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hugmeimtouchdeprived · 18 days ago

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ghost x f! reader. 4.7k words cw: none. 18+ mdni [masterlist]

Her quick squeal cut through the walls like they were made of paper.

He might have jumped straight to concern if he didn’t hear a characteristic chill in the treble of her voice, through the thin plasterboard walls of the cabin — followed immediately by the thunk of the shower lever, and the bubbling hum of water pumping through the pipes under the floorboards fell silent.

His head rocked over the back of the armchair as he exhaled irately. Knew what that sound portended. The temptation to elbow his way into the bathroom and shut off the water inflamed with every minute past the first five she was in there — had the sense, though, that she would never settle in if he forcibly violated her privacy in the first ten hours of her stay, no matter how justified it was to do so.

He paused the twenty-year-old Xbox game he had been mindlessly playing in the meantime, once he heard the patter of her footsteps approach as she ambled in from the hallway.

“You have the worst water heater,” she groaned, “I was only in there for like, ten minutes.”

Closer to twenty. Her tea was probably cold.

He tilted his head to look at her as she stood beside her disembowelled suitcase, pile of snow-soaked clothes under her arm and her towel wrapped around her head. She had changed into something much more sensible — cable knit sweater and thick flannelette pyjama pants. Even had a pair of woolly socks on. Surely, he thought, not the kind of outfit she’d don if she intended to run off into the snow and steal his truck.

“Did you use all the fuckin’ hot water?”

She huffed petulantly. “You didn’t tell me you have the world’s smallest boiler.”

He rubbed his brow with white-knuckled fingers.

“It takes two bloody hours to heat back up,” he said indignantly.

“So?” She spat. “You’ve got nowhere to be.”

He almost laughed at that. Earnestly surprised his mood could shift that quickly in spite of her waspishness, though perhaps that was exactly why. He much preferred it to her artificial politeness, anyway, which she must have been employing in the interest of self-preservation.

“Is there somewhere I can hang these up to dry?” She asked flatly, jostling her lump of wet clothes.

“Clothes horse in the cupboard.”

She frowned. “The hell is a clothes horse?”

“Drying rack.”

“Oh,” she said, face smoothing over in understanding. “Duh. Thanks.”

He returned his attention to Halo while he heard her clambering about in the hallway, swearing under her breath, no doubt trying to free the wonky wire rack from where he had last haphazardly shoved it in. The living room was the only place in the cabin with room for it, so she came shambling in with the rack in tow, and unfolded it beside the fireplace.

“Is that what you do all day?” She asked, as she started tossing her damp clothes over the rack.

He looked down at the worn controller, one that had seen several hands since it was bought for the safehouse in the early aughts.

Normally, the answer would be no. Seemed there was always an unending list of chores that living off-grid demanded; chopping wood, clearing snow off paths, exercising the dog, maintaining the generator, patching holes in the roof, on and on and on. He was still technically on duty, too, a field operative in all but practice; so that demanded dedicating an hour or two a day connecting to his commanding officers via sat phone, or pottering about on a rugged laptop to look at files with tight security clearance or reply to encrypted emails.

But a blizzard was something of a fortuitous holiday from all of the above. Poor signal and worse weather hindered his ability to do any of it. Left him with hours upon hours to fill up with hobbies he hadn’t partaken in since he was a teenager.

“Shit all else to do when you’re snowed in,” is all he said.

“Looks old,” she remarked, watching the game on the telly once she had done hanging up her clothes.

“Mh. Bet you were still pissin’ in nappies when this one came out.”

“So you would’ve been starting college, then?”

He snorted. The mockery in her tone hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Not that fuckin’ old.”

“Then why do you have all this old shit?” She asked, more curious than insolent, and as his eyes flicked over to her he noticed her perusing the bookshelves beside the TV unit.

A fair question, though not the easiest to answer. All the books on that shelf would have been released in the previous century, because he certainly hadn’t bought any to add to the collection. Wasn’t much of a reader. She moved on to the CD rack, flicking through the jewel cases like cards.

Needless to say, the fact that the cabin was a military safehouse was confidential. As was his duty as a covert spec op, ostensibly laying low to avoid foreign and home-born retaliation alike after the catastrophic failure of their last mission.

His instinct was honesty. Despite the demands of his career, lying was not connate to him. His inborn nature was as irrepressible as the need to breathe. Still, not a secret he could share, even if he wanted to.

“Isn’t my house,” is what he settled on, but it sounded admittedly unconvincing when he spoke it aloud.

Her head jerked around and she squinted at him fastidiously. “What d’you mean? Whose is it?”

“Friend’s old place,” he replied, fib quickly spun. “Was his dad’s.”

“Oh,” she hummed, gentle in tone, likely making the assumption that either the imaginary friend or his imaginary father had died. Better than what he thought she’d assume — that he had instead killed the previous owners and was squatting on their land. “Why stay here?”

