back.

“Fuckin’ hell…cum drunk ‘lready, sweets?” Simon bends down to take your mouth onto his, taking the chance to slip his tongue between your lips when you moan into his.

Gently, you palm his hard cock over his pants, eyes squeezing shut then opening to find your place on his belt and fumble with the buckle.

“Mm—y’find what you were lookin’ f’r?” He pants heavily before his lips trail down your jawline to lick and suck at your neck.

“Oh..fuck…” he murmurs, lips brushing against your skin.

“Want you so bad, Si…” you moan, lifting your head to grant him better access. “Want to feel you inside of me.”

He pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere across the room while he kicks off his pants that you helped pull down Simon’s hips, lips then coming back down to tease at your collarbones and neck.

“Ooh..ho…you will, don’t y’worry, sweet girl.” His cock sprung free out of the restraints of his boxers, making him groan hoarsely.

Simon’s fingers tap on the outerside of your thigh. “Turn over,” he demands.

You babble out nonsense that is incoherent as you flip on your stomach and one of his hands gather both of your wrists.

He’s on the bed now, between your legs with one hand holding you up by your stomach.

The head of his cock teases at your entrance, lips trailing up your spine.

“Y’want it?” He growls. “Huh?”

He inhales sharply, nudging the tip into your greedy hole. “God…you do…”

“J’s suckin’ me in like th’needy little pet y’are.”

You moan out a chant of pleases, cheek pressing into the comforter of the bed as he arches and positions you to his liking.

“Y’want this thick cock in y’r empty pussy.”

“Yes…” you mumble, backing into him

softly until you take in his entire tip which causes the larger man to apply more pressure into your stomach. “Fuck me, please…please…”

“Oh…Mmm…Such a good girl beggin’ f’r my cock.” Simon praises, letting you bounce on his tip for a few moments.

“Tha’s right baby…jus’ like that…I own this pretty little cunt, don’t I?” He snarls. “Nobody else’s to fuck.”

“Only yours, just yours,” you nod helplessly, earning a positive noise from the man behind you.

He takes in a sharp breath before slowly he inches himself into you farther, stretching you.

Filling you.

You moan loudly, your walls closing around his length making him push out the same noise.

When he bottoms out in you, his tip kissing your cervix, he retracts and ruts back into you, the sound of skin slapping filling the room as he hisses and breathes harsher at every thrust.

“Oh…” he sighs in ecstasy, releasing your wrists so he can grab the fat on your waist.

“Yes…” he moans, every contact with your hips causing the breath in his mouth to jump and fall.

“Tight little pussy just swallowing me,” Simon hisses through clenched teeth as he painfully yet deliciously stretches you open to his size. “So—fuckin’ sexy.”

“Want y’to cum in me, please…” You gasp, clawing at the comforter as he bucks himself deep into you, filling you up and emptying you, repeating that motion over and over.

“Want me to fill y’with my seed?” He chuckles, a moan interrupting him. “Tha’s what my slutty pet wants?”

“Fucking yes! My god, yes…” you pant, muttering and whining unintelligibly as he slams back into you and makes your ass slap against his thighs.

“Too bad,” he croons.

“Simon…pl..ease..” you moan.

“No…no, I can’t…cum in ya, love. We—we ain’t thinkin’ straight…” Simon’s cock twitches inside of you as he continues ramming his hips into yours, a guttural groan tearing out of him.

“I can feel y’tightenin’ around me, j’s beggin’ to cum around my fat cock…”

“There y’go…Bounce that gorgeous ass on me, j’s how I like it, babe.” Simon strains, hand roughly smacking the skin on your hind.

You squirm against him, making the blonde growl and grab your hips with a bruising grip. “Y’feel me stretchin’ y’r tiny pussy?”

“Mhm? Y’do?” He grunts, heaving above you as he thrusts himself into you. “Fuckin’ take it, filthy fuckin’ minx.”

“Look at you, such a pretty pet, bent to my content…Pussy out on display.”

“Gonna cum, gorgeous, all over your perfect belly.” He mumbles and flips you onto your back.

You moan shamelessly and loudly, whining as he pulls out of you and starts stroking himself while playing with your pussy.

“Fu…u…ck…” his head leans back as you massage his balls and replace his hand. “J’s likeee…that, perfect girl…”

He rubs his middle and pointer finger over your clit at an inhuman pace, making your body jolt and try to push away if it weren’t for his hand holding you roughly in place.

You roll your wrist up and down, pumping his cock in your hand until he takes control again and smacks his tip against your lower abdomen, spilling out his cum onto your stomach with a choke of your name.

Simon’s body twitches, pants and swears rolling off his tongue in a pleading voice as he covers you in his warmth.

“C...C’mon lovie, cum all over my fingers again, let me sss…see y’come undone f’r me again…N…Need to see it…” He stumbles over his words as he comes off his high, an undertone of a whimper in his voice.

It makes you pool, your ego skyrocketing at the fact that you can do that to someone. To him.

Simon’s fingers hit every perfect nerve inside your pulsating cunt, curling and plummeting into the same spot of overwhelming pressure that brought you over the edge.

A tightness coils in your stomach again, and he absolutely fucking loves the strained noises that spill out from you at every rut of his fingers inside of you.

He loves the way he can get you wrung out at every pet name and gentle touch, the way you clamp your thighs together at the smallest motions.

Simon knew your body better than you did, and he fucking loved it. He knew every spot that drove you absolutely mad and every crevice that had the ability to make you beg just how he wanted.

Your eyes shoot open from their half-lidded proportion as Simon finds a certain spot that sends electricity throughout your entire body, making you cry out and dig your nails into his scar-ridden flesh.

“Righ’ there, huh, princess? Righ’ there?” He hisses which drawls out to a throaty growl, hammering that same spot with more pressure. “Couldn’t stand bein’ away fr’m this pussy f’r so long…”

You chant ‘yes’ over and over again until your gasping and panting his name, your breath catching in your throat as you let out a loud cry through your climax, thighs trembling as they slowly close around his forearms in reflex.

He lifts your thighs up again and sits you on his lap as he pulls the covers over the both of you.

“Did s’good for me, lovie. Mmm…S’proud of you, baby.” Simon whispers, catching your lips in a ravenous kiss as he presses his cock inside of your warmth, pushing your climax back into you in a tranquil motion.

“‘M gonna be right back, okay?” You coo against his lips as you swing your legs over the bed, he gives you a small ‘mhm’.

You quickly give yourself time to use the bathroom, then wash your hands before you walk yourself back into the room, crawling back into his lap before he turns the both of you to the side.

Simon unclips your brassiere and drops it onto the floor, cups both of your breasts in his palms and moans as you slide yourself back down onto his cock.

“Mmh…So warm…” he whispers huskily while kissing the nape of your neck down to your collarbones.

He spoons you, lulling you into a state of drowsiness as he gently massages your tits. Simon’s breath is a gentle pattern over your neck, gentle snores leaving the barriers of his lips after his hands go still.

You don’t take long to catch sleep right behind him, turning your head a moment to peck his wet lips before you’re able to finally shut your eyes.

#ghostheartfelt #ghostheartfelt writing #simon ghost x reader #mw2 smut #ghost riley smut #simon riley #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #mw2 x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost modern warfare #ghost cod #ghost imagine #simon ghost x you #simon ghost riley imagine #ghostheartfelt ;; 👻#ghostheartfelt writing ;; 👻

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ghostheartfelt · 9 months

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knowing he misssed a loop always makes me giggle at random times during the night

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ghostheartfelt · 9 months

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*:･｡☆ warnings: heavy gore, torture, hurt/comfort, whump, s/a towards reader, men being gross, gunshot wounds, stab wounds, blood and violence, branding (torture method), waterboarding (torture method), reader (thaye) is a badass, first kiss, dismemberment of fingers, eye trauma, protective!ghost, implications of smut/sex, aftermaths of torture. (there is probably a lot i missed, but idc lol all the other shit should b enough warning!!) 〔☆〕 desc: you and the 141 are deployed to austria with the intel of a drug boss known as rolmuth who is harboring romanian soldiers to the east coast to smuggle illegal mercenary personnel into america. what happens when a rapid snowstorm picks up and you (callsign 'thaye') are separated from the others then further captured and interrogated alongside your lieutenant?

—✩ PHANTOM TOUCH ✩—

word count —15.6k

a/n: sorry for my inactivity! the entire time i was workin on this shit... let me tell you.. this is 51 pages on google docs LMAO so i hope the length and word count makes this fat fucking hurt/comfort one shot worth it.

VIENNA, AUSTRIA.

“Move, move, move!” Price yells.

Snow fell and blanketed the ground beneath you, you were dressed in white camouflage tactical gear.

Your movements were slower as you trudged yourself through the snow, you turned in every direction searching for your captain.

Your lieutenant.

Anybody.

Rapid snowy winds smacked you in the face, nearly forcing your eyes shut as you traveled through the gusts.

“Soap?!” You shout, planting your feet below into the patches of snow,

Your arms raise to cover your face.

“Fuck!”

“Thaye!” A voice echoed through the snow that encased you in a blanket of long silence.

Snow nestled into the ground below—everything around you seems to just slow down.

You traipse yourself heavily through the thickness around you as you snap a clip into your M4 carbine, swinging it behind you like it had been previously.

Thump.

Your head droops down and you feel your heart drop into your stomach seeing the body of one of the men you were deployed with face up.

His head four inches deep in the snow and his right eye completely destroyed, his chest marred with several bullet wounds.

The root of his nose is fractured to the point where it’s flattened into what’s left of his skull.

You swallow the knot in your throat that might have also been barf trying to make its way out of you, kneeling down to peel the soldier’s dog tags off of his corpse.

Hudson “Scooter” Wheeler.

It makes you smile slightly, your thumb dragging over the metal tag to wipe off the thickness of blood that had coated the carving of his name.

“I’m sorry, Wheeler.”

The loss of fallen soldiers leave footprints and engravings on one’s heart that never allows them to be the same, again.

You wished sometimes you could just be without the worry about who you have to lose and who you have to save.

Restless nights followed by mornings and afternoons full of nothing but unpromised resolutions. You nearly felt as if insanity would be a better route than going through the pain of losing the people you stood side by side with, enduring the effects of grief, bloodshed, and war.

Although there were moments of bonding and camaraderie that were forced to turn into utter gore and distrust due to the change of the objective that deemed those to turn against one another in hopes of survival and success.

Pride; a fickle sense that could drive an individual to the depths of madness and create a staked claim to prove more power then they own or deserve.

You didn’t understand it. Nor did you want to.

You were left in a society where the drabness of gray ruled the world and pain of loss clenched to the soldier’s hearts almost desperately.

And yet that perpetual colour of gray; a colour so dull but so compelling, it still lights the depths of hell you lived in by merely a petite dose.

Your mouth had begun to feel tacky with your muscles stiffening as the weather conditions intensify by every fleeting moment.

Inside your combat boots, you feel your feet begin to grow numb; similar to the feeling of stepping on fresh-cut grass and grazing dull needles.

Now, you wonder what hypothermia would feel like. You weren’t used to this sort of weather.

Even under your white half-face balaclava, you felt your lips and their absence of moisture.

Still, you trekked forward, squinting eyes searching for any sign of life around you.

Your face lights up at the sight of a shadow-like movement through the blistering storm and rapid winds once you wipe off the frost lingering on your goggles.

They moved closer—it seemed to be one person.

There’s a tree to your left—your legs manage to jerk themselves through the snow until you're beside it.

You cautiously lower your body into the snowpack below you, clutching your rifle in your grip while your eyes fixate on the moving figure ahead of you.

Your finger grazes over the trigger of your carbine rifle.

A leg comes before the torso, then the face.

The skull mask.

Ghost.

Relief washes over you immediately—raising to your knees.

“Lieutenant!” You call.

His head immediately snaps in your direction, and the time spent staring at each other seemed everlasting, though in reality it was just a few seconds before his large hand was squeezing your shoulder and he was right in front of you.

“Thought we lost’ya,” Ghost rasps.

“What’s the sitrep?”

“Enemy force has ordnance on standby—Price ordered all units to the West Safehouse,” he says.

You nod softly.

“Why’d you hang back?”

His eyes widen under his balaclava and you open your mouth to speak—Ghost tugs you by your vest, pulling you to the side.

“Gh—“

There’s a person behind him.

Sounds muffle around you, complete silence surrounding you as Ghost’s head is slammed with the butt of a rifle.

Your hands reach down to pull your handgun from off of your hip, pointing it towards his attacker, squeezing on the trigger and unhesitantly dropping him to the ground before he can double back and finish him off.

No words leave your mouth as you turn in one quick jerk, the barrel of a L1A1 being aimed between your eyes.

Not even seconds later was the thick handle of a bowie knife met with the back of your head.

Immediately, your body meets with the snow, and you feel the coldness of the snow over your mask.

You struggle to pick up your head, pain surging in the back of your head enough to blur your vision.

Keeping your eyes open was a challenge—they constantly blink shut as you watch the enemy force yell at each other, manhandling Ghost by ripping his weapon sling off of him and dragging him by his fur-lined parka.

His body was dragged up into a Humvee and roughly thrown in before you were picked up by your ankles and wrists and tossed right on top of him.

Your head slumps against Ghost’s bicep as you're washed up by incapacity, your mind fogging against your will. Enervation holds you captive and sweeps you off your feet.

You’re met with blackness, next, yet the only thing you could think of was your failure to protect your superior.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

You awoke to the sounds of struggling—something teetering on the floor.

It takes a moment for you to come to your senses and stir from unconsciousness, eyes fluttering open to take in your surroundings.

The ever-present smell of waste and deteriorated flesh smacks you with reminiscence, the overbearing cold, the taste of grime, blood, and bile in your mouth.

When you go to move your hands, they’re immobile; binded by thick ropes that with your state of exhaustion and physical weakness, would be impossible to escape from.

Your heavy head manages to shift for oneself to observe the room—your gear was purloined, leaving you in your cargos and a tank-top.

Below you, the ground was concrete and stained with blood that led to the large metal door that had a closed hatch.

Vaguely, you recall in short and brief flashes why you were there, your eyes shutting for a few moments before opening once again.

Ghost.

Where was Ghost?

“Lieutenant,” you cough. “Ghost, wh—“

“‘M here, kid.” Ghost wheezes. “To’yr left.”

Your head turns, stopping at the sight of his mask on the concrete, blood smeared across the maw of the skull, over the eye socket.

“Ghost, are you injured?”

“No.”

Slowly, your eyes trace up the ground beneath you until Ghost’s boots are in view.

His soles skid against the ground as he attempts to drag the dentist chair he’s strapped in. “Fuck!”

You shift in your wooden seat in an attempt to reach your hand down to pull up the velcro flaps of your cargos. You couldn’t reach.

Ghost’s boots stop skidding against the floor as the metal door’s rusted hinges creak, the door being flung open to welcome a man inside—three other men were behind him holding military grade rifles with drum magazines.

The man inside the room raises his hand, offering departure in the Hindi language, to which his men shut the door behind him.

His arms were wrapped behind his back, the sound of his heavy boots echoing off of the thick stone walls.

He walks around the room for a while, allowing you to raise your head to take in who he was.

A European man that’s approximately 184 centimeters with long pushed back shaggy dark hair; his eyebrows arched, a bushy beard.

On his cheek, a nasty deep laceration scar that reaches the end of his eyebrow. Under his left eye, another scar reaches the bridge of his nose.

The man is inches from your face, now, a tilt in his head.

“We see how long it takes to break you, Sergeant.” His eyes crinkled as his lips upturned in a depraved smile.

He lifts himself from his bent position, grips the crest rail of the chair, and pulls you farther from Ghost.

“Who is your commanding officer?” He asks, feet spread apart as he looks down at you to assert his dominance.

“Fuck you.” You bite back.

The man’s hand roughly takes hold of your chin, tilting your head up towards the dangling ceiling light.

“I eat boys like you for breakfast.”

Ghost chuckles beside you.

His eyes narrow as he releases a choked scoff, his head swinging back before bursting into laughter.

“My drug ring reigns across the entire country—my men swarm all city.”

His accent is thick, though his English isn’t terrible.

“It is either you tell me now and you and friend die quick, or you die slow of bleeding until we find on our own.”

“Good fuckin’ luck,” Ghost grunts.

You swallow thickly, groaning as the man pulls your head back by the scalp of your hair.

You purse your lips as you collect saliva from the walls of your mouth, spitting just above the man’s eyebrow and watching as the gob runs down over his eye.

He snarls, dragging an open hand down his face. Using that same hand, the male flexes his hand into a fist and socks you in the jaw.

“Hey!” Ghost shouts.

You hear it pop and you immediately outstretch your neck and slam your forehead into the bridge of his nose, arms jerking in an attempt to escape your restraints. “You motherfucker!”

He lets out a groan, his head flinging back as blood streams down his nostrils, his hand trembling over his nose.

“Bitch! Madarchod! Bevakooph veshya…” He hisses through clenched teeth. “Broke my nose!”

His palm smacks you across the face so hard, a pinkish red hue starts blossoming across your cheek. He repeats it again, then again, and again.

You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself as numbness circles inside the flesh of your cheek, a similar feeling to those static electricity globes that you’d get for your twelfth birthday and press all five of your fingertips against.

“Hey! This is between you an’ me, a’right?” Your lieutenant gives a sharp nod, trying to reason with the man.

He stares at Ghost for a few moments, squeezing his fingers in his fist before leaving the room, the door slamming loudly behind him.

You take the moment to actually look at Ghost, your eyes taking in his features entirely.

From his long and messy dirty blonde undercut, to his shade and stubble.

To his bruised and bloodied lips and the thick scar running from his top lip to the underside of his chin.

To his thick and beautiful eyebrows, the scar on the start of his left eyebrow, running down to the bridge of his nose.

To his deep and all familiar brown eyes—long and light eyelashes accompanying their shape.

To the scar that spread out from the right inner corner of his lip and across his cheek as if it was the engravings of a smile line.

There were several scars littered across the male’s face; each one of vast distinction from the other.

Once again, the door thrusts open and the man returns, cotton wads up his nostrils with another male by his side, pushing in a rolling mayo stand with different tools and items you assumed were torture devices.

“Hey! Hey! What’re y’doing?” Ghost jerks in his seat, his eyebrows furrowing as the man picks up a syringe, flicking the glass and squeezing out a droplet of the liquid inside. “What th’fuck is that?”

“You will have your answer soon enough,” he simply replies.

“Agarwal—blade.”

The second man grabs the rotary tool from off the tray, a saw blade in the other.

Your hands tug against their bindings enough to chafe your wrists, it feels as if your skin is being shredded with a cheese grater.

“Paip rinch, ab.” The taller man holds out his arm, to which the man who was now identified as Agarwal hands him a pipe wrench.

“English, asshole.” You grunt.

He slings it over his shoulder and slowly walks towards Ghost as he whistles.

Ghost’s eyes don’t avert from his gaze, even as the pipe wrench drops from off his shoulder to clatter on the floor, hanging from his wrist and dragging along the ground.

“Who…is…your…superior?” His voice is grim, each word coming out as he takes a step.

Using the hook jaw of the wrench, he lifts Ghost’s chin.

“Piss off,” the blonde huffs.

Not even seconds later does the man swing the wrench around and belt it into his stomach. Ghost lets out a wheeze, his body lurching over in reaction to the sudden pain coursing through him.

“No!” You yell.

“Who.” He asks again with spite in his tone—he was demanding, it no longer was a question in his favor.

“You’ll know who when he comes’a knockin’ ‘n blows lead thru th’lot of ya.” Ghost says with a slight raise in his head.

The wrench is swung back into his stomach, causing Ghost to hurl and expel vomit onto his boots.

“Leave him the fuck alone!” You kick yourself forward a bit using your boots. Agarwal’s hands grip the slat of the chair and pull you back towards the tray.

“No, no,” he nearly coos, yanking your head back by the thinner group of hairs on the nape of your neck.

You clench your jaw and subside, lifting yourself up with your hips to help avoid the pain.

His eye’s strain, beads of sweat rolling down the end strands of his hair regardless of how cold it was inside of the formidable room.

“Get me my player,” the bearded man says as he trails his 12” redwood handle knife across Ghost’s jawline.

Agarwal’s hand releases your hair to your relief and he leaves the room.

“Disgusting—“ the male snarls. “Making mess of my floor.”

Your eyes narrow as you watch a pool of blood start to form as he slashes Ghost’s cheek, a groan spilling from your lieutenant’s throat.

“Fuck you ‘n y’r floor,” Ghost coughs.

He drops the wrench to the floor, then uses a rag that was hanging out of his pocket to swipe off the blood from the knife’s blade.

Two men walk in, one pushing in a record player and the other holding a tactical vest and a book.

Your vest and your book.

His name patch reads “Gamble”, the one who throws your vest and the book onto the floor.

“Rolmuth, the woman—she has had access to our radio frequency and has been writing down our shipment codes and locations.”

Ghost’s head raises, his pupils shrunken as he takes in the sight of the morse code book.

The man holding the knife cracks his head in your direction before proceeding towards you.

“Thaye…” he susurrated.

You don’t flinch when his arms raise to swing the knife over towards your temple, a maniacal laugh escaping through the barriers of Rolmuth’s teeth.

The knife lowers to release one of your hands, though before you can reach for anything, he slams your arm backward against the back leg of the chair, the feeling of your bones snapping beneath your skin causes you to let out a sharp, excruciating cry as your now-broken arm falls limp to your side.

“Thaye!” Ghost shouts. “Fuckin’ bastard…”

“How?!” Rolmuth yelled through his teeth, lips drawn back in a snarl as he nearly foamed out of his mouth.

His fist meets with your cheek and your eyes squeeze together in grimace to the pain as he punches you again.

Ghost calls out your name and you can hear the metal of his chair scrape and grind against the ground.

You feel your cheek begin to swell, the tender flesh on your face blooming into purple and blue bruises.

He walks to the record player and takes a record out of its sleeve that was resting on the shelf of the small table the player was brought in on. It has wheels on it—similar to the mayo tray.

Rolmuth blows on the record, though the sleeve looks too clean to hold any dust, then places the record on the platter. After pressing play, he drops the tone arm down.

The record scratching sends chills up and down your spine before the music almost beautifully fills the room.

Why does the sun go on shining?

You watch Rolmuth pick up a pair of pliers.

Why does the sea rush to shore?

You wonder if he’s going to try to rip out your teeth.

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world,

He clasps them around one of your fingers on your broken arm.

Fuck.

The cold metal around your finger makes you nearly want to cry.

‘Cause you don’t love me anymore?

He was going to rip off your finger.

“Who is your captain?” His hand squeezes the pliers, applying pressure to your singular finger.

“Go…to hell—“

A scream rips itself from your throat as you feel your sinew and flesh tear, the pliers tearing your finger from off your bone.

“Tha’s enough!” Ghost jerks and flails in his seat, there’s a sip of panic in his voice. “Get th’fuck off of her!”

Why do the birds go on singing?

Rolmuth wriggled the rest of your finger off, your eyes daring to skim down to look at the bone sticking out from your knuckle.

Blood spews out of the gore, coating your entire hand and dripping from the crevices of your skin into your lap, staining your cargos, turning their white color into several distinct shades of red.

Rolmuth sets the finger—your finger down lightly on the standing metal tray besides you.

Why do the stars glow above?

A penetrating ringing fills your ears; one so loud it felt like it’d be the cause of your tears instead of the pain surging through the entire left side of your body.

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?

You’re in shock, unable to speak. Your jaw is locked, your teeth are clenched so hard it feels as if you might shatter your teeth.

It ended when I lost your love.

Ghost’s voice echoes in the back of your mind, when he calls out your name, you’re pulled out of your trance. You jerk your slumping head up.

You want to call out his name, but it seems like your throat is swallowing every little word that is being screamed inside of your head.

The room is spinning and you can’t feel your arm, you can’t feel the finger move that was just severed from your hand.

“Look at me, look at me, love…” your lieutenant simpers.

Your eyes search the room until they land on Ghost’s, he sounds far away. You feel your eyes widen as cold metal wraps around another finger once again.

Why does my heart go on beating?

Rolmuth’s lips close in near your ear as he tugs lightly at your middle finger.

“You don’ want to lose this finger, do you?” You feel the man’s hot breath run up the side of your face and brush past your ear.

“Who…is…your...captain?”

Why do these eyes of mine cry?

Every nerve in your body seized, your spine stiffening with every urge to kill the man standing beside you.

Ghost coughs up blood; internal bleeding.

“I’ll fu…cking…skin you…” you croak, your words finally becoming coherent.

He laughs. Rolmuth’s single arm raises in a humorous gesture of surrender.

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?

Your eyes squeeze shut, though shoot open at the rush of heat, the pliers applying clutched pressure to your finger before Rolmuth started ripping off the second finger, wiggling it until it broke off skin and sinew.

It ended when you said “goodbye.”

“Look at me, Thaye.” Ghost’s voice sounds desperate, so you offer him a short glance as your jaw slacks and your body retracts.

Your strained eyes snapping to the bearded man as he places down your middle finger on top of your pointer finger.

A gag surfaces in your throat and your body twitches as you watch your finger fall and roll almost as if it’s the most natural thing.

Ghost yells your name again.

You finally focus on him, your eyes welling up, reddening and puffing against your will.

“Jus’ look at me, angel,” Ghost’s silked voice calms you, although in a manner you can’t hear him as well as you want to.

Every muscle and ligament inside of you feels tense and stuck.

Why does my heart go on beating?

You had three fingers on your left hand—three fingers.

Thumb, pinkie, ring. Thumb, pinkie, ring. Thumb, pinkie, ring.

“Y’ll kill her, she’s losin’ too much blood—she’s goddamn delirious!”

Gamble’s fist barrels into the side of Ghost’s head, you hear a feral groan leave his gullet.

At least I can still put a wedding ring on my left hand. You thought.

Those three fingers trembled and twitched, it was the only movement on the left side of your body besides for your left eye—is he going to take one of my eyes? Your head is swarming with thoughts.

“Ghost…” you slur, still locked onto the blonde’s eyes.

“I know, love,” he says as gently as he physically can. “So proud of’y…”

His speech comes out as a garble, but you’re still able to understand him.

“‘M gon’ get us outta here…alive, a’right?”

Your head slumps at the attempt of a nod.

“Save y’r energy, lovie.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Agarwal grips Ghost’s earlobe, pulling him closer. You’re not able to cognize his words, but you’re aware of the vexation in his countenance.

You flinch once Rolmuth drops the pliers on the metal tray. He removes his latex gloves that were blanketed in your gore and throws them onto your lap.

“Clean them up—she still is of use to me.” His voice grows more distant as he leaves the room.

Gamble injects Ghost with a syringe that was hanging off of his waist, casting him with drowsiness, his eyes struggling to keep open before he’s blacked out.

“What did you do—…what did y’do to him?” Your eyebrows stitch together. “What did you do?!”

They unstrap his arms from the chair, then his ankles.

“Answer me goddamnit...” You seethe, tears warping in your eyes.

“Shut the bitch up,” Gamble nudges Agarwal in the shoulder before he pushes Ghost further out of his restraints, his body still and unconscious allowing the scarred man to bind his wrists with zip ties.

Agarwal simply nods and paces toward you. The stock of his gun smashed into your jaw before you could react.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

DAY TWO.

The woman in the doorway was bedraggled; tired eyes and shrunken tear-stained cheeks.

There’s a light illuminating from the pulled-back curtains—a light so bright it could dry the shining tears that spill out scarlet fluid over the eyes of the miserable.

You feel only patient while waiting for the morning sun to rise over the horizon line of the ocean side.

It’s deteriorating yet caliginous frame of murky grey stone and vast sorrow of an arched entrance sat in disposition from harrowing memories filled with bloodshed, grief, and war.

Your face relaxes at the distinctly ravishing but delicate overcasted ray of light shot down from the amidst along the ruins, the melancholy ambiance nearly sent chills down your spine.

Heavenly cries of forgotten mothers begging for forgiveness of their past sins, children's playful and beatific screams, although it was nothing unknown to you.

Screams were usually followed by split rib cages and bullet wounds—tears, blood, those screams and sweat, you went through it all just for it to lie unheard and forgotten.

You searched the odd and seemingly afterlife-like realm with your eyes, you could only wonder where you were, and why you were there.

Why the flowy white dress draped over your body oscillated with the wind in a gorgeous motion.

You're lifting your head out of the water now.

The taste of salt seems so thick, heavy. Like you could drown in it. Like you could get drunk off of it.

The waves crashing onto shore sound so loud atop the eerie silence, their white crests phasing through your body as if your presence was unknown to them.

You loved the ocean because as opposed to the ones who were supposed to; the ocean loved you and was never afraid to come too close, even at your worst.

As you move farther from shore, the water slowly travels up your body, submerging your frame.

You close your eyes as your head is the last thing the water consumes. You feel the water bubbles tickle your skin and elevate themselves up to the surface.

It doesn’t take long for that familiar burn inside your lungs and that familiar feeling of being gagged by the water to swarm your senses.

Your head jerks up and you let out a loud gasp as you fade into consciousness, slipping into colored imagery instead of just monochrome.

Waking up felt like hell; your mouth was dry and most of your limbs felt unresponsive.

Only when you see Ghost curled up on his side, laying on the floor in front of you, are you able to register where you are and what’s going on.

His knees bucked up into his abdomen with his hands zip tied behind his back and his face battered and bruised.

Specks of dried blood ran from his scalp down his face reaching his compression undershirt.

He was asleep.

There was a gentle rise and fall with his chest—you could still hear his labored breaths from where you were.

It felt colder.

Your eyes wander down to your left hand that was wrapped in bandages that were stained red, your two fingers missing and replaced with nubs that were uneven from each other.

If your arm wasn’t broken, you could use it to break the leg of the chair and wield it against the next person to walk through that large metal door that made you wonder if it was life or death upon you.

If your fingers weren’t missing, you could use them to untangle your restraints on your other hand.

You could barely move your wrist—the pain that swells your entire arm makes it nearly impossible.

Ghost stirs on the floor, his body curling into itself further before his legs straighten out.

“Lieutenant,” you mumble. “What did they do to you…?”

His eyes flicker to yours.

“‘M alive, aren’t I?” Ghost says.

His voice is so hoarse and weak—he sounds dehydrated.

“You are.”

Your eyes close a moment to allow yourself to breathe in the air around you.

The single door breaking up the dull room that held them hostage creaks open on rusted hinges allowing Rolmuth to enter.

Two different men from the day prior push in the same record player and the same rolling metal tray that was stained with your blood.

“Rise and shine,” one says, his boot meeting harshly with the lower section of Ghost’s back.

The blonde’s eyes stay intent on the movements of Rolmuth as he lifts up different record sleeves to read their names. He slides one out and places it on the platter.

That familiar sizzle fills the room before the gentle hum of the music begins.

A short gasp leaves your mouth as Rolmuth kicks down your chair by the back stile, your head immediately jerking forward before it slams down onto the cement floor.

He dismisses the two of his men.

Rolmuth’s hand levitates over the tray and he grasps an old tan hand towel, draping it over your face.

You can hear the buckle of Ghost’s pants tink lightly on the floor as he jerks himself. “Fuckin’ bastard!” He yells.

I don’t want to set the world on fire.

It was going to be okay, you told yourself. You trained for this. Truthfully, you were one of the best swimmers on the task force. You can hold your breath—but if that rag manages to cave in, you’ll most likely panic and lose focus.

I…just want to start a flame in your heart.

“Are you ready for talk, now?” Rolmuth arches over you.

In my heart, I have but one desire…

Your voice muffled, you call him something along the lines of an asshole and a prick, which is quickly silenced by the pressure of water that smacks you in the face.

And that one is you, no other will do…

Ghost watches the man pour a jerry can of water over your face. His breath hitching in his throat watching your body twist and turn trying to evade from the water.

I’ve lost all ambition for worldly acclaim

Your body arches up in protest, head jerking side to side as if it would make it any more easier on you.

I just want to be the one you love…

Focus on the music, you tell yourself. You can barely hear your own voice.

And with your admission…that you feel the same,

Rolmuth’s smile is ear to ear as he continues tipping the canister over your cloth-covered face.

I’ll have reached the goal I’m dreaming of, believe me…

You violently thrust your body, panic surging through you as you feel water invade and swallow your lungs.

I don’t want to set the world on fire…

Involuntarily you gasp and choke in more water, you feel your eyes roll to the back of your head.

I…just want to start…a flame in your heart.

Your throat was burning like scolding lava, your heart throbbing inside your chest threatening to rupture. You don’t dare to make noise.

You’re gagging, gasping, sputtering. That you can’t handle. But you don’t let yourself cry. Not like this.

I don’t want to set the world on fire, honey,

The music is starting to garble.

Why is it starting to sound so distorted? You ask yourself.

I…—you too—uch.

“Stop, y’ll fuckin’ kill her! Bloody tosser!” Ghost grits his teeth before spitting out words.

Now that you have the chance to think about it, that song reminds you of someone.

I just want to start…

Your grandfather—you’d sit on that circular crocheted rug and listen to that song as him and your grandmother baked apple fritter.

A great big flame…

He loved that woman more than life itself; when she’d started to get sick with bone cancer, he helped her bathe, he helped her eat, get dressed.

Down in your heart.

Your mother told you about how he had asked her doctor to keep the fact that she only had three weeks left to live just between them.

You see, way down inside me,

She was still happy. So happy. He wanted to spend those last three weeks with her. He retired from his job and took her to all the places she’d talked about visiting.

Darling, I have only one desire.

She passed away, and he spent every day doing all her favorite things. He watered her plants, he baked. He listened to her favorite songs.

And that one desire is you,

He adopted a puppy—a beautiful Australian Shepherd which he named after her. Your mom would say that your grandma’s being was reincarnated into that dog.

And I know nobody else ain’t going to do.

Would that happen to you too? Who would you want to belong to? What kind of dog would you be?

A deafening ringing fills your ears, you finally stop fighting. Breathing.

“She’s not movin—“ Ghost wheezes. “She’s not fuckin’ movin’!”

He was trained for this. He couldn’t break. He couldn’t.

“Enough!” The blonde yells again.

They could crack him, but they can’t break him. They wouldn’t kill her.

Rolmuth finally puts down the canister and removes the rag from off your face, his body bends over to lift your chair back up.

Your body twitching, struggling to release the water clogged in your gullet

“Wake up, bitch,” he snaps and his open palm cracks against your cheek. Your eyes shoot open.

Your mouth opens, your strained and bloodshot eyes widen with horror as you vomit out water, sputtering between your lips as you hack and gag.

The taste of bile is sickening to your empty stomach.

Ghost calls out your name, catching your attention as you stabilize from your state of stupor.

“So proud of’ya, Thaye,” he groans. “Y’r strong, ‘lright? We’ll kill these bastards, all of’em.”

You can hardly spare the man a small nod before your chin is grabbed by Rolmuth’s uncut nails—blood and dirt caked underneath them.

“You tell who you are work for, I consider sparing life.” Rolmuth runs a blade across your cheek, increasing the pressure slightly to slit your skin—a feeling similar to a paper cut. You moan in pain. “Your friend I can not speak for.”

Blood trickles down from the incise, slowly flaring through your cut and pushing from the barriers beneath your top layer of skin.

“F…uck…—“ your silenced by sudden metal on your tongue, scraping gently like a threat.

“I will carve out ur pretty little tongue, cut it in bits, and feed it to you.” Rolmuth coos. “Would you that, yes?”

“Y’sick fuck, get th’fuck away from ‘er!” Ghost attempts to jerk himself up, the bonding on his ankles not allowing him to, his bruised ribs protesting in pain as he lets out a sharp breath.

Your eyes burn into his, your neck flinching as he slowly pushes the blade farther down your throat, his hand prying your mouth open.

He chuckles lowly, small “ah’s” leaving him as he slowly opens your mouth farther to allow the tip of the knife farther down. You salivate, drool racing down your chin and over the creep’s knuckles.

Ghost’s eyes divert from your face to the man’s hands. Disgust laced in his features.

He swallowed thickly, he could feel his skin boiling. He wasn’t angry.

Pissed.

He was incensed.

More than that.

“G..host…” your slightly muffled voice trembles.

His gaze fixes back on yours, watching as your left eye twitches at each of Rolmuth’s motions.

“I know, love…J’s look at me, ‘lright? J’s look at me.”

It presses onto the skin of your tongue, it’s curved edge digging into the fragile skin and tissue causing the metallic taste of iron to taint your sense of taste.

You still bore into your lieutenant’s gaze.

Saliva and blood dribbles down your neck, the sight no doubtedly arousing the male in front of you—his tongue leapt out to slowly trace along his bottom lip.

You might drown in your own saliva at this rate.

Your lieutenant purses his dry and cracked lips, but he doesn’t look away.

He takes the blade out of your mouth, rubbing it against the cloth of his pants to clean it.

Rolmuth raises the knife and pierces your thigh, the feeling of cold metal hitting you first along with the shock, the sound of cloth tearing.

“I want names!” The man hollered, spit landing on your face just below your eyes.

Ghost watches your pupils shrink, his own eyes widening and slowly shifting to your thigh.

An intense tingling sensation swarms your entire leg, then a heat. A heat that felt unbearable.

Ghost searches for your eyes again, his mouth moving, though you can’t hear anything he says.

He broke through skin and sinew, twisting the knife inside of the laceration.

“Talk, bitch!” Rolmuth’s eyes darken.

It takes a few moments for the pain to surface, and when it does, it’s scorching. Your jaw slacks open as your eyebrows pinch together, a shrill whimper escaping you.

“Don’ look, don’t.” Ghost pleads with you. Even he was struggling not to look at your thigh.

It didn’t take eyes to tell there was blood bubbling from the wound and dripping down your pants and trembling leg.

A narrow vertical split across the midsection of the flesh of your thigh. Your eyes didn’t leave Ghost’s.

Was his hair bleached? It seemed like such an unnatural shade of blonde. Brunette underneath. He must bleach it himself.

Rolmuth gave it one more twist, releasing a thin, raw, scream from your throat.

Tears stung the corners of your eyes, but you wouldn’t let them get the satisfaction of that from you. Especially not you.

“They’ll b’ere soon, Thaye.” Your lieutenant says.

“You are weak,” Rolmuth spits. “You will break.”

He rolls his shoulders before gripping your pointer finger and holding a jab saw above it.

Your eyes flicker to Rolmuth’s and Ghost calls your name.

“I want a name!” Rolmuth’s scream makes your head spin.

“Fuck y—“ your voice is replaced with a high pitched cry followed by gasps and whimpers as Rolmuth’s new blade carved through sinew and bone. He lifts up your finger against the blade and with one swift movement, your finger falls onto the floor.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you, y’bastard!” Ghost’s lips twitching in pain mixed in with a whole lot of anger.

Your body jumps up, an animalistic noise escaping your throat as you swing your head back and wince loudly, the pain in your thigh

“Name! Or I take another!” Rolmuth yells just inches from your face.

You couldn’t handle it—your vision is swarmed by black spots and your head is killing you. Your body is in so much pain you feel so much, but so little all at the same time.

When your eyes roll to the back of your head and lolls, you can faintly hear the man yell ‘shit’ before you’re unable to comprehend what is happening.

Everything fades into a subtle blackness, and the last thing you hear is Ghost yelling your name. Screaming your name.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

DAY 4

You wake up to the sound of loud groaning and thumping.

It takes you a few moments to register that you’re awake and you can actually move.

So you do—you upheave your head and take in the light spilling in the room from between the iron barred vent.

It stings your eyes, blotchiness surrounding your peripheral before you’re able to adjust to the light.

Ghost is on the floor taking blunt forces into his lower abdomen—the blonde sputters out a cough as his entire body jerks at the contact.

The man grips the neckline of Ghost’s shirt, lifting his head from off the ground as thick red paste runs down his split and swollen lips.

His legs lift themselves up in an attempt to propel his body up and out of the man’s grasp, but he falls flat as his neck is slammed back onto the cement.

Before Ghost can gasp for air the moment his neck is released, a closed fist slams into his cheekbone, knocking the wind out of him.

“Stop,” you rasp. “Let’im go…”

Ghost is twitching on the floor, blood spilling from his mouth. His entire face is caked in red flakes and black and blue blemishes—the entire left side of his face is fattened with knots.

“No…” you snarl.

The man whirls his head and glares at you, an amused expression of disbelief stamped onto his face.

“No?” He says cockily.

The man paces towards you and cuts off your bindings, bundles your hair in his fist and drags you over towards Ghost, you whine and raise your unbroken arm to try and pry his hands off, but he only tugs harder.

He pulls your hair up until you're positioned on your knees, chin raised up and neck tilted.

You hear a click, it wasn’t a gun.

He unsheathed a pocket knife. It was a fairly decent size. You were tired of seeing knives.

Ghost watches the man’s hand lower to your abdomen, fingers pirouetting across your delicate skin, it sends a shivering fear throughout your entire body like electricity.

“Please…” you meekly whisper, attempting to pull yourself away, your body is so weak from lack of use. Your voice came out as a croak.

His other hand holds a knife that teases the neckline of your shirt.

Ghost thrashes against the floor attempting to wrestle out of his bindings. “I’ll skin you,” Ghost’s voice is hoarse.

“How would you feel If I just…” His fingers trace along the scars on your stomach. “Touch her, ever so lightly…Right in front of you?” The man snickers.

You yelp as his knife cuts a thin line down your blood-stained neckline until your cleavage is exposed.

Tears surface the corners of your eyes.

No, no, no, no…

“Keep y’r eyes on me,” Ghost whispers weakly. “That’s it, love.”

You feel your shirt tear entirely down the middle and fall down your arms, pooling around your wrists.

Your vision blurs and your mouth starts to feel dry, teeth chattering in unison with your trembling lips.

When the knife rests over the center gore of your bra, your breath hitches in your throat and tears bead down your cheeks.

The blade slices through the cloth and immediately your hand rises to cover your nude chest.

Ghost’s eyes stay locked with yours, one half-closed from being beaten beyond his control.

You feel his facial hair scrub raw against your skin, sipping in your fear and vulnerability.

“Team Delta en route for seaside, Corbin, what’s your report?”

His radio.

The man pauses and takes his hand off the midline of your ribcage to grab his radio.

“Delta, this is Pooch on standby—hostages are stable, the woman is awake.”

You release a choked sob, causing the man to release the talk button and bash it against the side of your face, sending you straight onto the floor.

“Thaye…” Ghost croons.

You clutch your chest with your one hand as you feel the right side of your face swell.

“It’ll ‘b over soon,” you tremble, releasing a shaken breath. “They’ll find..us…”

“Shut the fuck up,” his voice is slicked with spite. “Both of you.”

“Pooch, this is Delta, rog that. Don’t kill our intel—0-7, signing off.” It crackles.

You lift your head and turn it slightly, blinking causes the pain on your cheekbone to burn like acid.

“Go to h—“ the radio is bashed into your face again causing your vision to swim and make your head stumble.

The sound of blood trickling and hitting the floor fills your ears, your left palm flattens against the cold floor. Missing fingers wrapped to keep you alive, not because they care.

He punches the radio into your right eye. You keep your head down in submission.

“You wanna act tough? Get treated like you're tough!” He yells.

His hand tugs your head back—you can see your own blood splattered against the communicator before you’re met with the same fate.

Ghost watches as the man beats the right side of your face in with the butt of the radio until it’s practically unrecognizable—caked and blistered. Bruising and swelling so tender on your skin.

He can’t do anything.

He can only watch.

You whimper and cry, hissing through your tears while your jaw clenched, the radio mercilessly landing on the same spot allowing more blood to cascade from the wound.

The last hit is the hardest, sending your numbing cheek staggering back down onto the ground, you wheeze.

If Ghost’s hands weren’t tied behind his back, the man standing above the two of you would be a mangled corpse. He knew that.

Your breaths are shallow and rasped. It feels like hell to breathe—to move your face. Crimson just pools beneath you as Pooch flicks off your gore from his communicator.

He grunts in disgust as specks splatter onto the ‘cleaner’ side of your face. Like water spots on a windowpane or glass shower door.

When you hear the door slam behind you, it makes you flinch.

Your body has broken into tremors now, maybe it’s not tremors—but your spasming.

And your hand is still covering your scar-ridden chest, but you feel like you might pass out again.

Ghost’s own breaths are ragged—you wonder if lunderneath all the blood on your face if you’d look just like him.

“Sleep,” he rasps. “I’ll watch ya.”

You relax as much as you possibly can, your single eye twitching shut in favor of your other one.

All you’ve had these past four days was sleep, yet it didn’t replenish. It didn’t make you feel any less tired or exhausted.

With your bones feeling brittle and sore, it was hard to shift yourself into the mindset of falling asleep, but you tried.

You felt Ghost scoot himself towards you, possibly just to shield your unclad chest and give you a taste of comfort.

Your eyelids feel heavy with pain and fatigue, your body stilling as you allow yourself to sleep.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

DAY 5

Your hands are tied above your head, a gag set between your teeth which you gnaw at in an attempt to drag it down to hang around your neck.

Ghost is a few feet away from you—both of you hanging on metal piping with rope around your wrists.

Ghost’s boots were on the floor, he was too tall to hang like you, where you could swing your feet. Did they take your shoes?

You watch the steel poker ignite in the industrial furnace; the end of it glowing all shades of red, yellow, and orange.

It was two different tools Rolmuth was holding, now. They had two different symbols on each one that you were unfamiliar with. He was choosing.

Rolmuth spun the branding irons with his thumbs and pointers, chuckling dryly to himself as he approached Ghost, setting one of them back inside the boiler.

His boots were so loud, they echoed off the walls of the room they were in—It looked like some sort of boiler room, but you weren’t too sure.

You two must’ve been in a warehouse of some sort.

Rolmuth has to look up to look your lieutenant in the eyes.

When they’d woken you up, they threw you a gray tank top, so you weren’t as exposed as you were before.

The Hindi man pulls down Ghost’s gag.

“460 degrees of heat on metal…” he says as he lifts the hem of Ghost’s shirt. “You talk, I spare you more scar.”

“Go fuck y’self, y’manky twat…” the blonde snapped.

An open mouthed yell left Ghost’s throat as the metal is lanced firmly over the middle of his stomach, tugging at his flesh and skin.

Ghost’s eyes squeeze shut as loud whimpers escape from him, ragged winces.

“Stop!” you cry.

God, you’d never heard him in so much pain. You never thought you’d ever hear him scream in agony, in physical pain.

You're forced to watch the smoke trailing up the rod, Ghost’s back arching in tormentation.

“You piece of shit!” You twist and turn your body causing the rope to shred through layers of your skin.

His muscles tense and his knuckles go white from how hard he’s gripping the pipelines holding him up.

Rolmuth removes the metal from Ghost’s skin—it could be described as a flesh eating parasite; the way that his skin sticks to the rod as if it’s desperate for that contact.

A hitched gasp manages to make its way past his lips as he feels a tinge of relief, his body twitching and pained moans and hisses filling your ears.

You jerk your body weight down, kicking your bare feet until you feel the metal start to dent.

Rolmuth sets the iron back onto the furnace over a rack, he’s bending over to adjust the heat, the fire is roaring.