“Why not?”

She gestured out the window. “This exact reason,” she said facetiously. “That and, I mean, you’re out in bum-fuck nowhere. Must be pretty lonely.”

He let out a longer breath than intended. “Fine by me.”

“What, being alone all the time?”

He grunted in place of affirmation.

“Explains why you’re such a dick,” she commented, and he chortled at that.

“You’re no angel,” he retorted.

She mumbled something under her breath, milling about the open living and dining room like the entire space was a museum, picking things off shelves and opening cupboards just to poke about at what had been stuffed inside them. He hoped he hadn’t left anything related to his mission lying around for her to find.

It was a while before she spoke again, in which time she had flicked through the pages of three books, as though hoping she’d find something interesting half-way through them.

“It’s cold in here,” she commented.

When he had no response for her, she sighed mournfully, slotting the book in her hand back into its gap on the shelf.

Felt her glancing at him. “Don’t you think?”

He let out a derisive huff. “Is that your way of asking me to light the fire?”

She shrugged innocently. “Couldn’t hurt.”

He was hot-blooded, so he was content with the temperature within the cabin, especially now that he had put on his sweatshirt. Still, a fire wouldn’t hurt, but he didn’t feel like indulging her impudent way of requesting it.

“Ask, then,” he pressed, pointedly condescending.

She huffed impatiently. “Can you start a fire?”

“I can,” he replied, unmoving.

She scoffed as if to ask seriously. “May you please start the fire, sir?”

He snickered, satisfied. Tried to brush off how her spiteful sir made heat flare up on the back of his neck.

“Alright,” he grunted as he stood up from the armchair, dropping the controller onto the coffee table. “You can take the dog out for a piss for me, then.”

Absurd that the dog perked up from his bed at the word piss, because Simon was such an unrelentingly crude shit of a man that the husky had associated the word with an outing. Let’s go for a piss, as Simon would say every morning, before sending the dog out to dig around in the snow until he got bored or tired.

“Okay, sure,” she relented. “Can I borrow your jacket?”

“You don’t have your own damn jacket?” He asked incredulously, grabbing a handful of splintery kindling from the basket by the woodburner.

“I didn’t exactly plan on going out into the snow.”

“The fuck did you plan for, then? You were driving around in a goddamn blizzard.”

“Nothing, I guess,” she snipped, deflated. “I left in a hurry.”

He exhaled at that, looking at her over his shoulder. “Left where?”

“Doesn’t matter. Can I borrow your jacket or not?”

“Bit big for you.”

“So?”

He returned his attention to the pyramid of kindling he built in the ashes. “Knock y’self out.”

She offered no thanks as she went to snatch his coat from the hook, but he supposed he hadn’t earned one. He busied himself with the fire, stuffing in bunched up newspapers before tossing in a lit match to get the kindling burning.

“C’mon, Johnny,” she chirped, high-pitched baby talk, and it made his throat close. Dog was upright immediately, though, shooting out from his bed and hurrying to where she waited by the front door. “Good boy.”

She had stuck her feet in his snow boots. Cartoonishly huge on her, made even more absurd by the ludicrously oversized jacket that swallowed her, and he couldn’t help but snort at the sight.

“What are his commands? Like, what do I tell him?”

Simon shrugged. “He’ll figure it out. If he gets too far just gi’m a whistle.”

She nodded once, returning her gaze to the dog and beaming like the sun. Fucking dog seemed to love her more than him, hopping on his paws and yelping in thrill, wagging his tail so vigorously it might have disconnected from the root and flown off into the wall.

“Ooh yes, so exciting, isn’t it? Pee time!” She cooed, opening the door and heading out before shutting it behind her. Heard her puppy-talk fade as the distance grew, and he felt lead in his stomach. “So much snow, eh? Yes! Ooh aren’t you such a good boy…”

He gritted his teeth as he added a log to the burgeoning fire, before swinging shut the creaking hatch.

If he counted his blessings, that dog was one of them. No doubt she’d be much slower to warm up without him, and Simon might have lost the capacity for warmth at all if he never adopted him in the first place. To think he almost didn’t, had Gaz not all but insisted. Can’t be all alone out there, mate, he had said, bad for the soul.

Never gave much merit to the notion. Not until now, anyway.

It was fifteen-odd minutes before the two of them returned, during which time Simon just about went out bare-footed to hunt them down, but reluctantly decided to trust her instead.

Good thing he did.

There was a breeziness about her when she pushed open the door, bright in her eyes as she pulled down the hood of his enormous black jacket. Meant he was slightly less irked by the nice pile of snow she left on his doormat. Perhaps she had fostered some trust of her own — a testament to his willingness to let her venture out without chasing and tackling her like he had done earlier that morning.