You tug your arms down and you let out a strained whine at the feeling of your wrists starting to bleed.

When the metal gives in above you, it creaks and drops you down.

You slide down the metal and Rolmuth’s body swings up from fidgeting with furnace levers and knobs.

His arms are immediately reaching for his gun while you lift your legs up and kick the heels of your feet into his shoulder blades, hard.

Rolmuth’s head slams back into the brick base of the furnace, he lets out a groan, his form dragging down and slumping against the floor.

Your body lands harshly on the ground, an excruciating response coming from the back of your head.

Black spots cloud your vision as you slowly try to regain your composure. Your vision is blurring, everything sounds far away and echoed.

The gun slides across the floor.

Your jaw clenches as you pick up your heavy head, your eye searching for the gun regardless of the pounding that distracted you.

When you spot the muzzle, you lurch yourself forward and reach, finger grazing the trigger guard before your pulled back by your hair, earning a yelp to leave you.

Your lungs refuse to cooperate in your chest as your scalp is nearly torn from your head.

Rolmuth growls with clenched teeth, pulling you away from the gun and towards him as he kneels himself over you.

This was the first time you were able to get a decent look at his face—if it weren’t for your messed up eye—but you only can see the rage dispersed over his face as his hands gather around your throat.

He slams your neck down, adding onto the pain thrusting through the back of your head.

“Bitch!” Rolmuth snarls.

You suck in your gag, causing panic and adrenaline to rush through your entire body as your binded hands thrash and attempt to push him off of you.

You duck yourself, bend your leg and kick it against his ankle to heave yourself up with all your weight upwards.

He exclaims in his native tongue, some of which you can only recognize as insults and swears.

Ghost calls your name weakly.

Rolmuth’s hands slip from your throat allowing you to breathe and sit yourself on top of him, you tug your body and maneuver yourself until you're behind the man, pulling the knot of your bindings against his throat and crossing them over.

His neck lifts to try and give himself access to air, though you tug and hold his waist steady between your knees.

You yell with your clenched teeth, the fabric between your lips making the muscles in your jaw ache.

Him wheezing beneath you, fingernails clawing at your split and abused hands before he shifts.

“Thaye!” Your lieutenant hollers.

Rolmuth’s hands reach down to his vest to pull another gun, aiming it at your foot and pulling the trigger causing you to let out an agonizing scream, pain racking your entire body.

The bullet shoots clean through, you knew that for sure. It was too close.

Your grip on his neck loosens so you can slap the gun out of his grip.

In three quick motions, Rolmuth’s back atop you with his hands grasping your hair again, dragging you towards the furnace until your face is close enough to feel the heat radiate onto your face.

You feel the thickness of gore engulf your foot and drip down your toes onto the floor.

Your grunting, muffled, and loud breaths make your head pound as the man squeezes your jaw and forces your neck towards the mouth of the forge.

“No…” you snarl with bared lips, kicking your legs regardless of the pain, throwing yourself towards him to keep yourself as far from the flames as you could.

Rolmuth laughs dryly accompanying his guttural breaths, his body stretching yet keeping a firm hold on your mandible as he takes hold of one of the branding rods.

“No!” Your eye widens and your hands reach up to push his face away from you.

“Fuck!” He growls, shaking his face to keep your hands off as he pulls the iron out of the furnace.

He wastes no time pressing it into your side regardless of the thin tank covering your skin, and the cloth does absolutely nothing in regards to the sudden gut wrenching sensation that makes it feel like your entire body was drenched in gasoline and set on fire with a blowtorch.

Your cry is deafening to the ears and the smell of burning charred flesh is quick to fill your nostrils. You feel and you hear your skin bubble up, sizzle, then pop, then stick to the metal and entangle itself around the start of the handle taking the appearance of something similar to chewed bubblegum.

Even trembling and shaking, you manage to find a way to position your hands so you can plant your thumbs into his eyes and use some of the only fingers you have left to press them into his eyes, causing the man to yell.

Still, your screams aren’t matchable as your fingernails gouge into his sockets and claw at his eyelids, shredding through flesh easily as blood began to dribble down his face and over his lips like tears. You still manage to scream louder in anger than the man can in pain.

Your fingers shove deeper into the grooves of his eye sockets, the organs are pushed so far back that blood sprays across your face and he finally releases the rod.

It clangs to the floor, and he starts sobbing in his native tongue, convulsing hands reaching up towards his red-painted face as you pull your gag out.

“Go to hell,” You seethe wobbly as you lift yourself and steer yourself behind him, taking Rolmuth by the nape of his neck and forcing himself inside the mouth, against the grills inside the furnace.

He shrieks and cries, moving erratically as his face is engulfed by the fire. Slowly, yet quickly, his skin is shredded by the blazes and the bottom rows of his teeth are exposed.

It takes him a while to stop making noise before you pull his head out and throw his twitching body onto the ground, then you finally allow yourself to lean against a boiler tank and take pressure off your injured foot.

You propel yourself off the tank by your palms and drag yourself regardless of your ankle to the edge of the furnace, turning yourself around to scrape the rope against the brick.

A gasp releases from your throat at the sudden relief around your wrists, the rope falling to the ground.

“Ghost?” You lift your head.

“‘M here.” He replies.

“I don’t know if I can get up.”

“I know you can,” Ghost urges. “Find…” he sputters up blistering coughs.

“…Fin’a knife, ‘n get me outta these binds, yea?” He huffs. “‘N I’ll do the rest.”

Your eye blinks as you grip the ankle of Rolmuth’s corpse, pulling him toward you to start flipping up his vest and pant pockets.

He didn’t have a knife on him.

Got to be fucking kidding me.

A door is swung open, a singular set of footsteps stepping into the room.

Your eye searches for a weapon—anything that can deal enough damage.

A metal fire poker is hanging off the wall to your right, so you swing your elbows back and lift yourself up by the palms of your hands.

As quick as you can, you hoist yourself up by using the support of a metal deaerator, your arm sliding against it as you limp and throw yourself towards the wall creating a subtle thud.

“What the fuck…?” A man’s voice murmurs.

You silently curse to yourself under your breath as you grab the fire poker off the nails that were being used to hold it up.

Using the heel of your injured foot, you shuffle against some shelving, looking between the gaps for the man inside the room.

He’s holding a Fennec, nothing you haven't dealt with before.

He’s twenty seconds to your left, carefully skimming along the floor with his eyes down the sights of his gun.

You pinch a metal screw off of one of the shelves and toss it into the corner closest to you to lead him your way.

“Fuck,” the younger male jumps slightly. He looked young and lanky, at least from his physique.

When you hear his boots start to rub against the floor, you lift your head slightly to watch him turn towards your direction.

Your fingers and nubs flex on the thin metal, it’s hard to gain a clear grip.

The man comes around the corner of the shelves, the sounds of his tactical gear shuffling alerting you when he gets closer until his helmet is in sight.

You immediately thrust the fire poker into the gap below his collarbone and into his scapula, dampening the fabric of his undershirt in that area as it rips.

Out of panic and shock, his finger grips the trigger and you have to jerk him away before any of his bullets are able to hit you.

“Please!” The boy pleads, gun dropping to hang around his neck as he grips the caps of your shoulders. You only glare at him before plunging the fire poker further into that same spot until it tears and mauls through his back, sticking out on the other end.

He’s gasping out, but it’s almost like no air is exhaling, mouth held agape as his grip on your shoulders releases.

You shout and cry out at every thrust until the hole carved into his skin is able to suck in the hooked tip.

The male’s head falls and you allow his body to slump down and forward, the metal rod holding his stilled body up.

You heave dryly and press a palm on the wall to support yourself, your foot is killing you—literally.

The blown out flesh and puckered skin walls made you want to barf. You could stick a finger through your foot and feel your pulsating muscles just hug around your finger.

You lean down and unclip the knife holster from the gun belt, unsheathing it then hobbling around the shelving towards Ghost who was still hanging from the pipes.

“Okay, okay…” you breathe sharply, struggling to lift yourself up onto the brick platform of the furnace, nearly stumbling off before you catch your footing.

“Keep still,” you say, arching your hand to start cutting at his bondings until he’s dropped onto the floor.

Ghost lets out a loud groan, his arms clutching his ribs. They’d broken one of his ribs, maybe multiple. You both were in bad shape.

It takes him a moment to get himself off the floor as you seat yourself and scoot off of the hearth.

He grabs both of the hand guns that had been dropped onto the floor, holding one out to you.

You unclip the magazine, then snap it back into the chamber at the sight of one missing bullet.

It was the same one that Rolmuth used to shoot your foot.

Ghost’s hand rests on your cheek, gently. “Y’did good, ‘lright?” He spoke with a lilt.

“Can y’walk?”

“A little.” You nod. “Fuckers took my shoes…”

He lets his hand fall to check his magazine, then he nods. “‘Don’t know if I can carry ya with m’ribs.”

“It’s okay, just don’t wait for me.” You reply.

His eyebrows furrow. “Bloody hell, Thaye, I ain’t leavin ya.”

“I know but—“

“No.”

Ghost’s half-lidded eyes glare at you, giving you all the warning to stop.

“Stay behind me.”

He starts walking towards the door, slowly peeking it before leaving with you behind him.

Walking hurt—even while you only applied pressure to the heel on your injured foot, the muscles contracted and the pain was torturous.

One man entered the hallway holding a box from another room, which Ghost took care of by shooting a single bullet between his eyes.

The box had opened and dropped glass equipment, alerting four others who had been lingering in the room he came from.

They yell and communicate in their native tongue, one sticking his head out of the door threshold to aim his rifle.

Ghost fires his pistol and the man swings his head back into the room, still opening fire into the hallway.

“Fuck!” You hiss, dodging the bullets and moving quickly behind a filing cabinet, lowering yourself down.

Ghost’s back presses against a door to your right, pulling himself out of cover to fire at the man.

Two bullets miss and the third causes his head to fling back and smear blood as his body arches and falls down to the floor.

You lift your head and aim your pistol, gasping when your throat is suddenly hooked back from behind you.

When the combatant turns you around and attempts to make a slash at your throat, you manage to extract yourself by gripping his wrist and snapping his elbow out of place, the sounds of bones snapping as he yells.

His knife drops from his hand and you scramble to pick it up from the floor.

You groan as his boot digs into your bandaged hand before you're able to pick it up, then his hand grips your neck to lift you up.

He wraps his arms around you and squeezes you, locking his wrists over each other at your back. You clench your teeth and jerk violently in his grasp.

Ghost is fighting four other men, locking them in the crook of his elbow and smashing their skulls between the doors.

The man holding you in position crushes you in his grasp even with his broken arm. He tries dragging you into another room.

“Let me the fuck go,” you gasp, causing the man to laugh.

“You will regret ever trying to leave your room,” he utters.

You breathe a moment, heart pounding through your chest as you swing your head into the side of his neck and sink your teeth into his skin with all the strength in your jaw.

Crimson liquid seeps into your mouth and down the front of your neck as you yank out the flesh of his throat. You spit out the skin and blood, wiping your mouth and tongue against the skin of your arm as the man’s grasp loosens

His shoulder blades and chest are glistening in red, gore spurting out of the torn spot in his throat as his body stumbles and he’s gargling on his own blood trying to speak.

“Fuck you…” You shutter weakly, eyes slowly skimming down to the knife lodged inside your waist.

Shit.

He must’ve stabbed you before lifting you up, your adrenaline pumping so fiercely you couldn’t feel it until now.

You stumble on your feet slightly, shaking hands lowering to wrap around the handle and pull it out of the slit.

The runnel of red paste turns into a thick stream down as it drenches your tank top.

You lift your head slowly and throw the knife overhead across the hallway, hitting a man who’s pointing a handgun at the back of Ghost’s head.

It’s blade spades into the back of his skull and makes his body wriggle down onto the floor.

“Ghost…!” You gasp and press your open palm over your soaking top and open laceration.

Ghost steps over both legs of a bloodied man before shooting him dead and advancing towards you.

“Shite…” He huffs, gently removing your hand and placing it back after gaining a clear inspection.

His hands grip the hem of his shirt and roughly tear at the fabric creating a long strip, then he moves your hand aside again to tightly secure it around your wound.

You hiss and groan, hand gripping his shoulder as he tugs and pulls at your body while tying the knot of the fabric.

“I’s ‘lright.” Ghost mollifies as he scoops his arm underneath your armpit.

It offers you some support as he guides you both out towards a staircase.

It wasn’t a warehouse—you and Ghost were just in a basement that was turned into a meth lab.

Boxes and boxes full of lab equipment scattered along the floors.

You’d never seen such a big basement, one with torture chambers and stonework rooms.

Hell, in the corner of the room with all the steel liquid tanks and chemical barrels.

A woman is in bright blue hazmat coveralls and a chemical mask standing on top of a metal stool.

Ghost raises his pistol and you lower it slightly with your palm, his eyes glaring at you with his head kept facing forward.

“You can’t miss, we don’t know what corrosives are in these tanks. Is it worth it?” You keep your voice low, personal between the two of you.

He doesn’t reply, instead he looks forward, then squeezes the trigger and picks the woman off by shooting her in the side of her neck.

You swallow thickly as her body spasms on the ground, the stool getting caught in her ankle as crimson fluid rises and bubbles inside of her mouth.

Ghost guides the two of you up the cobble stairs, one hand dragging up the wall and the other across your lieutenant’s wingspan.

Your eyes flash at the sudden two objects being thrown down the stairs, the sudden silence as they roll down step…after step…after step before Ghost is swinging you up into arms and yelling.

He’s breaching himself through the door, into open fire before the staircase you had come up from explodes into the emitting heat compressed air and blasts behind the two of you sending you both flying forward.

Smoke engulfs the room, giving both you and Ghost coverage to get behind cover.

You're pulled by the back of your shirt behind a deep freezer, bullets flying and hitting the metal.

“Fuckin’ pricks got us pinned!” His head lifts over to fire at three of the men who have ballistic shields covering those firing LMGs behind. “‘N I’ve got four left.”

You can’t see through the thick smoke—you can’t breathe while wheezing into the crook of your elbow. “Seven,” you inform him.

“Cover me,” Ghost grabs your arm for a moment, letting go and serving around the freezer.

You follow behind him with a raised pistol, shooting off at any glares you're able to see through the fumes.

Six…Five…

A man steps out from cover behind a wine cabinet, but before he can fire his rifle, you pop him in the eye.

Four…

Ghost quickly crouches down and shimmies the rifle out of the corpse’s grip, grabbing at a magazine and stuffing it into his vest he’d managed to keep.

You groan and push over a bookshelf behind Ghost once you’re both out of the smoke. He takes aim and opens fire at three men, blowing holes in their chests before he rams into the fourth with a loud yell and slams down the stock of his assault rifle into his face until his teeth and nose are finely pressed into the persian rug.

You finish off two more who try to walk through the threshold of the room, turning your head over your shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Two…

You jerk yourself away before you get slugged by a riot shield, ascending yourself and shoving your firearm past the barriers of his lips from behind. You pull the trigger and his head flings as the bullet rings out and creates a sizable hole in the back of his head.

One…

Before his body hits the tile, you take hold of his riot shield and deflect the hail of gunfire from the individual who came emerging from the threshold corner.

You walk forward until his clip is empty to drive the shield into his vest-covered chest, stunning him so you can push it aside and fire your last shot into the underside of his jaw.

Zero.

Bullets continue spraying throughout the entirety of the house while you make sure you don’t pass out from the amount of blood you’ve lost.

You grab the TAQ-V from off the floor and click a new magazine into it, shoving a spare into your back pocket before pushing into the same room as Ghost.

He’s piling bodies on the floor, wrestling for dominance over a knife.

You fastdraw another handgun you’d grabbed off of one of the bodies and shoot the man in his knee cap to allow Ghost to gain the upper hand and pierce the man’s temple with the weapon.

“Thanks,” he says gruffly.

You nod softly, inhaling sharply as you feel wet blood pool around your uninjured foot.

They took your shoes for no reason, like they had a use for them.

Maybe it allows you to move around more quietly, but it still disturbed you that they took the time to even peel off your socks.

“What intel did y’know that we didn’t?” His chest is against yours, head craning down to keep the conversation between the two of you.

“Lieutenant, we don’t…” You pause a moment, your head spinning.

Hunger, thirst, the cold, the blood loss. There was so much holding you hostage and you weren’t even able to comprehend how you were still standing—limping.

“Well, Seargant?” His voice is low, still holding the same husky British drawl.

“We don’t have the time for this, for now—“ Ghost shoves you aside before you can finish, raising the muzzle of his rifle to open fire on the men entering the room.

“Fuckin’ riot shields!” He pulls you behind a flipped over tattered blue couch that had already gone through its fair share of bullets.

A bullet flies and hits the side of the couch a hair’s breadth from your face.

“Goddammit,” he curses while replacing the magazine in his gun.

The men brandishing shields push further.

When one reaches close enough, you run in front of the shield and grab the sides before he crashes into you.

You turn him until his body is vulnerable to Ghost, your teeth ground into each other.

“Ghost!” You yell to catch his attention, head snapping in your direction to fire a single round into the back of his head.

You throw the body off of yourself and yank the riot shield to cover yourself, ducking your head as you recoil your fist and punch one of the men baring LMGs hard twice in the jaw.

You thrust the shield into the next, throwing it into his abdomen as he topples, finishing him off by shooting him down in the chest.

One turns with his M4 raised, but you turn your gun around and bash the stock into the base of his chest, then again into his cheek, swiping your leg across the floor and knocking him down then picking his head up and slamming it down on a thick shard of glass sticking upwards to finish him off.

Ghost drops the last body, finishing off a magazine into his vest and throwing the weapon aside. You toss him another one, which he catches with ease.

“We’ll force upstairs, look f’r our shit, ‘n leave.” He says as he picks up a frag grenade from off a vest.

“There should be Skimobiles somewhere around here, the ones they were using in the FFO,” you nod.

“A’right,” he groans while rolling his shoulders. “On my mark.”

He trudges past bodies until he’s at the threshold of the staircase, stepping up slowly with the grenade in one hand and his gun in his other.

You follow behind leisurely, eye down the scope of your rifle.

He pulls the clip and tosses it up, arm stretching behind to press his hand against your shoulder blade.

“Oh shit—grenade!” A man yells from upstairs before detonation.

“Go!” Ghost immediately backs up off the wall and skips over two steps into the corridor, prefiring as he loops around a wall.

There’s already bodies and limbs splayed across the room from the combatants who were hit by the frag.

Your back rubs against the wall as you lean to shoot down the hallway, whirring bullets firing past you.

After a few back and forths between staying flat against the wall and leaning to fire off your gun, bodies drop and you’re able to progress down the hall.

Ghost is somewhere on the opposite side of the house, you still hear heavy gunfire.

You pause at the sight of another man at the end of the hallway and you recognize him immediately.

The look in his eyes and the scruffiness of his face made your lips stretch in almost the most feral look.

Corbin, that was his name. Callsign ‘Pooch’.

Anger burns in the depths of your lungs and stomach as you grip the wall for support, lunging yourself forward to lift your feet over each body that was littered across the hallway floors.

Sweat ran down the sides of your face and splotched down around the neck of your shirt with the blood.

You watch his face twist into a wolfish grin as he slings his gun over his shoulder and walks towards you.

“Alright, sweetheart.” He purrs.

White noise fills your ears.

All you can see through the glossy shine of your eyes is the man who humiliated you in front of your superior.

All you can see through the blinding red rage is the man who beat Ghost and cracked his ribs, forcing you to watch him retract and twitch at every fleeting fist.

Even the hail of gunfire is silent in your ears as you drag your injured foot. Everything sounds underwater, everything feels dull.

His fist intersects and meets with your cheekbone causing your head to shift to the left and your body to stumble where you stand.

You grip his wrist and divert his second punch by lifting your arm and thrusting your knee roughly into his thigh to tamper his movements.

He groans, with grim chuckles following after. “I’m going to enjoy every last second of this,” he coos.

Your body shivers in disgust as you slide your fingers down to your waist, priming the knife stuffed beneath the hem of your shirt. “Go fuck yourself…” you hiss.

His eyes flicker down to your hand and his boot immediately connects with the middle of your torso, sending you across the floor with a loud thud.

Pooch steps between your legs and lifts your upper body by the neckline of your shirt, his knuckles slamming down to beat on your already swollen face.

Drool and blood pour from your mouth, a strangled gasp leaving you at every punch before he releases you harshly back down onto the floor.

Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, the pressure and swelling in your face and head being all too much for you.

A boot is savagely kicked into the lower pit of your abdomen, making you gag on air.

“Get the fuck up.” Pooch spits.

You clutch your stomach and turn, slowly feeling for the knife, then quickly lifting the edge trimming of your tank top and grasping the handle, pulling it out and sweeping your leg around and behind his ankles to knock him off to the side.

He yells out swears as you level yourself over him, his legs kicking out to make your chest rest on the soles of his boots.

Both of your hands grasp the handle of the knife making it easier on your lack of fingers. His hands grip your forearms as you cry out and try forcing the knife down on him.

He kicks his legs up and backwards, upending you over him and sending the knife flying.

You hiss and give yourself no time to recover, flipping on your stomach and army crawling with your forearms to grab the knife.

He topples atop your body, planting a piercing slap across your face before reaching for the knife and propelling it downwards into you.

Before you’re able to block, the knife breaks through the skin in your stomach, your hand managing to grab his wrist before he’s able to gut you open.

You seethe and let out a sharp whine followed by a croaked cry, your other hand circling his wrist in an attempt to push him away.

Quickly, you roll your body off to the side and let go of him, causing the knife to pierce into the wood flooring as you grip a console table to succor yourself up.

Corbin abandons the knife and flings himself upwards, swinging his gun into his arms.

“I’m done playing games.”

You advance on him, grabbing the rifle and pushing it into his chest before he can aim it at you.

One of your hands grip the upper hand guard while the other grips the bolt and holds the muzzle up.

You yank his body over towards the window behind you, turning your body then grabbing the man by the back of his hair and smashing his head through the glass.

It shatters from contact and leaves cuts and shards in his skin, a loud yell clawing its way from his throat.

His finger grips the trigger and bullets roll out into the floor as you pull his head back.

You pull the rifle sling from off his shoulder, tossing it aside and disarming him from the X12 tucked into the back of his pants.

He growls at every tug of his scalp as you shoot him in the back of the leg and force him onto his knees.

A loud wail echoes the hallway from the man below you.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” you snap.

“You don’t get to scream.”

“You don’t get to cry and whine like a little bitch.”

There’s no remorse in your voice, no sense of mercy for the man being held on his knees and whimpering.

You smack the magazine onto the base of his nose, blood dripping it’s way down his nostrils as a struggling noise spills from his lips.

“You…fucking….” he chokes on his own words.

His entire body violently trembles at the tortured scream he releases as you squeeze the trigger again, shooting Pooch in his shoulder then proceeding to stick your thumb into the ravage wound harshly.

“Bitch! Fucking bitch!” He strains and pants like a dehydrated dog trying to jerk away from you.

You replace your finger with your foot, lowering his back against the floor as you press your toe into the bullet hole.

Another scream tears out of him as you blow another hole into the other side—his chest convulses.

Blood seeps from his mouth, you hold the grip of the handgun with both hands and sob out loud as you empty the entire magazine into his head until his face is unrecognizable to the amount of bullet holes.

You keep pulling the trigger, even as the gun starts to click announcing its out of ammunition.

The entire floor below you is covered in gore; flesh, messings of brains, blood, skin.

So much.

Your body snaps around as a hand abruptly drapes over your shoulder, your arm raising the gun ready to bash it into the skull of the next man to try and touch you.

“Thaye, Thaye—y’got him! Thaye, he’s dead!”

Someone calls your name trying to snap you of out haze.

Ghost—your eyes soften with glistening tears as he calmly disarms you after deflecting the hit with his forearm, tossing the handgun aside so he can push you into his chest by the back of your neck.

“‘S over, sweet girl.” Ghost says with intonation. “Can’t hurt ya anymore.”

Your eyes are wide with terror, hands bundling your lieutenant’s shirt as you exhale a shaky mewl.

It’s him who releases you first, handing you your custom rifle and radio.

His balaclava is back on his face, along with the skull mask.

“Y’r vest ‘n boots are in the room I came from,” Ghost jerks his head.

You nod softly and shamble towards the doorway in the direction he’d pointed out.

You pause.

A little boy walks out of the threshold—he’s holding a gun far bigger than his head.

Your eyes widen slightly. “Did these men take you from your family?”

You turn your head over your shoulder to call for Ghost, the sound of a bullet whirring filling your ears.

Ghost wastes no time pulling out his handgun and shooting the little boy in the head before running towards you.

Your right shoulder is screaming at you as time seems to slow down to a crawl. You hear Ghost yell behind you and the gunshot ringing as the little boy falls back and you do too, hitting the ground hard.

The masked man is on his knees in front of you within seconds, lifting your head into his lap.

“Thaye! Thaye, don’t y’fuckin’ die, not now…” He growls, applying pressure down onto your shoulder with both of his gloved hands.

Your lips slant in a tired manner, eyelids feeling heavy. His bloody hand kneads your cheek, smearing gore along your already dirtied skin.

“Fuck! Fuck!” he curses loudly. “Stay awake, love, please…”

God, he was hurting, it hurt to have your head against the burns on his stomach, but he wouldn’t let you die.

“Babygirl,” he says weakly.

All you can see is an uncleanable amount of red seep and cover your shirt.

Your lungs clutch together inside your chest, labored breaths escaping you with a strained noise.

“I know…I know—keep those gorgeous eyes on me, sweetheart.” He inhales a shaky breath, flipping up your blood-crusted hairs from sticking to your forehead.

You whisper an apology, catching his attention as you grip his waist. Ghost’s eyebrows furrow.

“Don’t. Don’t say sorry,” he says. “You did this, you saved our lives, love.”

“‘M just finishin’ the job, ‘lright?” His split and bloody lips find a place on your temple, planting a raw and long kiss to your throbbing skin.

“…’least I got to see your face before—“

Ghost holds you, squeezing your hand as a slight warning. “Don’t talk like that.”

It was a demand.

“That an—“ you spur into a coughing fit, blood spraying onto the man’s vest. “…Order, Lieutenant?”

“Spare y’r energy,” he huffs.

“Simon—“ you slur.

“Stop.” He snarls.

Your ragged breaths start to stray, causing panic to surge through the man above you.

“No,” he growls, squeezing your smaller hand in his a bit tighter than before. “Don’t, Thaye,” he says through clenched teeth.

Your body falls limp in his lap, the grasp loosening on his shirt making his heart pound through his chest, a painful pounding that felt similar to acid reflux.

“No!” Ghost yells, desperately palming at your tangled hair in panic. “Fuckin’ massacre,” he exhales shallowly.

One arm scoops beneath the back of your knees, the other across your shoulder blades with his hand holding your arm.

A loud strained groan claws it’s way from his gullet at the sudden pain inside his ribs as he lifts himself up and off the floor.

His muscles tighten inside his body, a burning sensation in his abdomen as he clutches you close to his chest, feeling your blood seep into his shirt.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

The gentle rhythmic beeping and steady flow of air through your nostrils was something that felt unreal and forced.

You slowly flutter your eyes open to light slipping in between the beige curtains. Your eyes are half-lidded and threatening to close against your will as your bandage wrapped hands rests atop the metal railing on either side of you.

It smells of strong floor cleaner and hand sanitizer, a scent that is slightly uneasy on you as you slowly slip back into consciousness.

Your muscles feel tight in your body; pain racking your shoulder and neck as you crane it to take a look around the room.

The walls are spinning and the ceiling above you is spiraling making you sick to your stomach.

On the bedside table to your left—closest to the window—there’s flowers. They’re too withered to try and recognize what kinds, shredding to flakes in your fingers when you caress them between your pinky and thumb.

Your hand drags up to pull nasal tubes out of your nostrils. It’s almost as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe air, throat tightening and lips so still from lack of moisture.

There’s a penetrating migraine in the back of your skull as you carefully swing your legs over the side of the bed, the thin baby pink and spotted hospital gown flowing down your sides leaving you slightly exposed in your thigh region.

Bare and bandaged feet slide along the smooth cold tile, sending chills up your body as you grip the IV stand with your trembling hand, the other holding onto the bed railing for support.

You groan and strain as you struggle to lift yourself up, propelling upwards with your palm and grip on the stand until your knees straighten and your standing up somewhat decently.

Where was Ghost? Is Ghost alive?

So many thoughts coursed through your head along with the punishing feeling of dehydration.

You guide yourself using the wheels on the IV stand towards a counter, your hands gripping the handle of the sink and pulling it upward.

A choked moan manages to break from you as you scoop the water in your hands and swill the rich liquid.

Water dribbles down your chin, which you wipe away before lifting your head to look into the medicine cabinet mirror.

Your hand rests on the wall in front of you as you heave.

They cut your hair shorter, not too short but enough so that it was comfortable. Your entire right side of your face being bandaged, stains of blood being a faint copper color.

Bandages wrapped around your neck and reached down your shoulder you’d been shot in.

Your hair had been taken care of neatly while you were in a coma, that was obvious.

Ghost. Where?

You grip the IV stand and hobble towards the door, turning the knob and gripping the threshold with your other hand as you step out.

A nurse pauses in her tracks, rushing to your side in an instant. “How are you up? Your injuries are critical,” she gasps, palm flattening against the small of your back.

“My lieutenant—…my lieutenant…” you say in an undertone.

“You need bed rest, you’ve only just woken up.” Her voice is gentle yet commanding.

“No,” you bark, shuffling out of her hold. “Please take me to him.”

The woman bites her lip before nodding hesitantly, hand against your back again to guide you towards his room.

It was only a few doors down from you—when the nurse opened the door, allowing you into the room.

You see the back of Ghost’s head facing in your direction, his hair tousled from the bandages wrapping around his head.

“Ghost,” you call.

His head turns from facing the window to facing you, you hear him murmur your name in reply.

“Y’minx,” he breathes. “Hell y’doin’ out ya bed?”

You carefully walk yourself towards him, the nurse holding her hands atop her chest nervously. The sound of the plastic wheels of the stand makes his breath hitch in his throat, the sound of reassurance that you were alive.

“You okay, big man?” Your voice is hoarse from lack of use, but he’s able to that you perfectly.

“D’ya ever worry ‘bout y’self, love?” Ghost asks with a tinge of humor.

Heavy casting was on his right leg, bandages and patches on practically every inch of his body—similar to you.

“Sometimes,” you smile softly and push strands of his hair out of his face, your heart slightly shatters in your chest at the sight of him flinching at your touch.

Ghost scoots himself over slightly, wincing at the sudden movement.

You seat yourself beside him on the large gatch bed and his hand pushes you down to lay beside him.

“Wait, Mr. Riley—“ the nurse takes a small step forward.

“I’ll ‘b fine,” he grunts.

Her eyes blink slightly as she takes a few steps back, her lips separating to speak though no words come out. She simply turns on her ankles and closes the door behind her.

Ghost secures an arm around your waist, pushing your back flush against his bandaged chest.

Your eyes trace his tattoos and the muscles of his arms, every scar and blemish.

“Where’s the force?” You ask quietly.

“Left recently,” he mumbles back tiredly, pressing his nose into your hair. “Y’smell like pomegranate—got y’self a damn spa crew while y’were out?”

You laugh dryly, breaking into a light fit of wheezes.

“Not too hard, Seargant.” Ghost’s finger tucks a loose strand of hair from your bangs behind your ear.

Your wet bandages on your hands rub against his knuckle as you hold onto his hand, he seems to pay no mind.

You turn your body slightly so you can get a better look at his face. “Odd seeing you without your eye black.” You quip.

His closed eyes open to look down at you. “Mm, might as well see m’down in me knickers then, eh?” He chuckles huskily.

“Very funny,” you roll your eyes lightheartedly.

You catch his small glances to your lips, his hand leaving your chest to run his thumb down your bottom lip until that same hand is cupping your cheek lovingly.

His eyes narrow, he’s sleepy, but you still catch yourself propping your body up with your elbow and closing the gap between the two of you.

Instantly, his head cranes and tilts to deepen the kiss, his fingers gently sliding down the side of your face to press his thumb into the underside of your jaw and drag his fingers along the nape of your neck.

Ghost breathes into your mouth, the taste of mint leaf and citrus enveloping your taste buds as his tongue laced over yours.

The kiss was passionate, you feel his eyebrows furrow showing his desperation as you both kissed softly at a gentle pace and motion.

Your eyes flutter open as you feel his warm lips leave yours with a quiet pop, both of you panting lightly with his forehead pressed against yours. Ghost’s eyes are unable to open for a few moments after you disconnect.

When they do open, your eyes bore into his brown orbs, the dark purple hue circling under his eyes showing his deprivation of sleep.

When he feels you buck gently back into his groin, he releases a small grunt, lips meeting yours again for a small chase kiss.

“Not like this,” he says quietly. “I’d take you on this bed right here, right now, but y’ve recently waken up ‘n we’re both still in r’covery.”

You hum in agreement, his hand finding it’s place on your chest once again with the knowledge of your lower abdomen injury.

“‘N to b’honest—‘can barely feel m’damned balls, feels like ‘ve got whiskey dick.” He grumbles, and you bite your lip to suppress a giggle.

“Simon!”

“Don’ you laugh at me, woman.” Ghost lowers his head into the crook of your neck, biting the skin gently

“My deepest condolences, Lieutenant,” you purr, catching his lips in another kiss when you jerk his head upward with your uninjured shoulder. He growls against your mouth in reaction.

There’s a long yet short line of silence as you turn towards his back again, your legs tangling with his as you hold your lips against his knuckles.

“Y’have no clue how strong you are.” He swallows the knot in his throat as he speaks. “God, Thaye, they…they told me there was a chance y’d never wake up.”

“Hey,” you hum. “Stop that, I’m here now.”

His eyes stare blankly at the wall ahead of you, maybe even the same wall you were staring at—if your eyes weren’t closed already.

“I just don’ know what I would’ve done if I made it outta there ‘n y’didn’t make it with me.” He says.

“Y’r the reason I made it out with you in the first place. If y’hadn’t pulled that barmy stunt—“ he pauses, and you feel the rise of his chest and the fall as he exhales deeply.

“Y’survived internal bleeding, trauma to the head ‘n eye, two broken ribs, second and third degree burns, asphyxiation, dismemberment, stab wounds and gunshot wounds..” Ghost squeezes his fist tighter against your chest.

“So did you, Si.” You coo softly.

“Christ…” he mutters.

His fingers interlock with yours best they can, regardless of the most of them being numbs on your knuckles, and it wasn't until your hand rested on his chest and rubbed over the raised scars, that he realized he hadn't been touched so gently in nearly eleven years. It wasn't a new feeling, but it was a feeling that he had craved desperately.

Never had fallen in love before, but he knew you had bad experiences with it—figuring out that your ex-fiancé had cheated on you while on deployment. Someone had to love you, and he was skeptical of it being him, but it was clear you loved him too and now he was scared you’d stop.

But hearing your gentle breathing as you slipped back into sleep hunched into his form led him somewhere he’d never been. You cleared his mind and cleared away his thoughts. For the first time, he doesn’t want to look away from what he has the ability to feel.

#simon ghost x reader #ghostheartfelt #ghostheartfelt writing #simon ghost riley #ghost #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #ghost mw2 hurt/comfort #ghost modern warfare #simon ghost x you #simon riley x y/n #simon riley imagine

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ghostheartfelt · 9 months

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i'd give my left tit and and an arm just to kiss him once.

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ghostheartfelt · 9 months

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i love getting a new account and reposting all my most embarrassing fanart

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ghostheartfelt · 10 months

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You can’t make a tall guy with a deep accented voice, tattoos, veiny arms and sultry bedroom eyes and expect us not to want to fuck him

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ghostheartfelt · 10 months

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☆꒱꙳⋆﹐ thinking of making a series based around soap x reader who coincidentally has the call sign of “suds” it just sounded so fuckin adorable… but at the same time that’s the only idea i had towards it—so maybe just one shots of them once i figure out what tropes or scenarios to put ‘em in.. but idk i’m obsessed with the Suds (reader) x Soap idea it’s so fuckin cute.

#soap x y/n #soap x reader #mw2 #mwii #cod mwii #johnny soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #soap mactavish

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ghostheartfelt · 10 months

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‘her dream ride is probably a jeep or something…’

my dream ride :

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ghostheartfelt · 10 months

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〔☆〕 desc: you’re finally introduced to the gang and all it’s members! friendly reminder that this takes place BEFORE they all flee blackwater and go to the grizzly mountains (where sadie’s husband dies, same with jenny, n all that juice.)

.. ☆ next part | prev part

—✩ A WOLF’S BANE P. ⅰⅰ ✩—

word count —2.8k

a/n: here’s part two!! you gettin’ along with the Van Der Linde ladies n such! n arthur’s forced to take you on a lil shopping trip 🫶🏼🤭🪭

Your eyes shot awake at the sound of shattering glass, a strained noise escaping your throat. “Gosh darn it,” a woman’s voice comes from your left, and you turn your head. “Where am I?” You moaned, adjusting your body. It was dark out, which confused you. Her head swung back, and she hollered out. “Hosea, Hosea! She’s awake!” Two men rush in, one who you recognized as Dutch, the other you assumed was Hosea.

“We really didn’t think you’d make it, y’know it’s a miracle you even survived.” Hosea pressed the back of his hand against your forehead as he spoke. “How long was I out?” You mutter. Your voice was raspy from lack of use. “About four days,” he replied, and you swallowed thickly before he continued his speech. “We had our people on shifts to check on your fever, Dutch was going nuts about you, it made Molly insane. You were suffering from blood poisoning.” Hosea hummed and handed you a cup of water. You didn’t even know you were thirsty until you saw the cup, immediately grabbing it, and chugging it down. Water dribbled down your chin and collarbones and yet you couldn’t care less.

“I’m glad to hear you’re up and functioning, dear,” Dutch rejoined. “Did you want to meet the rest of the gang?”

Gang? You wondered. Why did they save me?

You didn’t understand—only have the knowledge of most gangs being violent and bloodthirsty outlaws. But you still gave Dutch a nod in return. Hosea gently grabbed your lower arm, helping you lift yourself up and out of the tent, his arm placed under yours to hold you up and help you walk. Dutch followed both you and Hosea out, and you immediately earned some states and glares.

“A’right, everyone! The one you’ve all ‘been wonderin’ about has finally woken up, and I’d like to formally introduce her to the gang,” Dutch announced, standing in front of the campfire that was surrounded on log seats. Quickly, people began to scramble from their tents and corners, seating themselves on the floor and logs.

“You’ve already met Charles Smith, John Marston, Javier Escuella, and Arthur Morgan. If you didn’t know their names, now you do.” He pointed toward each one of the boys you’d seen chasing down the coach. “Thank you,” you smiled lightly to all four of them. They looked confused at the gratitude. “For saving me.” John looked somewhat annoyed, and distant. You didn’t pay any attention to it—though you would have if Dutch didn’t state he was the “hot-headed” one.

“Susan Grimshaw is the nice lady in the purple and black blouse,” he continued, pointing at a woman who was drinking coffee. She was the one who alerted Hosea of your awakening. “She considers herself the lead of the bunch.” He muttered softly with a chuckle, you managed a small laugh as well. You raised your hand, a small greeting gesture, and she nodded her head once, kindly.

He pointed at a group of girls. “Our girls; Tilly Jackson, Mary-Beth, Karen, Abigail Marston, and off to the side, Molly and Sadie Adler.” You took notice of Abigail having the same last name as John's, and her arms being around the shoulders of a little boy who you assumed was their son. Your cheeks flushed sweetly, adoring the mother and son. Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen offered you smiles and waves. Karen, you guess being the outgoing of the bunch, blew you a kiss, and the other girls giggled, including you.

Molly simply rolled her eyes at you, and Sadie tipped her hat. There were several different personalities between the women at the camp, and it left you feeling a bit anxious. Surely, they’ve all killed, but you’ve never been at the hands of murder, and around these gang members, you couldn’t tell if it was a bad or a good thing.

Dutch then introduced you to a few others; Lenny Summers, Jenny Kirk, Uncle, Micah Bell, Orville Swanson, Jake who was Sadie’s husband, Simon Pearson was a rescued Navy cook, Sean MacGuire, Josiah Trelawny, Bill Williamson, and Jack, Abigail and John’s son. There were so many names to remember, and yet there were some who went by their last names. Lenny and Jenny seemed to be rather close, which was a fairly strange, yet adorable sight.

The leader nudged you slightly with his elbow, you figured it was him asking you to introduce yourself, so you did. Pearson stood up, and rubbed his hands together. “Now, who’s ready for some stew?” He called, making his way to a large brewing pot, your nose followed the scent.

The gang members grabbed bowls, and Pearson poured soup into their bowls with a ladle. A man, Arthur, handed you a bowl. “Accidentally grabbed two, don’t be shy.” He said coolly, then pushed you forward by the small of your back.

You were the next in line, and you simply held your bowl out to Pearson, who poured you a scoop, then another. One of the men behind you, Micah Bell, yelled out. “That ain’t fair, we all get one, porky.”

“She’s hungrier than all of you,” Pearson replied, waving you off. “She hasn’t eaten in four days, you can starve if you wanna act like that.”

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you quickly made your way over to the fire. You seated yourself on a log, and Abigail, John’s wife, and their son, seated themselves next to you. “Hi, honey, how are you settling?” Abigail scooted closer.

“Good, I believe,” you hummed in reply, scooping some soup up to swallow. It was creamy, though a bit dull in taste. You blinked. Maybe you’d be able to find some use to the gang in the kitchen, just until it was your time to leave.

“You’ll fit in fine, here, don’t you worry.” Abigail smiled sweetly, and it made you wonder how such a kind-hearted woman would love a man as venomous as John Marston.

“How is it that you and him met?” You couldn’t help but ask, but thankfully she seemed to not be bothered. “I worked dirty to get money, met Uncle, and to put a long story short, I found myself with the Van Der Linde game, and I fell in love with the man.”

You nodded, unsure if you’d brought up a sensitive topic, and made a self reminder to not ask of her past again. As you finished the last bits of your soup, you began to fall tired, and you stood. “Thank you for treating me so kindly,” you nodded your head, and waved to her son, which he returned before you began making your way back to Arthur.

“Arthur, right? Do you know where I put my dishes?” You ask quietly, and he pulls his head up from eating his own bowl. “Pearson will do it for ya.” He replied. You nodded, and made your way back to the cook. “You done? Just hand me your bowl and I’ll take care of it for you.” He held his hand out, and you handed him the bowl. “Thank you, Pearson.” He only lifted his hand in reply to your thanks, which you didn’t mind.

One of the girls from earlier came up beside you, and touched your arm lightly. “Hi, honey, do you need me to take you back to your tent? You look awfully worn out and overstimulated!” It was Tilly, and based on her composure, she was gentle and sweet. “I would appreciate it, Miss. Tilly.” You calmly breathed in the fresh air. “Tilly is fine, no need to get professional with me,” Tilly laughed gently, took your arm, and guided you back to your tent.

You were full, tired, and ready to go to sleep, even after you’d been for practically ages from what the gang said. Hosea had met you at the entrance of the tent, and your eyebrows stitched together in worry. Was he there to send you off?

Hosea said your name and you were relieved to notice no aggression or scold in his voice. “Hey-ya,” your left eyebrow raises higher than the other, but you keep a serene smile on your face. Tilly, when eyes landed on her kindfully to gesture it was a private matter, she whispered her goodnights to you and wandered off behind you.

“Dutch asked that you talk to him in the mornin’, his message from me, he ain’t upset at’cha, so that ain’t somethin’ to worry about.” Hosea’s voice was low yet reassuring.

“Thank you, Hosea.” You take your dress between your fingers and spare the man a curtsy. “Have a lovely night.”

“You also, dear.” His voice stayed monotone, and he walked back to the campfire that the rest of the gang sat around.

You stepped into your tent that Tilly had led you to. Inside lay a cot, and a footchest at the end. Two blankets were folded on top of the cot. You took one of the blankets, then the other, and laid your body on the bedding. There wasn’t a pillow, but you had the second blanket that was provided as a replacement.

The blankets were rather thin, but it reminded you of your home back in Strawberry. Your home was something to be compared to rubbish, as you were struggling financially with not many jobs being open to women. All because men had their different beliefs that overpowered feminine belief. “Women were the rescued, not the rescuer,” some would commonly say whenever you made a statement to a missing persons poster that frequently popped into Strawberry.

You slipped into bed and under the thin blanket, and laid your head down on the other. Slowly, your eyes shut, and your hands balled the blanket in your knuckles in a coddling manner to comfort yourself to sleep.

To you, sleep was a bit of a difficult thing to fall into the arms of. You felt that holding something close—something memorable, comforted you into a lulled state.

Due to exhaustion, it didn’t take long for you to fall asleep, this time, and you allowed yourself to feel safe and well-protected around the gang.

——

Your hands rubbed a pair of slacks against a washboard. Mary-Beth was also hand washing, and Karen too, while the rest of the girls put the washed clothing on a line to dry. “You’re fitting in well, doll.” Karen nudged your arm and giggled hysterically.”You really think so?” Your cheeks flushed slightly. “We all do!” Tilly chimes in over your shoulder. “There’s too many damn men here.” Karen huffs, earning a loud crowd of laughter and agreeing noises from the other girls.

Dutch calls your name in the distance, and you blink. “Go right ahead, honey, I’ll take over.” Abigail’s hand pats your shoulder reassuringly.

You stood, and walked yourself up the hill back into the heart of camp. Dutch waves you over to his tent, the largest of all the tents within the camp due to him sharing it with Molly.

“Dutch—Hosea told me you wanted to talk, I totally forgot.” You frowned, but he didn’t seem frustrated or disappointed.

“Yer a’right, I know yer settlin’ in, which is what I wanted to talk to you about.” Dutch still kept a smile, which had your worries rush away. “Did you want to join us?”

His words left you surprised. “Yer welcome to be a part of the Van Der Linde gang. We’d hold out our arms to you entirely. Another gunwoman would be a fine addition.”

An eyebrow raised much against your favor, and it took you a moment to figure out what the gang leader had meant. When you did come to realize, your hands searched your hips.

“It’s a’right, we got’em in the footchest at the end of y’r cot.” Dutch’s reassurance calmed you down quickly. Those revolvers were important to you, and you’d never forgive yourself if you’d lost them.You took a small breath, then exhaled. “Dutch, I ain’t never shot a gun in my life.” Your voice stayed low with slight embarrassment. His eyes widened slightly, and his head tilted a tad to the side in confusion. “Ya own those two beautiful pairs of guns and ya don’t know how to use them?” Dutch scoffed humorously.

“They belonged to someone,” you bit your lip slightly—bit back the memories, cowering them down low. “That’s fine, doll, ya don’t need to explain.” He sighed calmly. You earned yourself a bit of a relief. “My men could mentor you, if that would peak your interest.”

You still weren’t sure if gang life was fit for you. Perhaps it was even finally going against your own beliefs. “Dutch, I’m not all that sure that shootin’ and robbin’ is fit for me.” You bit down on your tongue anxiously. “If it gives you any idea for your stay, I’d say I can see you as one helluva sharpshooter, Miracle.” His voice was low and fatherly, the nickname leaving you feeling warm. “It takes a believer to truly believe, and you are more than just a believer.”

More than just a believer, you repeated in your head once more. Miracle.

Dutch made his way toward Hosea, and the older man’s gaze locked upon you a moment before it aimed back at his gang leader. Suddenly, pressure was heavy on your shoulders. You had a home; however, the camp around people who somewhat enjoyed your presence made you feel more at home than anywhere.

“Shoot,” you muttered to yourself and rushed back to your tent. Dutch had told you the twin revolvers were stashed in a lockbox at the end of your cot. You needed to hurry back to Valentine for your prescription—the whole reason you’d gone there in the first place. If you could hail a stagecoach somewhere on the road, you needed to hope you had a few coins to spare.

You searched the pockets of your now dirtied litten dress, and you ground your teeth together. It was an expensive one, the most expensive thing you had in your wardrobe back at Strawberry. Nothing, not even a single coin was in your pockets. You assumed the O’Driscoll boys who’d attempted to kidnap you had stolen your change, so you scolded yourself lightly. Instead, you just opened the lockbox, and pulled out your belt that held your holsters, wrapping it around your waist. Your guns came out next, and you secured them in their holsters.

You stepped out of your tent again, and your eyes searched for Hosea, or Dutch. You bit your bottom lip. Dutch would most likely be busy, and you couldn’t see Hosea around the camp.

Arthur was leaning against a tree with his arms against his chest. With hesitation, you walked over towards the man, and bit your tongue. To you, it felt somewhat awkward to be breathing in the same air as the gang member.

You inhaled, and exhaled. “Arthur?” Your voice was calm, and in a manner, small. Reluctantly, his head turned toward you, and his eyes pierced into yours.

“I’m listenin’,” he stated.

“I hate to be a burden to you already, but I had originally been in Valentine to pick up a medication from the doctor’s office. I don’t have any change to hitch a ride on a coach.”

He releases a husky sigh, both of his boots meeting with the dirt on the floor as he toed himself off the tree.

“C’mon then, make it quick.” His voice rasps.

Before the brunette could walk off towards his horse with you behind him, Dutch, with a raised hand waved him over.

“Arthur, Arthur!” The man calls.

Your eyes shoot down to his other hand that holds paper.

Money.

“Here, this oughta the expenses for sum clothes for the girl.” He smiles kindly, sparing you a generous wink as he holds out the cash to the taller gentleman.

Arthur’s tongue rolls out to wet his lips as he silently counts the money to himself. You watch his eyebrows furrow.

“Eighty dollars? Have’ya about lost y’damn mind?” He grunts. “Mind I remind you we saved her life? She should’b givin’ us eighty dollars.”

“Yea, might that b’so, but she was shot in the process with ‘er clothes torn to shreds.” Dutch argues, his tone growing stern.

“Now, do the lady a favor, ‘n take her shoppin’. I ain’t askin’ f’r very much, am I?”

You stand there fiddling with your hands, watching the two standoff in an odd staring contest before Arthur turns and waves the gang leader off.

“You tell me if that man causes’ya any problems, darlin’.” Dutch pats your shoulder softly.” “Off you go.”

You nod and smile softly, following after Arthur once Dutch himself flees the scene.

“Pick up th’ pace!” You wince at his sudden yell.

You figured the ride would be awkward now.

#arthur morgan red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption arthur #arthur morgan is sexy #arthur morgan #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption x reader #red dead fanfic #red dead redemption two #ghostheartfelt writing #ghostheartfelt

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ghostheartfelt · 10 months

Text

*:･｡☆ warnings: attempts at sexual assault/rape, gore and violence, blood and mentions of broken bones, undertones of domestic violence/relationship, descriptions of drowning. if i missed any let me know!

〔☆〕 desc: reader sort of gets jumped in an alleyway after work and it leads to her first encounter/interaction with venom! also, you guys are in a relationship with an asshole, but you’ll get rescued from that as well eventually <3 sorry! with fluff and love comes angst and brutality.

☆ .. next part | prev part

—✩ RUSH HOUR P. ii ✩—

word count — 2.2k

a/n: hi! i hope you guys enjoy this next part where we sort of get more in depth with the reader’s situation n such. i’m considering adding a tag list once this gets more popular:) but i also just want to get together and make a better layout 😭</3 anyways—requests for one shots and short series are open!

Six o’clock; you were burnt out and more than ready to go home.

All your belongings were together and you waved your boss, Richie, goodbye as you walked out the doors of the café.

You had some time to stop at Mrs. Chen’s for an ice cream and teabags - you adored the idea of slipping into a warm bath with candles surrounding you as you sipped hot tea.

Normally, you would’ve drove home, but you had your car in the shop for repairs and you couldn’t pick it up at the moment.

Not that you didn’t enjoy walking; but waking up an hour earlier than you’re used to was something that bothered you since you still had to do your makeup and pack your lunch, then leave at least forty-five minutes earlier than you would with your car just to assure you’ll make it in time for your shift.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and walked across the street - you could easily take a shortcut through a nearby alleyway.

It didn’t sound too safe to you, but your ankles were killing you and the nearest bus stop was still under construction from being totaled during the last run-in with that black monster with the bright white eyes.

You were at home watching the chase occur on T.V, your hair messy from barely just waking up as you stuffed your face with Corn Flakes.

It was incredible; the monster had picked up two parked cars—while riding on top of a city bus—like they were nothing, and threw them at six men riding motorcycles, shooting out tendrils from it’s body to climb buildings and fling itself from one to another at incredible speed.

Four of the men were hit by one of the cars, two of them coming into collision with the bus stop along with the car.

Never have you seen something along the lines.

You paused in your steps as you made it halfway through the agonizing tunnel, an uncomfortable feeling causing the hairs on the nape of your neck to rise.

For a few moments, your eyes scanned the area, then you took a few more steps forward before you quickened your pace.

Something or someone was on your trail and you just hoped they would eventually go away - you didn’t have a lot of money to spare.

It felt as if the alleyway walls were closing on you, your heartbeat pounding in your ears as your breath grew rapidly, feeling like tidal waves in your throat.

You felt your arm clutch your handbag as the back of your shirt was yanked, digging into the skin of your neck, tears stung in your eyes and you let out a croak.

A hand met your throat, leaning your head back aggressively as another searched the pocket of your dirty slack pants.

“What d’ya have to offer me, sweet thing?” a groggy and disgusting voice purred against the shell of your ear, breathing into it deeply.

A coin or two rolled out of your pants, causing you to flinch.

“Let me go,” you hissed, squeezing back tears from waterfalling down your cheeks.

“I could take you on right here right now,” he chuckled, gripping your waist over your shirt, you instinctively raised on your tippy toes as panic drew from your body.

“Don’t you goddamn touch me,”

His hand lowered to rub at your lower abdomen, ghosting your belly button.

“Stop!” you squealed and wiggled in his arms as he dug his uncut fingernails into your hips; it stung and definitely would cause bruising, which was something you didn’t know you’d be able to explain to your boyfriend.

You flung your head back and he stumbled backwards, so you took your chance to flee; his hand gripped your hair and you immediately reacted by letting out a painful cry.

“Let go, let go,” you pleaded, gasping as he tugged harder. You kicked your legs.

Your face slammed to the floor after you landed on your ankle and you screamed right then and there - a harrowing pain shot down to your ankle.

Tears streamed down your face as he pulled you by that same ankle, you choked out a tortured moan and turned on your back to thrash at anything that tried to get near you.

As you suddenly felt his grip release your body, you curled into a ball and wailed into your knees, your left eye throbbed as bruising slowly formed under your meek skin.

You flinched as you heard the male scream, causing your entire figure to tremble, your lip was swollen from biting down on it.

Sounds of squelching, muscles tearing and wet bones popping - you flinched against the floor as you felt a rich liquid splatter against your face. You felt you might vomit.

A sickening crunch caused you to let out a sharp whimper; then again, again, again…

Just when you thought it was over, a dismembered arm fell beside you, facing you, and you let out a croaked shriek, immediately jerking your body away, watching a black…arm? Sweep it up, the same gory sounds filling your ears once again.

Slowly, you adjusted to the sound; limp against the floor, scared that any move you made would cause you to be pinned to the floor with a searing sharpness plunged through your chest.

You halted your breathing as you were slowly lifted from the floor.

“MORSEL,” a cavernous voice that sounded like the darkness itself purred close to your ear. “WE WILL NOT HURT YOU.”

You felt something snake around your injured ankle, securing it in place so it wouldn’t dangle.

Everything felt hazy; head pounding, ankle burning and swelling, your heart booming with fear.

It didn’t take long for you to pass out in your rescuers arms - large, huge, muscled arms.

…

When you awoke, you were hooked up to an IV bag dressed in a thin blue hospital gown with the room spinning in your vision.

“Hello?” you croaked as you wriggled, immediately gaining a smack of pain in the back of your head.

“You’re awake,” a woman’s soothing voice caught your attention. “Don’t try to move so much, you suffered a concussion.”

“Where am I—how long have I been asleep?” Finally, you found her face - a young nurse with thick brunette locks cradling her face. She’s holding a tray of food; chocolate pudding, salisbury steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, and thickly sliced carrots, topped off with a grape sugar-free juice box.

“The hospital, dear - about three days,” she placed the tray on your lap, which you took with both hands. “It’s Tuesday.”

“I have work tomorrow, I can’t stay, I need to go,” you try to sit yourself up further, though she pressed a hand on your shoulder and pushed you down gently.

“We will have you checked out this evening - can you tell me why you’re here?”

Your eyes locked with hers, then at the tan tray.

“I don’t remember,”

“That’s alright, do you remember the man that brought you in?”

A man? You didn’t remember a man taking you in; however, you vividly remembered the one who had hurt you.

“Is he here?”

She shook her head, then grabbed a styrofoam cup, you grabbed it from her as she held it out and took a large sip.

It drowned your dry gullet in the cold liquid and it felt heavenly - never have you ever had such difficulty swallowing.

She took it back from you after you closed your eyes, leaning back in the adjustable bed.

“The doctor is going to come in for a small little check-in to make sure you haven't suffered from any amnesia - there’s a small button on the right side of your bed you can press if anything is needed, okay?” She removed her gloves and threw them in the trash bin, pulling out a second pair.

“Thank you,” you hum.

“You should be free to go if there are not any more issues; but, please try to eat,” she left the room after giving you a pleading smile, her eyebrows pinched together worryingly.

You didn’t have an appetite for someone who hasn't eaten in three days, but you took a small nibble out of the salisbury steak in pity.

Immediate regret coursed through you as you spat it out in a napkin.

Hospital food was definitely something you didn’t feel like eating for the first time in that small span.

Perhaps some Thai food, or some simple fruit. A thick ribeye.

You gasped.

Your boyfriend; he must be confused as to why you haven’t been home the past few days.

Even if it was a nice escape from him, you knew you wouldn’t hear the end of it when you got back. Where was your phone? Your belongings?

You had your credit card in your purse. Panic swarmed through your chest at full speed.

Two nurses rushed in at the sound of your heart monitor screaming from the adrenaline racing through you, causing your muscles to tense up.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” one nurse slid to your side and held your wrist reassuringly, the other stood back by the door in case she was to be ordered to request more assistance.

“My things, where—“ you breathed in heavily, then breathed out in an attempt to soothe yourself.

“Your bag is on the floor under the bed, everything was retrieved and nothing was stolen; the man who brought you in made sure of that.”

That was enough for you to relax, your breathing slowed which allowed the nurse to step away and for you to lean back.

“Phone, please,” you gave the ravenette a tiresome smile.

She bent down and grabbed it from your bag, then set it on the bed on top of your lap.

“Thank you, I’m sorry,” you glanced over at the other nurse.

“It’s our job, sweetheart,” she began walking towards the door, following her out the door.

You picked your phone up and scrolled through your missed calls, a whopping number sixteen above your significant other’s name.

It rang twice before he answered.

“Where the hell have you been? Where are you?” his voice was angry, pure rage in his voice.

“Vince—“ you blurted.

“No, don’t fucking say my name—I want you home, now.”

“I’m at the hospital, Vincent, I have to wait to be dismissed—“ you frowned.

“Hospital—what?” he scoffed. “Three fucking days?”

No concern was found in his voice, leaving you baffled.

“You’re shitting me,” he hung up the phone, which you somewhat considered a relief.

Your eyes narrowed as a man entered the room with a clipboard in his hand, his eyes dragging to yours with nothing but kindness. He calls your name in confirmation, you nod.

“Okay, so there are no other complications regarding your health or physical condition. You just are recovering from a minor concussion and a sprained ankle which we’ve treated with R.I.C.E. It’s now in a brace, and I’ve collected your prescription.” He pauses a moment, handing the orange bottle out to you, which you grab.

“One half of the pill in the morning, the other before bed. It will help reduce pain and swelling, however, making sure to also keep your ankle elevated above your heart as much as possible is crucial to your recovery. Any questions?” The doctor says everything in the simplest manner, allowing you to understand the circumstances.

“I have to return to work tomorrow, do you know if that would be okay?” You purse your lips. He lets out a small hum.

“It’s a possibility, but if you plan to be maneuvering around a lot, we prefer you stay home with the certification of injury. If not possible though, stay on crutches to avoid pressure on your ankle.” His lips curl into a polite smile, which you return.

“Will do, doc. Thank you.” You say gently as you lift your body up slightly.

One nurse comes in and detaches the sling holding your ankle up, setting your leg down with care. Another comes in with a wheelchair, and he stops it at the left side of your bed.

Carefully, you’re hoisted up by the arms of the nurses, and settled down onto the wheelchair.

You’re pushed outside of your room and down the hallway until your sat in front of the reception desk grabbing a clipboard.

Pinned to it, a “patient feedback form” and a pen clasped under the clip.

It doesn’t take you very long to fill it out, and once you do, you hand it back to the nurse at the handling desk, who offers you a small thank you before she picks the phone back up to answer calls.

You’re guided towards the exit, the doors automatically sliding open as you pass the weapon detectors.

Outside, Vincent’s Ford Bronco sits waiting for you. Somehow you can’t find comfort in seeing the side of his face through the passenger seat window.

You feel as if you were bracing yourself for the worst as you watch his eyes lock with yours.

You feel as if you were at the bottom of an open lake feeling water pressure against your esophagus and every ounce of air stored left in you disintegrate as you hear his truck door slam.

You feel as if there were pins and needles below you on an open platform as he walks towards you, hands in the pocket of his tattered old green flannel.

You feel a dry thickness in the back of your throat as his hands grip the hand rests of your wheelchair and push you towards his slate blue car.

#venom symbiote #eddie brock x y/n #eddie brock x venom x you #eddie brock x reader #venom x reader #eddie brock x venom x reader #ghostheartfelt writing #ghostheartfelt #marvel x reader

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ghostheartfelt · 10 months

Text

what’s cap. price's reaction to you finally being pregnant after you both had been struggling the past year to actually conceive? you both had been wanting to have a baby together, but it didn’t work out well in your favor until poof! a sudden miracle.

*:･｡☆ warnings: undertones of infertility.

*:･｡☆ notes: captain john price x female!reader

—✩ A BRIEF INTERRUPTION✩—

word count — 1.3k

[feels so short.. i hate it.]

a/n: here’s a smaller little one shot that sort of invaded my mind. i’m running out of ideas and am running on the comfort of pregnant!reader, especially where the hope of fertility had started to be lost :’) any requests are completely welcome! this is just quick n cute.

You're kneeling down on the bathroom floor, your legs lay off to the side as your head hangs low, your eyes wide with shrunken pupils.

Accompanied by trembling fingers, you pick the stick up and off the floor, blinking away the tears stinging your eyes and blurring your vision.

It was a pregnancy test.

A choked sob leaves your throat watching the one faint pink mark turn into two faint pink marks.

Positive.

You were pregnant. You were having John’s baby. You both had been wanting one for the past year, and even after the several doctor appointments addressing the unlikelihood of fertility for the two of you, it happened.

“Oh my god…” your lips quiver as you smile.

Even after all the tears and the false hope, it happened.

Rather than picturing living off rich and bubbly champagne in a house with a crystal chandelier and natural stone flooring, you pictured raising a family with your husband.

You pictured walking along a beachside shore, holding your sleeping baby against your chest with his hand in yours.

John Price was your biggest supporter, showing you nothing but love and affection upon you both finding out the chances of having a baby was close to impossible.

He held you against him and palmed his hand in your hair, pressing kisses to your cheeks and the sides of your nose as you shivered, holding back your sobs.

John sat beside you all night as you cried, unable to get a blink of sleep until eight in the morning as he explained how he’d never leave you just because you weren’t able to conceive his offspring. That he loved you and prized you nonetheless.

Your hands fling open the cabinets under your side of the sink and you rummage through medical supplies and wash rags stacked inside, flinging items off into the corner and creating a mess of you and your husband’s bathroom until you find a small box.

You pick up one of the sticks, a sigh of relief leaving your lips as you grip the counter top above you and lift yourself up.

“Please,” you whisper to yourself as you sit yourself on the toilet and thumb down your black panties and wiggle them off to ring around your ankles. You lean forward as you hold the test stick underneath you.

. . .

You hold up the two tests, both holding the same symbol, and yet you still debate driving down to the nearest drug store to purchase another box, but instead you just leave the messy bathroom and into your bedroom.

Usually, you wouldn’t call John while he’s at work, but you knew he wasn’t on deployment, so you pick up your phone off the marshmallow sherpa blanket and punch in your passcode.

When his contact is pulled up, you call him and press the phone against your ear, seating yourself on the edge of the bed.

It rings for a few moments.

John had been in a debriefing meeting when you called, but he took in consideration that it was important, and swiped it over to answer the call after he stepped into a corner within the room, asking for quiet from the Task Force.

“John?” your voice croaks on the other line, he’s quick to notice.

“Love? Wh’s the matter?” Genuine concern was as thick as honey on his tongue. “Did somethin’ bad happen?”

You run a hand through your hair, sniffling softly. “God—god, no. Everything’s fine.”

There’s a pause.

“Actually—christ, I’m sorry if I was botherin’, I just…” you bite your lip and rub your sweaty forehead with the palm of your hand.

“I know y’wouldn’t call me if it weren’t important.” Your husband says calmly. “J’s tell me wha’s on y’mind, we’ll discuss it after my meeting.”

Your heart practically sunk in your chest at his words. “Meeting?” You repeat.

“Don’t.” He sighs. “I promise, it’s fine. Talk t’me, honey.”

Soap nudges Gaz with his elbow. “Tis’ the lad’s woman. Pretty lass, ‘ll tell ye that.” His knee is bouncing with his other leg draped on top.

Price turns his head a moment, eyes staring him down before he turns and brings focus back to his phone call with you.

You take a sharp inhale, swallowing your nerves into the pit of your stomach as you lick over your dry lips.

“John, I’m—…I’m pregnant.” you manage to choke out through happy tears.

His muscles tense and his eyes widen at your words. If he wasn’t surrounded by his coworkers, he swore his eyes would be watering to the brim—although he did feel them stinging as he refused to allow himself to break tears.

“Y’serious, love?” His voice cracks a little. It makes your heart flutter to be able to hear the smile in his voice from behind the cell phone.

“So serious,” you reply in a sharp whisper. “We’re having a baby, John.”

He says your name lovingly and you feel weak at the knees even hearing it just over the phone.

Your hand grips the hem of your grey tank top before you press a hand against your belly, lifting your head up into the air to take in the moment. “God, I wish you were here right now.”

That breaks him. He’s got tears in his eyes now as he feels his emotions bubble in his throat, a hand dragging up to pinch the skin on the bridge of his nose.

“I..I know, love, I know. Me too.” He manages to choke out. “Do you—“

You softly shush him through the phone. You knew you were keeping him from something important—it was a miracle altogether that you got his attention pulled from his meeting in the first place.

“Cap?” Ghost raises a brow under his balaclava watching the man’s shoulders tense up.

“We’ll discuss after the debriefing, alright? Love you,” you hum.

“Wa—“ he raises his voice a bit higher than the prior whisper he’d been committing to, though he’s paused in his speech at the sound of the disconnecting signal coming from his phone.

You immediately have your back meet the comfort of your bed, grabbing a pillow to clutch to your chest as you roll around and kick your feet, the long-awaited feeling of happiness causing your adrenaline to rush through your chest.

He takes it off his ear to look at the “call ended screen”, the profile picture of you—in your heart-shaped sunglasses—both at the beach with Price’s lips against your cheek causing the rotting smile plastered on his face to stretch farther.

“Captain.” Soap calls out, confusion being evident in his tone as he slightly raises himself up from his chair, palms flat on the long conference table that took up most of the office.

Price turns around and pinches his hat off, letting it fall onto the table as he walks back towards his seat. Soap sits himself back down.

“M’wife is pregnant.” He lets those words seep beautifully off his tongue. “Pregnant..” he whispers incoherently back to himself.

His Task Force was well aware of the struggles between the two of you when it came to the idea of starting your own family, and they made sure to show their support to their Captain.

So, the news was a shock, but a good one. “About damn time she got knocked up!” Soap exclaims, a shit-eating grin spreading across his maw like the Cheshire cat.

“Congrats,” Gaz smiled softly.

“Atta, Captain. Congratulations, ya old chap.” Simon extends an arm, planting rough yet lighthearted pats against your husband’s back.

Laswell had raised herself out of her seat to gently push the Captain's cheek against her lips. “I’m happy for you, John—We all are.”

Alejandro, who had been included as part of their data capture procedure, lets out a subtle chuckle.

“Ay, cheers, hermano.” He offers the captain a genuine smile. “Just wait until you have to deal with that woman’s meltdowns and cravings—my sister was a nightmare.”

Laswell manages a small laugh. “My wife, too.”

“She’s worth it.” Price simply replies back, still spellbound by the piece of information that was amazingly overwhelming.

“‘Righty then, let’s make this quick,” Simon clears his throat. “Shouldn’t keep him too long, ‘sure he wants to go talk to his wife.”

That he did.

“Affirmative.”

#captain price #captain speaking #john price #captain john price #captain price x you #captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #gentle captain john price #ghostheartfelt writing #ghostheartfelt #john price headcanons #john price mw2 #captain price mw2 #captain price headcanons

761 notes · View notes

ghostheartfelt · 10 months

Text

*:･｡☆ tags: damsel in distress!reader, reader will have a father daughter relationship with dutch, slowburn romance, no use of y/n, reader is nicknamed "Miracle" once she settles in with the gang. THIS IS SET BEFORE THE FLEE OF BLACKWATER.

*:･｡☆ warnings: mentions of kidnapping/attempts of kidnapping, blood and gore (mostly js people gettin shot n shit 🙏🏼 it's rdr afterall.) period typical undertones of sexism. canon typical violence. mentions of animal abuse/neglect

〔☆〕 desc: during a little break at the saloon, you're interrupted by an O'Driscoll who presses a gun to your back and forces you out of the saloon for a kidnapping. the Van Der Linde group comes to your rescue.

.. ☆ next part | masterlist (tbe)

—✩ A WOLF’S BANE P. ⅰ ✩—

word count — 2.3k

a/n: hey! this is part one of my arthur morgan x fem!reader slowburn series. i know it starts off a little funky, but i promise you’re in for a treat!! feedback/ideas are greatly appreciated! 🤭🪭 this part is mostly focused on the reader developing relationships with the other members of the gang. (p.s i promise reader isn’t a mary sue 😭 this is just for build up!)

Your hands stay busy loading and spinning the barrel of your duel Widowmakers. They were beautifully customized, and you just purchased a brand new cylinder from the gunsmith. There were elk carvings on the wood handle—your holsters having the same stitching as they rest on your waist under your coat—and freshly polished metals.

You were quietly listening in on the discussions that swarmed at every angle in the Saloon. You’d traveled from Strawberry to Valentine to receive your prescription from Doctor Calloway.

Smithfield has tried a fair amount to ask you out for a dinner, or a horseback ride to Saint Denis, and as much as you loved horseback riding, you declined kindly.

He mailed you a letter asking that you come to his office to obtain it. You caught a stagecoach and paid five dollars for the ride, then took yourself to the saloon first for a quick lamb heart stew, which was something you always made sure to grab upon visiting Valentine, making you a familiar customer with the owner, Mr. Smithfield.

As you stood and adjusted your skirt while stuffing your revolver into its holster that stayed hidden under your coat, a barrel of a gun pressed against your back. Your eyes shot open and you refused to turn your head to see who your threat was.

The man stunk of alcohol, cigarettes, and pure grime, and the scent only grew stronger as you felt his face press against your hair to whisper in your ear.

“Act natural, pretty thing.”

His body closed in against your back with his hip bones digging into your waist. He wasn’t very tall, nor muscular, perhaps about five foot six.

“Do you always greet a pretty woman like this?” You hiss quietly as he twists the gun into your back, guiding you out. He makes sure to snatche your purse from off the table you were seated at—which you didn’t mind too much since you were struggling financially with only about thirty dollars to your name—you didn’t even get to pay your tab off. You hoped Smithfield would understand.

“Shut up and move, girl.” He rejoined.

Undoubtedly, your heart raced in your chest as you both stepped out of the Saloon. There’s another stagecoach with a few other men seated, causing your eyes to widen. This is a kidnapping, not a robbery, you thought, and that was when sweat began to head down from your scalp.

“She’s a good one, Welts!” one snorted. He had crooked and several missing teeth, a lazy eye, and his brown hair was greasy, and he just looked downright disgusting.

“O’Driscoll will be real happy!”

That was when you froze in your place as you were turned around and patted down for any extra goods; the male in front of you had managed to find a pearl necklace from the depths of your dress pocket, and you scrambled to try and grab it from him.

“Please, don’t take that, take anything else.” You were surprised to find yourself pleading to this man. To an O’Driscoll.

Welt’s head tilted and he let out a loud laugh before he took his revolver, slamming the barrel and cylinder rough against your cheekbone, immediate pain and heat surged as it quickly began to swell, and your body twists, landing on the ground with your palms flat in the dirt below you.

You reach one of your hands—that had grains of tiny rocks stuck in your bleeding skin—up to touch your cheek, a quick feeling of regret causing you to yank your head away from the pain.

“You’re a scum!” you try to turn your head, yet he grabs a full fist of your hair and unsheathes his knife, cutting off a thick chunk of your locks. You gasped weakly.

The men above you bursted into laughter while instead tears stung your eyes. “Speak when spoken to, woman,” he grimaced. You feel for the hair he sliced, and your lip quivers. These were definitely Colm O’Driscoll’s men.

Welts gripped your upper arm, and pulled you onto your feet. Accidentally, you rip your dress from your feet getting caught in the fabric as you struggle to stand with the man swinging you around like a lasso.

You feel his revolver get pinned into your back once again as he taps the barrel against you, gesturing you to walk towards the coach. You hesitated, which he didn’t take kindly. You heard the hammer click, and that’s when you caught yourself walking.

“Hello, gentlemen!” an exuberant voice joins in, and you turn your head to look at the man. He was neatly shaven, besides just a bit of clean stubble along his chin. His hair seemed slicked back at the top, even with a black hat, and he was in a long-sleeved white and blue striped shirt, a black vest, and black slacks.

His boots were black with brown spurs. He had his hand on his belt, though not over his holsters that you think were home to dual revolvers. You were just about tired of seeing men with guns.

Guns. You thought. I’m as dumb as a rat—you shimmy your arm down to press against your waist, feeling for your Widowmakers. You felt the hardness with your wrist, playing it calm, and cool. Welts was just as dumb, if not more—he hasn’t even realized you were armed, not that you knew how to use them, anyway. Your hand drags away. Most likely, you wouldn’t be able to beat the man in a sharpshoot.

“Now, a little birdy told me you were being not so nice to this innocent woman, is that true?” The black-haired male, being passive aggressive, sends you kind eyes that leave you feeling skeptical.

You notice his friends.

One was in a low ponytail, and had a sombrero on his head, and the other had olive skin and a hat with a small feather in it’s band.

“She’s my wife, she’s drunk, and these men have offered to take us home. Go along with your business.” Welts snarled as he pushed your shins into the step of the stagecoach. Never in a million years would you even think to date or marry an O’Driscoll—especially not him.

His hair was greasy, and there was collected dirt behind his ears. With his gapped teeth, and his uncared for eyebrows. You wanted to murder the ratbag for laying his dirty fingers on you.

“You tellin’ me the little birdy is a liar?” the man asks, his tone lowering.

“Hell is your problem?” Welts’ eyebrows furrowed.

His gun against your back was starting to feel like it was forming a circular mark on your back from the muzzle.

“I surely don’t remember a time where I saw a loyal man pinning a gun to his wife’s back,” another one of the man’s friends appeared. He had darker skin, Native American features, and a braid running down his own back.

His arms were folded against his chest that was covered in a brown long-sleeved tunic.

“Do you know this man, miss?” His eyes drag to yours with a softer expression creasing his features.

Once you open your mouth to speak, you’re silenced with a quick shoulder shove forcing you into the coach.

“She does, now leave us be.” He sat himself down next to you. Your head turns to look at them as your face twists into fear.

There were five men; the black-haired one, the one with the braid, the male with the ponytail, the scarred Scottish man, and another male who was a bit taller and quieter. His hair was more brown, his face was scruffy, and he wore a black gamblers hat.

“Come on now, hold your horses, compadre!” The one with the ponytail waved his hand in the air, though the man standing in the front seat of the stagecoach flicked the reins against the hinds of both of the gray and black horses, causing them to squeal and chase out of Valentine.

Panic surged through you, raising your adrenaline. When you try to crane your head to see if the men decided to leave, your chest is pushed back against the seat by one of Welts’ companions. Suddenly, the one who’d exchanged you the soft look—which you now have come to believe was the leader—yelled out, and all the men followed his command. “Saddle up, boys, we got ourselves a couple’a maggots!”

You heard two, or three, or four, of them whistle a call to their horses and moments later, they were chasing down the stagecoach. You felt a tinge of hope, and trusted that these men would save you.

“Can these sons’a bitches go any faster?!” Welts hands gripped the seat the driver sat on with his head turned over his shoulder.

When the shooting began, you quickly ducked and let out a distressed noise. Bullets flew all around you, and you covered your ears. You looked up, and immediately the driver had a bullet pierce his skull. You screamed, some of the red paste splattering onto your face. The driver fell off the front of the coach, and you gasped as the wheels ran over the body, the lump making you wobble. You lift yourself up, and take a hold of the seats to stabilize yourself.

The horses stressed, unsure what to do, and you looked around frantically. Another one of the men attempted to cross over and take hold of the reins, but he received the same fate, instead his body leaned over yours, and you pushed it off the edge before it toppled on you.

“Girl!” One of the men yelled, catching your attention. “Do ya know how to drive that thing?!” His accent was thick, and his voice was deep with a slight rasp. You’d gotten a more clear look at his face now that it wasn’t half-covered with his hat. “I said, do ya know how to drive it?!” His horse sped up along the side of the coach, and you frantically nodded your head. You used to be a Stagecoach Taxi at fourteen. You just hoped you still had it in you.

You tore the fabric of the hem of your dress some more until the fabric stopped just above your knees, then hopped over before you’re pulled back by the neck; a man’s arm choking you and smashing both sides of your head as he squeezed his arm making you fall back onto the floor. “Stupid bitch,” the man huffed and grunted, shooting off a few rounds.

“Arthur, Arthur, no!” the leader yelled from behind. “You’ll risk shootin’ her! Put that gun down!”

He was right; the coach was teetering from side to side, and would be sure to tumble off the edge of a cliff if it were to get close enough.

They’d be sure to go off-road with the horses only knowing to go in one direction at the speed they were currently.

These horses were abused, whip welts covering both their hinds and backs, it was disgusting.

You sputtered out a few coughs as the man cut off your entire circulation, your fingers to pry at his arms and your nails scratch at his skin.

He drops you and you slump onto the floor. You hit your head on some metal, yet quickly recover. While the man is distracted, you throw your head at his pants and bite on his groin through the slacks, immediately, he lets out a yowl and accidentally pulls the trigger of his Litchfield Rifle as he falls off the carriage, which ricochets off a steel base, and strikes your shoulder.

A cry leaves your throat and you slap your hand over the wound. Blood seeps through the cloth of your ruffled top, but you swing yourself back over and take hold of the reins.

You feel your head pounding, but you pull back the reins and attempt to slow the horses down, though they don’t abide. The horses are panicked, unsure how to react.

“Don’t stop the coach!” the man with the feather in his hat, shooting over his shoulder.

”Well, what the hell do I do then?!” Your eyebrows furrow. “There’s more! They just keep comin’!” you turn your head at his words, and your eyes widen to see more O’Driscoll men trailing behind on coaches and horses.

“Jump on my horse!” The man with the striped shirt yells in your direction, and you look at him as if he’s crazy. “I’ll grab you, don’t worry about falling, but hurry it up!” His voice booms, going rasp.

“Now! Now!” He pulls back the reins of his horse, causing it to halt, and with a running start, you jump off the coach and onto his horse, his arm pulling you up as you almost fall off the horse’s hind to sit upright.

The horses to the coach attempt to stop at the edge of the cliff they ran too, though the coach pushes them over. You gasp, and turn your head as your hands grip the man’s jacket that was in front of you.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, sweetheart,” he clears his throat, and turns his horse around. His friends caught up, and their horses skidded to a stop.

“Dutch! What the hell was that for?” The male, who had directed you to not stop the stagecoach, his face was twisted with fury.

“Do you trust me, or not, son?” The man, who now is identified as Dutch, questions him, then elbows you lightly. “John Marston, he’s the hothead if you couldn’t tell, ain’t that right, boys?” He let out a humorous laugh. “Damn straight.” The one with the sombrero howls.

You had to keep yourself from passing out, which failed miserably. “You alright back there, miss?” He nudged your body again. Your eyes began to shut on you, and you slumped against the man’s back, then began to slide off the horse and onto the ground.

“Shit, shit!” Dutch took quick notice of your wounds. “Ain’t any of you tell me she was shot!” He wheezed, rushing off his horse. Everything faded to black.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead fanfic #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption arthur #arthur morgan is sexy #ghostheartfelt #ghostheartfelt writing

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ghostheartfelt · 10 months

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*:･｡☆ tags: cafe cuteness (fr), regular customer au, sunshine reader, grown attachments, pervert!venom, fem!reader, first introduction, no use of y/n, she/her prns used

〔☆〕 desc: you meet eddie during morning rush hour, vv understanding man who admires your connection with your customers and dedication towards your job. eddie's hungry for chocolate (n you), you pique interest in the host and his symbiote. very calm and soft start<3 u get both povs basically cause the way i write can b confusing :)

.. ☆ next part | masterlist (tbe)

—✩ RUSH HOUR P. ⅰ ✩—

word count — 1.7k

a/n: u get both povs basically cause the way i write can b confusing :)

Rush hour, you thought.

Your coworkers were racing in and out of the kitchen holding platters of fresh baked muffins and pitchers of orange juice.

In the evenings, the café is quieter and calmer - in the mornings, not so much.

You turned as someone called your name and nearly jumped out of your skin.

“Can you get the back left corner table napkins and jelly packets, please? That old woman is just about ready to throw her handbag at me,” your coworker, Becc (short for Becca), had asked you while balancing dirty plates going down both of her forearms.

“Yes, yes, I can—“ you nodded, waving her off as you rushed to the check-in desk, grabbing at a few jelly packs; orange marmalade, grape, and strawberry, as well as a new pack of napkins.

You did as Becc asked, bringing the items to the old woman who indeed was clutching her blue leather snakeskin handbag. “Sorry, ma’am, we’re a bit busy this morning.”

With no reply, she snagged an orange marmalade jelly packet from your hand as you were placing them on the table, causing you to flinch at the sudden action.

You as well unpackaged the napkins and placed them in the metal stand, then fixed your apron and walked back to the front desk as the welcoming bell’s ringing filled your ears.

A male in an olive green jacket and denim jeans, a gray undershirt, and black converse made his way towards the dine-in counter where you stood behind.

He had a scruffy yet handsome face, his hair slightly unkempt but in a way that you admired him. Your cheeks slightly flushed.

“Good morning,” he nodded at you respectfully.

“Good morning,” you replied, “just a table for one?”

You picked up a menu, clutching it to your chest as your fingers trace along the plastic cover.

“Yeah,” his eyes nervously dragged around though you let it go and took it in as some sort of social anxiety.

“Right this way, sir,” you lead the way, your head turning over your shoulder to make sure he hadn’t zoned out, turning it once again at the sight of him trailing behind.

“Will this booth work for you?” you placed the menu down and he slid it over with his thumb and pointer finger.

“Oh, yeah, nice cushioning,” he laughed nervously.

“Perfect - any drinks to start you off? Perhaps an O.J, or a coffee?” you straighten your posture, your shoulders slouched awkwardly.

“Coffee sounds great, side of cream of sugar, if that’s okay?” he looked up at you.

You were a nervous wreck, and he could tell - they could tell.

“I’ll have that right out for you,” you turned and took a step, though he put his hand on your shoulder.

“Shit, sorry, just uh—can I get a chocolate muffin as soon as possible?” his lips overlapped one another as he let go, though you blinked and smiled.

“Of course, I’m sorry, I should’ve asked if you’d like anything on the side.” You bit your bottom lip with embarrassment.

The man was rather distracting, your eyes dragging over and analyzing every feature his face held. He had blue eyes with soft bags, tiresome dark circles and a muscular build. You had an oddly specific type.

“Oh, no, don’t apologize,” he scoffed with a small smile.

You smiled back and turned on the heels of your white sneakers and headed to the kitchen.

“SHE SMELT DELICIOUS,” a deep and grim voice echoed in the brunette’s mind.

“Quit smelling random people like some pervert, V,” the man whispered to himself.

“NOT RANDOM, JUST HER,”

“Well, we can’t eat her,” he bit the flesh on the inside of his cheek as he looked outside the window, his forehead in the palm of his hand.

“WE WILL NOT,” the voice snarled deeply. “GET TIRED OF CHICKENS.”

“I know, V, but you can’t just go around the city beheading random people, so for right now we need to deal with chickens.” He grunted.

“BUT THEY ARE BAD, BAD PEOPLE SHOULD SUFFER AND DIE,” the voice grew louder, irritated by his response. “WE KILL, WE SAVE!”

“Yeah, well, we kill, we also risk our lives, V.”

“SHE IS COMING,” it snarked, evading his head.

The brunette turned his head to watch you walk over to his booth, a muffin and a cup of coffee on a large round tray that you balanced on your open palm, waving at frequent customers with a tug at both corners of your lips.

“I’m sorry for the wait, sir,” you grab the plate and set it on the table along with the mug of java.

“Just call me Eddie,” he nodded as thanks, taking a bite out of the muffin.

You introduced yourself, drumming your fingers on your server book before opening it. “Did you want anything else this morning, Eddie?” You clicked your fuzzy purple pen as you spoke with a bubbly voice.

“WE LIKED THAT,” the voice boomed through his head again causing Eddie to swallow thickly.

“I think we—I’m okay,” he stammered slightly, a nervous smirk curving one corner of his mouth upward.

He was cute, your hip dropped to the side slightly. You bit your lip to suppress a smile, instead giving a small laugh.

“Just wave at me when you’re ready for your bill, okay?” you close the book and turn once again to assist another table.

“HUNGRY,”

“Alright, V, just hold on a second,” Eddie peeled back the cover on the small creamer packet, then poured it into the coffee along with two packets of sugar.

Your fingers dig into the pocket of your apron to take out a few crayons wrapped in plastic and place them on the table along with a kids menu. A small ravenette boy with curly locks and smooth dark skin smiled at you brightly as he took out the green crayon and coloured in the small dinosaurs sprinkled across the kids menu.

“Thank you,” his mother sipped her cup of hot tea, her french-tip nails clicking against the glass as she loops her finger through the handle.

“Of course, what can I start you two off with this morning?” you leaned on your toes, then met back with the ground.

“For him, I think just a small pancake—“ she gently tapped the boy’s knuckles with her thumb, then began signing in what you assumed was American sign language.

You observed closely, watching in awe as he signed back to his mother, an exciting smile never leaving his face as he signed a “thank you,” to you.

You knew a bit of signing from your highschool years, so you replied with “you’re welcome,” enthusiastically, hugging yourself to gesture an air hug.

“A pancake is fine for him, some fruit on the side?” she smiled. “Is pot roast on the menu right now, dear?”

“Yes, there’s about ten more minutes until it’s done, if that is alright with you?” you wrote down the mention of extra fruit in your book.

“As long as it’s fresh, am I right?” she let out a heartwarming laugh, earning a small giggle from you as well. “Oh, and three cornbread biscuits.”

“That’s when it’s best, and sounds great - any juice for the little one?” your eyes dragged over to him craning his neck to sip out of the plastic cup of water that was given to his mother with her tea. Your heart fluttered with baby fever.

She caught his attention once more, signing with her fingers.

“Sprite, thank you,” the mother rejoiced.

You toyed with the hem of your apron. “I’ll have it right out for you two,” you scrambled toward the kitchen.

“WHERE DID SHE GO?”

“She’s helping others,” Eddie swirled the little bit of cold coffee in the bottom of his cup, slowly adjusting himself as he watched you set down a small plastic cup with a yellow lid in front of a child, then a bowl in front of his mother.

You place a straw on the table, then walk back to the brunette who had introduced himself as “Eddie”, which you admired. It fit his face well.

“I’m so sorry for the wait, Eddie,” you smile nervously with your eyebrows pinched together as you hand him his bill and a pen.

“Hey, it’s no problem, seriously.” He took it from your hands, scanning it over. “Thank you,”

“Of course,” you quipped. “Tell me if you need anything, I’ll be back,”

“LITTLE MORSEL,” the voice purred. “WILL WE COME BACK, EDDIE?”

Yeah - yeah, we will, V. Eddie watched you leave to assist another group of people walking into the small café as he took out his wallet, setting down two twenty dollar bills for a tip and his credit card for the rest.

“WANT TO MEET HER,” it grunted.

No, we might never even see her again.

“YOU ARE A LOSER.”

You sped back over, exhaling heavily. “It’s getting busier and busier, I’m sorry for the delay of getting you out the door,”

“No need for all the apologies, seriously,” he scoffed.

“Right, sorry—“ you blinked. “The tip, Eddie, that’s so much,”

“THAT SOUNDS—“

Knock it off, perv.

“I was a journalist, that’s nothing to me,”

Your cheeks flushed, but you thanked him again and guided him to the front desk.

“Any chance you’ll be here tomorrow?”

“YES!” it boomed.

“Actually, I won’t,” you hum sadly.

“NO—“ it snarled.

“But I work every Wednesday through Saturday,” you smiled.

“Okay, good to know,”

Your heart thumped in your chest, you were frozen in place in fear of him actually having the ability to hear, which Eddie himself couldn’t - but he could.

“SHE IS NERVOUS, EDDIE,”

Of us?

“OF YOU,”

Did Eddie want to get to know you more? Or possibly were you just that good of a waitress? God, now you were really overthinking things - is that why he tipped you so much? Did he not actually pique interest in you?

“Are you alright?”

You were so captivated in thought you hadn’t even realized you were still holding the brunette’s credit card in the machine; blinking for you to take it out - you felt your ear tips heat up.

“Sorry, I space out sometimes,” you gently pulled out his credit card and handed it to him, which he grabbed with two fingers.

“Not a problem,” there was a genuine tone on his tongue that delivered you some comfort.

“Have a great day, Eddie,” you waved to him as he left the building which he warmly returned; your heart feeling a sudden loneliness as he escaped your peripheral view.

#eddie brock #eddie brock x reader #eddie brock brain rot #marvel x reader #eddie brock x y/n #eddie brock x you #eddie brock x venom x you #eddie brock x venom x reader #venom x reader #venom and eddie #cafe au #frequent customer #ghostheartfelt writing #ghostheartfelt

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ghostheartfelt · 10 months

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*:･｡☆ notes: mature content, hellllla smut... smutty smut smut! reader is mentioned as petite/given the descriptions of being petite. reader and ghost are married. ghost is left at the door upon arrival, simon comes home. ghost takes the mask off only at home under your relationship rules.

*:･｡☆ tags: praise and degradation, anniversary sex, reunion sex, breast worship, body worship, ghost is obsessed with ya'll..., ghost is more affectionate during sex, biting, lots of kissing, reader is hella sex deprived, dom!m & sub!f, dom!f if you squint, cunniligus, you ride ghosts face for the first time, ghost loves eating pussy, you give him a blowjob (lucky), no use of y/n, lots of moaning and whining, spit play, ghost spits in your mouth, ghost loves the belly bulge, major size difference kink, BREEDING KINK, ghost breeds you like your life depends on it, you both try for a baby, very fluffy aftercare, ghost takes care of you.

〔☆〕 desc: ghost takes leave for your one year marriage anniversary and makes it up to you with hella sex. oh and you ask if he's ready to give you a baby because you don't like being home alone without a purpose, he doesn't let you leave without there being no chance of you walking out without his baby in you.

—✩ TEN MINUTES PAST ✩—

word count — 10.1k

a/n: this is my first ever time writing smut! i genuinely hope i did alright, and i welcome any advice and soft criticisms. anywho, enjoy this long ass smut shot!

ao3

You pace the living room eagerly. He said he’d be home. He promised. He promised you he’d be beside you for this day. It was your anniversary; he proposed a year ago, and you’d been dating him for six years prior.

It’s two o’clock in the morning, seven minutes past. He’s still not there. Eight minutes past two o’clock in the morning. You spent time cleaning the house for the second time this week, for him.

Nine minutes past two o’clock in the morning. Almost ten. You’ve been waiting since the moment you woke up. Twenty-one hours. One thousand, two hundred and sixty minutes. He’s still not here.

You sit down on the leather couch, and pour the glass of wine you had set out for the two of you in a stemless glass, pressing it to your lips. You lean back, resting your head against the cushion behind you.

Your fingers glide up and down the rubber buttons on the remote to your t.v, the black turning to white as you press on the red on/off button located at the top right corner of the remote.

You pull your black weighted blanket over your body, draping it over your shoulders and tucking it in the crevices between your arms to warm you up.

A stereotypical romance is the first movie you watched while you were cleaning the kitchen. Now, you were halfway through the movie, and it no longer makes you feel bubbly and giddy. But instead, just lonely, almost broken.

Maybe it was the way the brunette male held the blonde, gripping her hips as they kissed underneath the threshold of his apartment door. Or the way he looked at her when she stared out the airplane window during their flight to France.

Nothing you haven’t seen before in a romance, but they contained your favorite tropes, although basic, because Simon never did any of the things you see in the movies. His proposal was simple, hell, you were surprised he even proposed at all.

Your wedding ring was beautiful, a circle-shaped diamond that wasn’t too flashy nor too small. It had two bands that wrapped around your finger, and a diamond-covered frame covering the larger stone.

His ring always stayed on his bedside table, that is more than it should be, left untouched. He wears a silicone band when in the fields, which you were okay with due to it being for his safety. Once in a while, you end up wearing his wedding band around your neck, with a dog tag chain holding it securely.

Ten minutes past two o’clock in the morning. You remember his proposal all too well. You both had visited a pier that was fairly close to your shared home, and with no words, nor kneeling gesture, Simon had taken your smaller hand in his own, and slipped the gorgeous ring through your finger.

His eyes pinned to yours as you took in the moment for yourself. Your eyes shone, glistening with sticky tears as your mascara stained your undereyes. He always wore his mask out in public, but he never told you why.

It was almost as if you were proposed to by another version of him he never has told you about. You weren’t sure if it was him being ashamed of being with you, or something entirely different. Either way, you knew Simon was a man who was secretive and mysterious in a way that you were intrigued by. He still cared, although the man has never returned you an ‘i love you too’, he had other ways of expressing his feelings and admiration for you.

You stand from the couch, adjusting the red silk robes draped over your shoulders, tied at your chest. Your hair was pinned up in a tortoise shell claw clip, two strands from your bangs dangling in front of you. You’d grown out your natural nails, painting them in black—his favorite. You didn’t take the time to do your makeup, he��d always told you he preferred you without it. That your natural beauty was always his favorite; however, he loved when he made you cry off all your mascara while he fucked you, or when your lipstick would smear against him or the bed sheets.

A shiver ran up your spine at the thought. You longed for your husband’s touch for too long, and he’d promised you to provide. Simon was a man of his word, from what you’d seen and experienced. Two hours ago, it was yours and Simon’s anniversary. Two hours ago, you expected him to come through that door and hold you like he did on the pier, so long ago. A year ago. Now, you haven’t seen your husband in over six months, and it was killing you. It was torturous.

He mailed you, and you mailed him. He wrote you letters, telling you sweet nothings. He was such a literate man, he knew how to make you weak in the knees just through ink on paper. The last thing you’d mailed Simon were polaroid pictures of you. You in his favorite lingerie, you without it.

It took you a lot of confidence to do it, but you did, and he loved them. You didn’t know if he did or not, though, because he didn’t mail anything back. You spent day and night worried it was put into the wrong hands, or you wrote the address wrong, or he just didn’t care for them. Simon knew you were also an overthinker.

You walk back towards the kitchen, opening the fridge to take out a glass pitcher of coffee creamer, as well as the half-and-half carton. You close the fridge with your hip, and walk yourself to the other side of the counter where you had a little coffee and tea station set up. You grab one of the mugs off the rack, setting it down as you press the button on the electric kettle to heat up the water inside. You place your cup under the coffee machine.

Suddenly, you feel large hands envelope your waist, and you gasp. “What’re ya doin’ up still, love?” You immediately recognize his voice; so grim, deep, and low, and accented. His left hand drags up from your lower abdomen, up your ribs, up the valley of your breasts. You breathe sharply as he moves your robes, letting them fall off your shoulders slightly. His fingers trace your clavicles a moment, then your sternum again, then up your neck. His hand cups below your chin, pulling your head back to rest against his body.

Only then do you exhale and close your eyes while your palms press hard against the marble countertop. “I didn’t think you’d come,” you finally say, breaking the silence. “Mmm…—I know, t’wasnt my intention. Damn twits kept wantin’ and wantin’…” he says before he bends his head, kissing your shoulders gingerly. “Wanted to rip their heads off for keepin’ me from ya.” Simon grumbles against your soft skin. “But ‘m a man of my word,” his lips glide against your neck, almost hardly touching your skin—teasingly.

“Missed ya…Damn bad. Got yer pictures…” His eyes drag to your palms once they begin to grip on the counter. He starts low, making his way up your neck, sucking and kissing your sensitive skin to create marks that would be a considerable challenge to cover up for work. Just how he likes it.

“You didn’t send anything back…I only assumed the worst.” You reply, gasping once the male above you bites down on your neck then licks the indents he stamped down.

“Like?” He asks, separating your lips slightly with his thumb, which you place a few soft kisses against. “You didn’t…want them. Or they were bad—“ his hand covers your mouth, two of his fingers pressing into the skin below your chin.

“Quiet,” he grunts. “Didn’t want them? Fuckk…Do ya have any damn clue what y’did to me, woman?” Simon’s grip on your hip tightens as he grumbles against the shell of your ear.

“I wanted nothin’ more than to have ya bent to my contentment…To fuck y’r pretty little head empty.” He takes your earlobe between his teeth, then sucks lightly.

“I fucked my hand for over two damn hours like some fuckin’ eager man-slag. Course I damn well liked ‘em.” Simon’s hand trails up to your waist, the other still covering your mouth.

“Does that get ya off, hm? Knowin’ I fucked my fist to y’r pretty little slutty pictures?” He breathes heavily against you, pulling your body warm against his.

“Si…” you say softly, practically delicately after he releases the hand from your mouth to rest it on your waist with the other. “I asked ya a question.” Simon’s voice is so low and gravelly, you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together, and he takes notice.

You turn around. He lets you. You crave him. He craves you. “Yes,” you coo. His head cranes down to connect your lips with his.

“I’ve missed you so much, Simon,” you whisper into his mouth. He consumes your speech, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. His tongue meets with yours, tasting yours. Tasting what he’s longed for. Tasting who he’s longed for.

He doesn’t pull away until you start to struggle to breathe, biting your lip before he disconnects from you, a string of saliva causing him to chuckle deeply.

“Let me make it up to ya, love…” he says, asking for consent with his brown eyes. You only nod, which is enough for his hands to move and grip your hind, lifting you up against his chest. Your legs wrap around his waist and you kiss his chin, his neck—anything you can reach—desperately. He carries you towards the couch, setting you down on the soft material. Your doe eyes blink, taking in his form. He was still in his uniform, but his mask was resting on his side.

Simon’s hard gaze meets with your body, causing you to shuffle around nervously, he was standing up above you, somewhat menacingly. “You look damned beautiful—made me go mad the moment I walked in…” Simon’s eyes don’t leave your body as he starts to discard his vest and kick off his boots. “I feel a bit underdressed,” you joke softly, a smile creasing your lips. “Jus’ how I like it…” He teases, watching as you stare at him. At his shape. The way his tan shirt squeezes tightly around his arms accentuating his tight fit.

Simon nethers down in a bent form, his lips connecting with your wrist as he lifts your arm. “Smell absolutely incredible.” He says, his voice brimming with adoration and his eyes stirring with pure interest and dedication, a hint of desire masked in his dark irises. “Oh…” You exhale deeply, taking note of every one of his moves, memorizing the pattern of his lips against your feverish body.

“‘Oh’, is right lovie.” Simon teases you gently, a humorous chuckle leaving his throat.

He lets go of your hand, letting it slide back onto your thigh as he seats himself besides you, gripping your hips to turn you and lean you against the armrest of the couch. Butterflies swarm in your stomach at his sudden domineering pace. “Y’r so quiet, why?” Simon’s eyes lock onto your half-lidded pair. “I’m just tired, baby, and in shock. You’re right here. In front of me, right now.” You say, lifting your hand to tug at the shirt covering his chest.

Slowly, you drag your open palm up and over his collarbones, pushing him forward to close the gap between you by the nape of his neck. His thumbs add pressure into your hips, bruising them as you thread his fingers through your own, he groans in your mouth as you lightly tug his hair. His tongue glides past yours in a perfect synchrony, showing the desire he held for you. You need him, and he needs you, and that’s entirely evident. “Simon, slow…I don’t want to wake our neighbors,” you breathe as you separate from him. His eyebrows furrow. “I need ya—don’t care if I wake the entire damned city up.” He says sourly.

Your cheeks heat up and your eyes flicker down to Simon’s fingers fumbling with the fronts of your robes. You assist him, untying the little knot of the bow you secured, furtherly exposing your black floral bralette with matching panties. He inhaled sharply, his eyes burning into your cleavage and hip dips. “Fuckin’ bloody massacre…” he cranes his head down, planting kisses over your upper breasts, meeting your lips with a soft peck, you mumble his name, catching his attention. “Y’r a’ready gettin’ all worked up, love.” He teasingly drags his middle finger up over your clothed cunt, making you twitch.

“Oh—“ you moan.

“Tha’s exactly how I can tell ya ain’t had a good fuck in some time…So sensitive to everything. Ya want me to fuck you senseless, sweetheart? Is that what ya want?”

He bucks his hips against yours, enough to rile you up. “Please, Simon,” you choke out, gripping his shoulders. “Atta girl,” he lowers himself down and kisses your inner thighs, biting the flesh hard enough to leave marks. “Sweet girl”, he hums below you. You gasp and dig your nails into his skin through his shirt, wiggling as he licks and teases the bitten skin. “I need you,” you sigh in ecstasy to his touch. “I’ve been craving you.” He groans at your blind solicitation, propping your legs up from behind your knees before spreading them apart.

His fingers grip the waistband of your panties before he tears the fabric off from you with just one hand. “Simon!” You yelp as your eyebrows furrow. “Those were expensive…” He huffs below you, kissing your raw skin. “Don’t care—“ he pauses a moment, pulling from your legs to snatch a box from the coffee table beside the both of you.

“Open.” Simon nearly commands, filling you with a slight excitement yet confusion. “Didn’t have time to wrap, ‘sorry.” He watches you take off the lid of the silver glitter box, your eyes immediately widening with marvel.

A new lingerie set to add to your drawer, it was a laced pink set with a little gem hanging in the center front of both the panties and brassiere. Underneath, a perfume you’d been talking to him about like a mad woman, and a pearl necklace with a diamond heart pendant.

You give him a toothy grin, immediately wrapping your arms around his shoulders to pull him into your chest, he lets out an amused huff. “Happy anniversary, love.” Simon hums against your ear, kissing your collarbone. “Happy anniversary, Simon.” You say back breathlessly.

He sets the box back down on the coffee table after you let go of his shoulders, then he tugs his shirt over his head, piling it on the rug with his gear. He dips down again between your thighs and laces his tongue down your folds from your clit. “So precious,” he coos. You immediately arch your back up and squeal, but he presses his palm against your abdomen, pushing you down.

You bite down on your lip to suppress your noises, and you instinctively slam your thighs together in embarrassment. It’d been so long. “Stop.” He says with a low growl. “Y’r beautiful, love. Nothin’ to be nervous ‘bout, y’hear me?”

His thumb pulls down your bottom lip from your teeth’s hold, causing you to smile softly. “Y’r gorgeous, inside and out. Let me show ya what I mean…” Simon thumbs your robes off entirely with featherlight touches and hoists you up by the back of your thighs. “Si?” You blink, watching as he lays down below you, setting you down hard on his hips.

His pants are dented with a bulge, struggling to breathe under the constraints of his cargos. Your slick cunt wets the fabric below you, and you bite the inside of your cheek, slowly rubbing yourself against the tent in his pants, earning a deep groan from your husband.

“Tryin’ somethin’ new,” he says. “Scoot.” You look at him anxiously, trying to avoid your thoughts resorting to what you thought he was trying to do. “What?—“

“Scoot the hell up here ‘n sit on my damn face, woman.”

“Help me,” you murmur, causing his eyebrows to pinch together. You feel his cock twitch beneath you. “Please, please, Simon…” He obliges. His large and scarred hands cup your bottom, pushing you up and over his chest. “I don’t know if I can,” you mewl above him, and his eyes burn into yours. They melt you into pure liquid above him.

Your legs feel like pure jelly. “I know you can.” He says. “Hands on my chest, dig y’r nails into me if ya have to, understood?” You shake your head. His hands grip your ass tighter. “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes, Simon,” You tremble, hardly able to hold yourself up even with his assistance. Slowly, he sets you on his lips, and you shiver at the first kiss pressed against your wet core. “That’s it, sweet angel.” Simon praises. Immediately, your fingers and hands curl against his lower chest, holding you up. Unholy and sinful sounds fill the living room as he attacks your cunt, lapping up your juices as they dribble down his chin and down his chest sticking to his stubble. “Oh! Oh, fuck!” You gasp loudly, flinging your head back as your nails dig into his skin. “Simon, Simon…!”

“That’s it love, let ‘em hear. Let ‘em know who makes you feel this good.” He growls against you, causing your already sensitive thighs to tremble and your muscles to convulse. Simon’s tongue separates your folds, his nose bumping your clit causing you to squeal. “I could jus’ drown in this sweet cunt,” he groans, causing something to swarm in your chest and stomach from his words. “Keep lookin’ at me, babe.” He commands.

“I can’t,” you whine.

“You can. Bullshit.” His hands move to your hips, allowing his fingernails to dig into the dips, holding you up. “Simon…” you stammer his name over, and over, and over again.

“Ride my face, you beautiful fuckin’ slag.” Simon orders, tugging your hips forward to bump your cunt further against his nose as he buries his tongue into you, curling into your hole. Reluctantly, you take control and roll your hips against him. “Oh fuck…” he breathes heavily. His tongue retracts, and he sucks and flicks his tongue on your clit, driving you to the complete edge. Simon grunts. “Holy shit—fuckin’ gorgeous.”

“Fuckin’ needed this…” He moans below you. Against you. You let out a sharp cry of utter pleasure, earning a positive reaction from him. “Needed you…” Simon lets go of you, your body falling flush against him, increasing the pressure.

“No, no—“ you twitch and moan breathlessly, your breath hitching in your throat. It was all too much. A knot ties in your stomach. He wasn’t done. Of course he wasn’t. “Simon!” You scream and lower your head, taking a hand to smear away your slick from his cheek.

One finger swirls over your bud, then side to side at an almost inhuman pace as he sucks on you. He knew exactly what killed you. Your stomach sucks in and your shoulders slump above him as your entire body seems to break into short spasms.

“Such a fuckin’ good girl…” He praises, lifting you a moment. “Don’t stop talking, oh—please, please,” you beg him, your lips quivering. He abides. “Ya think you could cum to just my voice alone?” You moan out in agreement to his question, shuddering as he slowly slides a finger in you.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon breathes sharply. “Y’r tightenin’ around my finger like yer damned life depends on it.” He chuckles low and works on the skin across your inner thighs, covering them in red and purple love bites as he pumps his middle finger in and out of your heat.

Simon attempts to push his pointer finger in you, but you object in pain, arching your back up. “Simon—” you mumble. “Shiiiiiitt…We’ll work ya open, love.”

He presses his lips messily against the side of your knee for a split moment, then starts to slowly work a second digit in again, whispering sweet incoherent praises below you. “I’m gonna…” You manage to say, he hushes you softly by pinching the skin on the inside of your left thigh.

“C’mon then,” he urges. Two fingers slowly move into your cunt while his tongue curls around your throbbing clit, you practically fold. “Cum—cum for me,” he croons against your core. His stubble adds in an extra sensation that’s truly unimaginable.

Your spine arches above him and your nails drag along his scarred skin. He groans. A noise you’ll never get over. “Fuckin’ minx—you like that, sweet girl?” He gruffly purrs, his eyes locking to yours as you look down at him, your mouth slightly ajar as you moan with fluttering lashes.

“So damn gorgeous like this,” Simon glides his thumb over your sensitive clit, fingers entering and exiting your warmth. “You’re so fuckin’ tight…” Your husband praises, extinguishing your pre-insecurities. You tighten around him and he lets out an approving mumble. Once you release around his fingers, he shoves deeper into you, pushing your liquids back inside to watch it drip out of you. “That’s it, sweet girl.”

“Delicious,” Simon groans as he laps up your juices from off his fingers, savoring the taste of your release. He always knew what to say to make your belly swarm with butterflies. You bite your bottom lip shyly.

You let out a heavy sigh in an attempt to soothe the muscle spasms in your thighs. Simon slowly lifts himself up, holding your back to keep you against him, tapping your right thigh roughly with four fingers to instruct you to wrap around him.

“Where are we going?” You question softly. “Room,” Simon grunts back as he steps through the threshold of your shared bedroom.

He pauses, staring at his side of the bed being unkempt. “Did’ya sleep on my side?” His eyes shoot down to meet yours. “I’ve been, sorry.” You bite the tip of your tongue gently.

“No, don’t.”

“Don’t apologize for that.”

Your heart rate rises and your fingers curl against his chest. “I have something for you,” you coo lightly and wriggle in his hold to ask him to let you down. He does, one of his dark eyebrows shifting higher than the other in confusion.

Once your feet meet the ground, you walk quickly to your side of the bed, fingers hooking the straps to a small black bag with thin wrapping.

You hesitate. One hand grips the bag, a loud crinkle filling the room, and you close your eyes.

It felt as if the air all around you was being swallowed whole and your throat was tightening in an attempt to catch up with the disintegrating air.

You feel Simon’s back press against you as he takes the bag out of your hands slowly, his lips pressing onto the back of your head.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he says almost silently.

You turn and lift your head up to look at him, and he takes a hand to caress your cheek with his thumb before he retracts and pulls out the wrapping inside the bag.

His eyes widen a moment, and you feel nervous. He pulls out the small infant onesie, his view flashing to look over your face with concern.

“Simon,” you take a step closer, adjusting the robes to cover you up slightly. “I want to be the mother of your baby.” You say as you rub over your cuticles. “Please, don’t leave me alone this time, I want you to fuck me full of you,” you trace the bulged muscles on his neck as he stands in silence.

“Si? I’m sorry, I knew I should’ve waited, I’m—“ you take a step back, shaking your head as you let out a scoff.

He grabs your arm, pulling you back towards him as your name leaves his mouth nearly silently. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, love.”

Your hands grip both of his biceps reassuringly, head tilting up to place a gentle kiss on the scar that laced from his chin down to an inch of his neck. “You are nothing like him, baby,” your voice reaches nothing below a whisper. “I don’t fear you, not around me, and I won’t fear you around our child.”

Slowly, your fingertips dragged down to the hem of his shirt, pulling it above his belly button before he took it off entirely himself, his neck scooping low to connect your lips together.

Simon’s tongue snakes across your own, a hot breath that tastes like whiskey filling your senses. You release a weak moan into his mouth as you turn your head to deepen the kiss, fingers dragging up the nape of his neck to curl through his blonde locks.

Your husband backed you towards the wall, his hands exploring between your inner thighs and pressing roughly into the already bruised skin. Simon groaned in your mouth before breaking contact to allow you both to breathe.

“Fuckin’ bloody massacre…” He mutters against your skin, his lips moving down the crevice of your collarbones to the dip in the middle of your neck. The roughness and scarring of his lips increased the friction.

He hooks your leg up with his hand from under your knee. Simon used his other hand to press a finger into you, causing a small squeak to spill from your mouth. You let out a moan as the heel of his palm bumps up against your clit. “That’s right sweetheart,” he purrs grimly.

“Oh-ho…good girl.” Simon chuckles as he pumps his finger in and out of your warmth, your slick coating his middle finger and dripping down his knuckles.

You whine, bucking against him and assisting him to go deeper inside your cunt. Simon’s head cranes as he takes your bottom lip between his teeth. “Pretty little slut,” he groans. Your husband slips in another finger, earning a gasp from you as they hook inside you and hit a spot that makes your eyes widen. “All this is mine.”

As he starts to quicken his pace, feeling you tighten around him and start to reject his fingers, your orgasm pushes forward on. “Come on, baby,” Simon praises, using his thumb to toy at your clit. “Simon!” Your legs twitch at every little touch to the sensitive surface, his name leaving your name with a wince.

Your legs spasm as you reach your release once again, his fingers leaving you with a wet squelch as he starts to clean his fingers off with his tongue. “Y’taste incredible, princess.” He says, and it makes you throb even further with his sexy smirk on top of his lustful words.

Simon could eat you out like you were his last meal. He loved tasting you, licking up between your folds and pushing his tongue inside your warmth, sucking and swirling on your clit leaving you an absolute mess. He loved the wet sounds that came from it mixed with your moans and whines.

“I need…” you mumble lightly, wrapping your trembling hands around his neck. Simon’s left eyebrow arches as he lets out a small “hmm?” of curiosity. “Use your words, babygirl.”

“I need you inside of me, please, fuck me, Simon,” you whined. His grin is wolfish.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel his lips suddenly envelop one of your nipples, his tongue lacing over the sensitive skin as he lightly sucks on the bud.

When he retracts, a string of saliva from your breast to his lips drips down your breast.

“Turn around and spread those beautiful legs, love.” He lifts his head up to whisper against your ear, pressing a kiss to the part of your neck below your earlobe. “Use the wall and brace yourself.”

You moan out your approval as he helps you turn yourself on your ankles. You spread your legs and bend at the waistline, pressing your palms against the pearly white wall of your shared bedroom.

“Atta girl,” he praises. “Such a good dirty little whore.” Simon drags his thumb down between your folds causing you to shiver. “Putting this pretty little pussy out on display for me.” His gruff accent only causes your knees to buckle beneath you as you let out a pitiful moan.

You feel your cunt throbbing at the sound of Simon unlooping his belt. You blatantly back your hips into his and grind yourself against the dent of his pants.

His groans fill the room as he grips the dips in your hips with one hand to keep you still. Simon’s belt meets with the floor and you watch him kick his cargos away after they pool around his ankles. “Fuck…” He hisses.

Simon frees himself from the restraints of his boxers, pulling his cock through the fly and holding it against your ass. “Y’feel how worked up y’get me, love?”

He leans himself forward closer to your ear as he slowly rubs his cock between your folds, coating it in your wet and warm slick. The moan he releases is intoxicating.

“Want me t’make you cum on my big cock?” He whispers lowly, then moans out your name as he slowly presses his tip into you. Your name rolls off his tongue perfectly, like the way oil feels against skin.

You give him a desperate whimper as you feel his tip stretch you open, and you push yourself back further on him to assist him.

“Slow, babe.” He coos. You choke on a moan, a hand nearly sliding off the wall before Simon threads his fingers with yours, pinning it back against the wall as you ride his tip. “Oh my god,” you gasp.

Simon bites the skin of your neck; a searing, beautiful pain that only drives you to insanity as you buck yourself gently back and forth, down the head of your husband’s dick.

“Beautiful girl, stretch yourself open on me, use me.” He demands.

He wanted it to be easy on you, gentle. Simon was bigger than you’d ever expected, it always took a little longer than expected for your body to adjust to his size, and he was patient with you. Mostly.

Slowly, you push yourself farther down the length of his dick, filling your cunt up with him. You wanted your pussy to swallow him whole. You craved it.

Simon gripped your thigh as he thrusted himself deeper inside, you let out a shrieked moan, causing him to groan. “This okay?” He asks above you. “Yes,” you drawl with a moan following.

“Love the way y’sound,” he leads you onto him with a hand squeezing your waist, backing you up and down his cock. “And this pretty little tight pussy.”

The warmth of his tongue wets the base of your neck before he gives it an open-mouthed kiss, dragging his tongue in a horizontal motion. He roughly sucks on the raw and pleading skin.

“Mmm…” Simon moans against your skin feeling your hips finally meet with his as you take his entire cock in you. “That’s it…that’s it my sweet girl, my perfect little slut. Y’can take it.”

His hips thrust faster, pulling you back with his palm on your ass as he ruts into you. Simon plants a rough smack against your ass, a lustful chuckle leaving the depths of his throat seeing the skin bounce to his behest.

“Fuck,” you pant. Sounds of skin slapping fill the room, your mouth held agape as he snaps into you, a perfect set pace as he fucks you, hard.

“Please, please,” you moan as he takes a fist full of your ass and slams you down onto him, you let out a cry.

“Please what, sweet girl?”

“Make me…” a moan leaving your throat interrupts you mid-sentence, “…make me cum, make me cum on your big cock…I need you to…”

Simon hums gruffly. “Your gorgeous begs. Beautiful moans.” His fingers tighten over yours, locking his with your own.

You’re writhing beneath him, thighs threatening to give in and make your body meet with the wooden flooring. “Yes, yes…” you moan, each thrust inside of you causing your words to choke out with each heavy breath. “So good to me, so good…” You feel his cock twitch inside you at your whined and strained praises.

Just as he finds that perfect spot inside of you, your back arches. He slides his hand up the dip in your spine to grab your hair and pull it back, allowing him more access to your neck.

Simon drags his lips up your neck until he’s nibbling your lobe. “Yeah? Right there, love?” He croons sexily. “Y’like that?”

“Want me to fuck you right there?” He asks, you moan in reply, but he yanks your head back. “Tell me.”

“Ah—yes, yes…” you practically mewl as you feel your husband bottom out inside you, hitting your cervix with every deep and slamming thrust.

“So…so close!”

Your eyes water as you felt your muscles tighten in your body, your blood pumping lethargically through your veins insisting that you keep yourself from letting your legs give in beneath you.

Drool collected at the corners of your swollen and sore lips that you’d been gnawing at with the top row of your teeth as he filled you up to the hilt with his length and thickness.

“Fuck—“ he gasps. “Fuck…fuck…” Simon’s voice is hitched in his throat, almost as if the air around him was being consumed.

With one swift motion, he turns you around after pulling out of you and picks you up by cradling your ass, lips immediately crashing into one another as he roughly yanks you back down onto him.

“So good, so warm ‘n wet for me…” He wets your bottom lip with his tongue. Your nails dig into the skin on his upper back causing him to hiss into your mouth. “Taking me so well, sweet girl.”

You moan in pure ecstasy into his mouth, abrupt whines and whimpers leaving you everytime he hits your cervix. “Fuck me, fuck me, make me see stars!” You beg.

He backs you up against the wall and your hands meet with Simon’s hair, pulling his head back to attack his mouth with your own as he quickened his pace inside of you, attacking your cunt and making your slick coat between your thighs.

Simon slams into you once more, pausing a moment to rub along your abdomen, you let out a sob.

“Look at how full of me you are, bloody hell, babe.”

Your lolling head struggles to allow you to focus. He grabs your chin, pinching your lips together slightly forcing you to look down at the small bulge in your stomach from his size. You manage a small noise before he plants a long kiss against your forehead, helping you straighten your back before colliding your hips together once more.

His hand leaves your chin and settles back onto your ass, giving it yet another harsh smack to knock you back into your senses. Your eyes widen for a moment before they return to being half-lidded.

Simon chuckles, biting down on your bottom lip and pulling it back before releasing it.

“So cock-drunk for me, baby,” he purrs wolfishly. “C’mon, a little longer, princess.”

“Fuckin’ gorgeous.” Your husband thumbs away a bead of drool dripping down the outer corner of your lips.

You whimper in reply, tugging at his blonde hair lightly, which you knew always drove him absolutely crazy.

“Fu—..ck!” A yelp leaves your lips as you pull yourself out of stupor and grip his shoulders, slamming yourself down on him, he releases a noise similar to a growl and a moan, whatever it was, you felt your walls spasm around him.

He moaned your name.

“Yes, yes, fuckin’ perfect, fuckin—“ he groans, a finger finding your clit as he fucks you through your orgasm, riding his own. “Gonna cum, so fuckin…Ah,” he grunts at every thrust.

“Cum with me…c—um…now.” He’s practically stuttering, speaking through clenched teeth.

You moan as the muscles in your legs start to tense, your cunt clinging to him as your orgasm rolls off.

Simon bites down on one of the many hickeys littered across the skin of your neck.

“Si—..mon!” you cry out, hands trembling as you drag one down the side of his face, peppering kisses wherever your neck could stretch and reach.

You smile, lips quivering as you feel him release into you, your own cum leaking down between your legs and down his own.

“That’s it, that’s it…cumming for me, making such a dirty mess, such a good fuckin’ girl…” he sucks on your bottom lip.

Simon thrusts his cum back into your pulsating cunt, making sure not to waste a single drop.

“Th..ank you, thank you..” you slur. “Mmm…yes, Si…”

It wasn’t over, he wasn’t done, and you loved it. You wanted him more than ever.

You whimper as you feel him slide out of you, immediately missing the warmth he provided. Two fingers slide over your wetness, as he watches it drip out of you, he fucks it back into you with those same two fingers.

Slowly, he raises them to your mouth, and you lock eyes with him as he pulls down your bottom lip.

Without hesitation, you lace your tongue up his fingers, then between them, lapping up your shared orgasm. He whispers soft praises into your ear as you take his fingers into your mouth, sucking off your mixed slick as you reach Simon’s knuckles, a loud and wet pop sounding as you release his fingers.

“Wrap y’r legs ‘round me, pretty girl.” He hums lowly.

You abide.

He picks you up from off the wall, connecting your lips. He groans into your mouth. “So soft, smell so good.”

Simon uses his elbow to open the bathroom door, pressing his back against it to allow you both in. The sound of your skin slapping against the dark grey marbled countertop he sets you on echoes. “Simon!” You laugh gently.

His hand dips to the nape of your neck, fisting in your thick hair and tugging your head back to allow his lips to attack your neck. He groans against your abused skin as you drag your fingers along the scars on his chest, your fingers tracing his clavicles with featherlight touches.

Simon’s mouth leaves your neck once again, yet another mark of his possession towards you marking your skin.

He finally kicks off his boxers entirely, tossing them into the corner of the bathroom.

He strokes himself a moment, aligns his cock with your entrance, and slowly pushes himself inside of your pussy.

Your mouth is held agape, as your eyebrows thread together and your eyes squeeze shut.

“Open, open those pretty eyes, I want to watch y’come apart for me.”

He whispered your name like a prayer, and each time you extended a little noise to his fragments of praise and adoration, watching you come undone on the counter of the bathroom you share.

“Gorgeous little minx,” he whispers as his lips brush against yours, breathing heavily against your chin and neck.

You feel the heat radiating off his thighs as they brush against your bare and silky clean-shaven legs.

He groans as your smooth folds envelop his needy cock, still throbbing and pleading for him to fuck you full again. Your sweat-slicked chest drags against his, breasts flattening as your arms loop over his neck. “Y’feel so fuckin’ good, love…”

“I lo—ve you,” you moan, choking on your own words. He sinks deeper into you, moaning in reply to your words, your thighs growing numb as he engraves his fingers into your skin. “God, Simon.”

“Like this pussy was made f’r me…” your husband sneers.

He slides back out, slamming into you ruthlessly, repeating the motion twice until he bottoms out. You cry out yet another moan, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Fuck, those moans…” he chuckles. “Singin’ me a goddamn song, aren’t ya, sweetheart?”

Simon growls, roughly sliding his hands underneath your thighs and pulling you towards him, pulling your legs further apart. You let out a ragged gasp as he hammers into you, his dick curving perfectly into a spot that causes your legs to spasm in his grasp. “Pl—,”

You let out a scream. A scream that was slurred, a scream of pleasure and pure high.

It ripped from you. Your orgasm. He still slams into you, wet sounds of squelching filling the entire bathroom as he fucks your climax back inside of your hole.

He applies more force into the spot that aching place that practically makes you squeeze around him.

He laughs. A brief yet whole hearted laugh. “Fuckin’ hell, that was new…”

“Y’ve never finished that fast before,” Simon breathed against your ear.”

“I’m sorry,” your cheeks flush and you cry out another moan as your skin sticks to his from your wetness.

“Don’t ‘cha ever b’fuckin sorry for that.” He says, hitching into the back of your cunt once more. He lets out a grown as he accidentally slams his knee into the cabinet below you.

“Oh—Oh fuck! Simon, d...-don’t stop! Please—fuck!”

At each thrust your breath hitched in your dry throat. You gagged on air. You gasped out his name.

He twitches inside of you, the veins of his cock bucking against your walls. Your knees buckle as Simon’s fingers clasp both of your nipples and he rolls the sensitive nubs between his thumbs and pointer fingers.

“My good girl makin’ sucha mess on me,” he chuckles. “So fuckin’ pretty.”

Your eyelashes flutter as you buck your pelvis into his hips.

“Oh, god—fuck…” he grunts. “That’s it, baby, my good little slut.”

“Jesus—‘m so proud of you, takin’ my fat cock in your small little pussy.”

You swallow the thick ball of spit clogging your throat. “Ye—yes, I feel so good,” you moan. “You—..make me feel so good. So big.”

“Y’did such a good job, baby.” Simon praises as he pinches your nipples.

“Give me your tongue. Out.”

When you comply, he takes your tongue into his mouth, swiping it with his own. You whine into his mouth as he sucks on your tongue, lacing his spit with your own. He tilts his head to deepen the kiss, traversing through your mouth as he fucks you up against the counter.

“God—taste so good.” He purrs.

“Jus’ wanna break you.” A hand leaves your tit to swirl around your swollen clit, you squirm beneath him. “All mine.”

His pace grows slower, so you rock your hips into his to help, earning a deep and groggy moan to claw from his gullet.

“Cum in me, fill me up,” you beg, putting pressure with your thumbs into both sides of the base of his neck. “F—Fill my pussy up, use me…”

Simon’s hips thrust into you so hard the clutter of toothbrushes rolls off the counter and onto the floor—it feels almost as if the walls of the bathroom are shaking.

He let out a staggered, heavy breath. “Y’know how good my hard dick feels inside of you?” He encourages, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder.

“Mm-mm,” you shake your head, then swing it back to let out a shuddered moan.

“So fuckin’ small ‘n tight around me.” Simon’s shins bang into the cabinets below you two. “Beautiful. So beautiful.” Your husband presses a kiss to your bottom lip regardless of your mouth being held ajar.

Your fucked out face etched with pure bliss only turned him on to the brinks. Even as he’s pounding unmercifully into your cervix, he watches your face as it twists into a mixture of pleasure and pain, the tip of his cock plummeting the one soft spot inside you.

Your heart pounds, as if it wants to push its way through your ribcage. You caress Simon’s muscled biceps that are adorned with ink markings reaching his wrists.

That familiar tightening at the lower bottom of your abdomen appears again, causing you to whine and dig your nails into Simon’s arms, your back arching as you wiggle your hips in his grasp. “That’s it, lovie, soak my cock.” He hums. “So damn proud of ye f’r takin’ me again.”

Simon pushes himself deep inside you. “Got me fuckin’ a baby in ye. Tha’s what’chu got me doin’ ‘ere. Want ‘vryone to watch your little belly grow with my seed? Let ‘em know who y’belong to?”

“C’mon, baby, cum nice ‘n hard on this dick. C’mon.”

You nod and moan. “Yours—only yours…” The coil in your stomach finally snapped, tears pricking your eyes and making their way down your cheeks.

“Take it, take it…Oh..shit..” He huffs and moans, rubbing over the bulge in your lower stomach. “That’s it…That’s it, lovie.”

Your cunt convulsed around him and he continued rutting inside you, rambling praises as your cum leaks down your legs and coats his pubic hair.

“Oh—oh fu..ck!” He moans, mouth being held open as his head flings back. Small whimpers leave him, god it’s adorable.

Simon releases into you, fingernails tracking into your waist, enough to draw small details of blood across your porcelain body.

Hot and heavy pants leave your husband’s open mouth.

“Absolute goddess, a feast f’r the eyes.” He respires sharply, helping you off the counter. Your hips collide with his again.

You twitch as your head slumps down on his shoulder, teeth nibbling and lips kissing against the flesh you can reach.

“So small on me.” He groans into your ear, sending a shockwave between your legs.

One hand stays splayed across the small of your back, while his other holds a bruising grip on your hip, thumb rolling a circular motion into your warm skin.

Simon takes you both back into your bedroom, laying you flat on the bed, watching hungrily as your tits bounce from the impact onto the velvety sheets.

“Oh-ho… those gorgeous tits…” your husband kneads your breasts in both of his palms, massaging the soft and tender flesh.

“Can’t wait to see ‘em swollen with milk, needy and jus’ beggin’ to be touched by me.”

Simon litters gentle kisses across both of your breasts, causing you to squirm and arch your back. He gently shushes you, dragging a palm through your soft and messy hair.

“That what’ya want, baby? Want me to milk your tits dry when they’re hard and full?” He drags his tongue along the curves of your breasts and up to the muscle of your neck.

“Mhm…please…” you murmur, trailing your hand up his spine to the nape of his neck, gripping his tail of blonde hair to pull his head down and crashing his lips onto yours.

He pushes his tongue past yours, then rubs the tip of it along the crevices of the inside of your mouth. Simon groans into your throat.

You both trade spit, fighting for a form of dominance with your tongues, which ends up in your defeat as usual as you both disconnect from each other's swollen and glistening lips.

“Simon, please…” you moan, tugging his hair slightly, earning a low growl from the larger male above you.

“Please what, baby? Tell me what you want.” He cranes, being hovered above you, thumbs still massaging your breasts as his cock slightly teases your throbbing entrance.

“Please let me suck your dick,” you slur, fingers teasingly tracing over one of the veins on the base of his cock. He huffs out a cloud of air that’d been surfacing in the depths of his lungs.

“Look at you, askin’ so nicely, how could I say no?” He practically purrs. “Like a personal little cockslave, aye?” A short chuckle leaves Simon.

“Sit up, on y’r hands ‘n knees. ‘M going to play with that precious pussy as you take me in y’r mouth. I want to watch you break as I bruise your pretty little throat with my thick cock.”

You feel something tighten inside of you at Simon’s filthy words, immediately lifting yourself up from your back flat against the mattress of your king-sized bed, you let one of his hands find your hair and tug your head back.

“Open y’r mouth, baby.” He purrs, brown eyes narrowed and looking down at you with pure love and lust. “Stick that cute little tongue out.”

Your eyelashes angelically flutter as you expose your tongue to your husband. He takes himself in his hand and slaps the tip of his cock against your tongue, making you clench your legs and wiggle your waist, a hum in your throat exiting and filling the room.

“Shit…sweetheart…the things y’do to me.” Simon groans. “Stroke me. Show me you deserve this cock in your tight little throat. Keep your mouth just like that.”

His words, his instructions—you submitted to him without hesitation or thought to mind.

You took your hand and swiped your slick from your cunt with four fingers, then rubbed it up and down his base a moment before wrapping your hand around his dick, earning a groan from him.

He was so big in your tiny hand, it turned you on to nearly your limits.

You rolled your wrist as you jerked his base up and down, once in a while thumbing at the needy slit at the tip of his cock. “Ah, fuck…Those small hands do wonders…” Simon moans, jerking his hips to match your thrusts up and down his shaft. “Such a good fuckin’ girl…so proud of you.”

It took everything in you to not pull this man forward and take him into your warm and wet mouth, but you knew he was in command, and disobeying him would result in orgasm denial. He was so incredibly good at edging you, it was torturous.

“Fuck—you drive me crazy, love…” he nearly whines as you massage his scrotum. You offer him a small open-mouthed laugh.

“Y’think that’s funny?” Simon pinches your cheeks together, a slight and incredibly sexy tilt in his head. “Don’t y’get smug wit’me, princess. Y’know who will win.”

You moan, feeling his fingers glide down to grip your jaw to tilt your head up once again. “You bein’ on your knees for me, huh, y’little minx?” He suddenly spits into your mouth and you shiver. Holy shit. He’d never done that before, and it drove you absolutely mad.

A deep laugh exits him. “Y’fuckin’ liked that, didn’t ya? Dirty little slut.”

Your thighs slam together once again and you grind against your skin, a whimpered gargle causing you to squeeze your eyes together in shame as you close your mouth. He prys it back open.

“Ah-ah, ah…” Simon hums lowly. “No—no. Don’t you swallow. Y’ve been bein’ so good.” He chuckles with a groan following it. “Wouldn’t want to ruin that, now, would we?”

“Tilt your head.”

You comply and he spits down your throat again, he feels your hand start to tremble against his cock.

“Good girl…” He adjusts his hand in your hair, tapping your fingers away. You press your hand back onto the bed.

He takes a step forward and drags the tip across your bottom lip, just dancing along the tip of your tongue.

“Go.” He commands, and you immediately lick a stripe down his twitching cock.

“Let me watch as you come undone on my cock,” he groans as he reaches his hand under you to play with your pussy lips.

You bob your head on his tip, your tongue dragging alongside the slit of his hole.

He hissed through his teeth watching you move down his shaft, licking up and down it. You were thankful not to have a sensitive gag reflex.

“Ah—that’s it…fuck…” he praises. “Your mouth feels so damn good around my cock.”

“C’mon on, baby. Take as much as you can. I’ll help ya.” He purrs.

You lower yourself down on his length and you feel him push you down until your nose meets with his fresh-clipped pubic hair and he bottoms out at the end of your throat, nearly engulfing all of him if he weren’t so big.

Tears run down your eyes as you whimper and squirm, begging for air. You gagging and moaning only increases his pleasure as you send vibrations to his cock.

“God…fuck…” his voice hitches as he toys with your clit. “I can feel your throat just clench around my dick as I stretch it out.” Simon groans.

“Just hold.”

“Hold—…Don’t…fuckin’…move…”

Simon moans as he slightly fucks the surface of your throat. “Fuck! I’m gonna cum…!” His fingers curl inside of your dripping core as you clamp around him.

He pulls you off of him by the back of your head, letting you fall on your back. You whine and sob from pleasure as he drags you towards him roughly by your ankle.

He manhandles you; grabbing both of your hips with a punishing grip to spread your legs out to his liking.

Your chest rises and falls at a rapid pace and you feel as though you might break when you feel him plummet into you once again. Your hands fall above your head, grasping the sheets with a devilish grip.

He bends over you, his dog tags dangling over your chest and bouncing tits as he roughly thrusts into you a few times. “Oh—oh…fuck…oh fff…—fuck….” Simon halts in motion to spill his cum inside of you, to which you cum not too long after him.

“Jesus H. Christ…” he mumbles, slowly bucking the juices back into you.

He lets out a prolonged and intense sigh, hand caressing the supple flesh of your cheek softly. “Jesus, lovie, y’r cryin’? It’s okay, sweetheart.”

His head lowers between your thighs to press gentle kisses against your trembling inner flesh. “Shh—shh…” He hums soothingly.

“I know…I know it hurts, y’r so sensitive to even me breathin’ against your tired pussy…” His voice softens seeing you let out a whimper as he blows his breath softly against your core.

“But you did such a good job, baby.” Simon praised you, pressing gentle kisses against your other inner thigh before taking himself up to plug your hole with his thumb as he pulled himself out.

Your husband connects lips with you once again, his hot breathing milking your mouth nearly in perfect synchrony with your motions.

“Want you to cum in my mouth,” you whine against his lips.

“Yeah?” Simon grunted lowly. “That’s what you want?”

You nod softly, and he sits himself on the bed, swinging his legs over and scooting towards the middle of the bed, his back against the frame.

“Show me you want it, go on,” he drags his hand up and down his length.

You crawl your way toward Simon, replacing his hands with your mouth, tongue grazing the tip as it swirls around the underside of the head of his cock.

“Just like that, baby, you’re in command.” He coos grimly, resting his hands on the rim of the bed frame. “Feels so good…”

Your hand pumps his length as your tongue licks a thick stripe of moisture from his scrotum to the tip of his aching cock, and he was making so many breathy noises. Bucking into your mouth madly.

“Mmm…f—ummm…” he practically snarled beneath you. “Makin’ me feel so good, lovie.”

“About to cum…” Simon grunts.

You already knew that—you could tell by the way his cock twitched inside of your mouth at each kitten lick to his slit.

He presses his head farther into the feathered pillow under his neck as he feels his orgasm approaching, a hand dripping off the frame of the bed to push a strand of your hair behind your ear as you take as much as you can of him down your throat without his assistance.

He chuckles hearing you gag on him as he abruptly thrusts himself farther into you before his cum spurts down your throat.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you hollow out your cheeks to swallow, slowly shaking your head side to side as you push him deeper down your sore gullet.

Simon lightly pats your cheek as he watches your eyes flutter shut. “Y’alright there, love?” He snickers.

Once your eyes reopen, his own fill up with patent devotion towards you.

“Ah, if only y’could see y’rself right now…” his hand strokes your cheek lovingly, lightly pulling the skin as if you’re the most fragile creature in existence.

“Blown out pupils—so damn cockdrunk from me, ay?” He cups your ass, pulling you off of his cock with a soft pop, drool dripping off your puffy pink lips and dribbling down your chin.

“Must b’absolutely knackered.” He swipes away the droplage with his thumb.

You open your mouth to speak but he calmly shushes you.

“Don’t speak, love, let me take care of’ya.” He hums into your hair before cradling you in his arms and swinging off the bed.

“Let’s get’ya to the washroom, ay? Have a warm shower t’untense y’body.” A soft kiss is pressed to your temple as he carries you back into the bathroom—that as you furtherly come off the high of it all, reeks of sex—and sets you atop the toilet seat a moment.

Simon turns the shower on as he has a hand extended out to run through your messy hair.

The water squeaking and spitting out assists you with slightly stirring out of your drunken state.

He picks you up once again after opening the glass sliding doors, stepping in under the warm water with your legs wrapped around his waist.

When the water beads down his shoulders and onto your nude chest, you let out a tiresome moan, your face hiding in the crook of your husband’s neck.

“I know, sweet girl,” he hums. “I’ve got’ya…”

Slowly, Simon sets you back on the floor, holding the small of your back as he feels your legs give in.

“Shit, baby, hold on to my neck. Can y’do that?” He whispers against your ear.

You mumble incoherent words. Your legs feel like absolute jelly beneath you as you raise your arms above your head. You clasp your hands over his neck and whine as he litters kisses over your jawline and cheeks.

“Good, there you are.” He praises gently. “J’s keep holdin on, I’ll wash y’up.”

Simon takes a bottle of shampoo, popping the cap and squeezing suds onto his open palm.

You flutter messy kisses along his stubble as he massages the soap through your hair, fingers kneading into your scalp and ends. God it felt amazing.

He continues the same process with the conditioner, then washing it out by turning himself around so you’re under the water. He umbrellas his hand over your eyes as he helps you tilt your head back under the streaming water.

You moan at his touch and gentle kisses under your ear and across your forehead as he rubs the rose pink loofah soaked in suds over your body, coating it in soap with gentle rubbings.

Simon makes sure to clean every lithe inch of your body before turning off the running water.

“A’right, lovie, can y’hold y’self up a few moments? Gon’ wrap ya in a towel.” He coos in your ear.

When you give him a small nod, he presses yet another soft kiss to your temple. You release his neck and frown slightly when he rolls it along with his shoulders.

“Ah—no, ‘tis fine, babe. Don’t y’worry your pretty little head ‘bout it, hm?” He chuckles, a solemn and deep noise truly coming from the barbed wire wrapped heart of your husband. “Ain’t a problem, really, ‘could hold ya up all day if you needed me to.”

Simon opens the sliding doors to grab at a towel resting on the rack above the toilet, wrapping you and himself up comfortably before you’re up in his arms bridal style.

Again, you’re back in your bedroom, he sits you on the bed and drags a pair of dark purple lace-trim panties up your legs, pulling one of his rolled up black t-shirts over your head and down your torso.

Simon fits himself in a pair of black briefs before helping you under the covers beside him, pulling you flush against his chest with one swift motion.

His hand brushed over your hair, pushing it out and away from your face, a guttural noise close to a chuckle escaping Simon’s lips at the sight of you kipped and drooling above his left pec, legs tangled with his.

He runs a hand through his wet blonde locks a moment before he situates you on top of him, palms resting over both of his shoulder blades with one of your legs straight and the other bent in the shape of an upside down ‘V’.

Simon’s hands cup your ass before his head leans back into the soft plumage of his pillow, blonde eyelashes fluttering closed to chase sleep.

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