“Sorry,” she breathed, as the dog shook himself off and sprayed powder in all directions, before immediately bolting towards Simon and jumping up to greet him. “Went for a bit of a wander,” she stopped to giggle, “he’s a maniac.”

“Mh,” he grunted in response, rubbing the dog behind his furry ears. “That he is.”

“It’s so pretty out there,” she hummed, as she slipped off his jacket and hung it back on the hook. “I kind of get why you’d stay, now.”

He nodded as he went to check on the burner again, reminded to tend to it now that she had popped back in. Needed a new log. “A lot prettier in summer.”

“I bet,” she said, pulling his giant boots off her wool-sheathed feet. “I, um, I did some thinking while I was walking around.”

His brows tightened at that, watching as she perched herself on a seat at the small circular dining table.

“I just thought that — if I’m going to be stuck here for a few days, we should get to know each other a bit.”

His ribs loosened. “Yeah?”

“I mean, might as well.”

“Not dyin’ to run off into the mountains anymore?”

“No, I—” She pouted as she thought about it, “I dunno. I was in denial, I guess.”

He chuckled. Cute way of putting it.

“I’m not dumb,” she snapped, frowning when he laughed at her. “Big fucking dude throws me in his truck and takes me to the middle of nowhere, and tells me I can’t leave — can you blame me?”

He was surprised by but glad for her pragmatism, despite lingering apprehension that it was either manufactured or exceedingly fragile. That with one wrong move she’d be jetting off into the snow again — or, that her newfound confidence was rooted in something else.

“Where’d you put the gun?” He asked, abruptly, no rising inflection.

“Um,” she hesitated, playing with her fingers. “I hid it.”

He scoffed in laughter, frowning incredulously. “You what?”

“I didn’t want it near me, thing scares the shit out of me. And I feel better now that you don’t have it either.”

Decided not to tell her there was a veritable arsenal of weapons in the garage, and even more dotted throughout the house; under the floorboards, in the bottom drawer of his dresser, in his bedside table. If she felt better thinking there were none, so be it.

“Plotting to kill me in my sleep, are ya?” He asked, electing to entertain her — did hope she wouldn’t attempt such a thing, because he doubted it would end well for her.

“Maybe,” she replied impishly, eyebrows raised. “Maybe not.”

“You’re a scary bird,” he jeered, shuffling over to sit in the chair opposite her, leaning back in it insouciantly.

“Well, at least now we’re on a level playing field,” she said frankly.

He tilted his head, eyeing her more scrutinisingly than he should have. Not what he would call level, given that she was half his size. All soft and squishy. Bet she was malleable, that he could fold her in half with little effort. Bet the dough of her thighs would pillow out between his fingers.

“Sure,” is all he said.

“Tell me about yourself, then.”

He sighed exasperatedly, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb. Not what he meant.

“Not much to tell,” he grumbled.

She gaudily rolled her eyes. “Come on. Job? Family? You’re from the UK, right? How’d you end up in the boonies?”

There was, he remembered, some manufactured backstory he had been prescribed by the special agents to go along with his fake passport. Bill Greer was the name he was supposed to tell her, that he worked remotely doing operations work for some lumber company — already forgotten the name of it — and had been working that same job for a decade. That he had emigrated from the UK in his twenties and spent a few years in Vancouver before moving up north.

He didn’t think he could tell her all that with a straight face, though. Talking wasn’t his strong suit and lying through his teeth in such detail was no easier.

Settled on nothing. “Long story.”

“Seriously?” She groused. “You in a hurry?”

“Don’t feel like talking,” he exhaled.

Something in her stare made his stomach churn and his temples hot. Not quite suspicion, nor judgement — but it was discerning all the same, eyes raking over him like she might have found the answers she wanted written somewhere in his skin. Her curiosity evanesced the longer he didn’t speak, and it was supplanted by patent defeat.

“You really won’t tell me anything?”

He drummed the table with his knuckles in place of an answer, and she huffed indignantly.

“Fine, whatever. I tried,” she snarked, pushing herself up from the table with a pointed scrape of the chair on the hardwood. “What do you have to eat?”

“Cornflakes,” he said. Smirked when she groaned in disappointment.

“Isn’t there anything else in your truck?”

He folded his arms over his chest as he watched her open the fridge, fingering through the containers of leftovers and bottles of beer. “Fuckin’ fussy, aren’t ya?”

She shot daggers at him. “No I’m not. I just haven’t eaten in — I’m just hungry.”

Explained her enduring pique. “Mh. What’ll fill you up?”

“Ummm,” she mused, poking around in the pantry. “Pancakes. Oh — or something with bacon.”

“Alright,” he huffed, standing up from the table. Lucky that he was on board with the suggestion. “Pancakes and bacon, then.”

Might have melted under the warmth of the look she gave him if he were made of butter.

“Really?” She questioned, some doubt in her tone.

“Uh-huh.”

A pleased smile stretched in her lips, but she corrected it quickly with a nod. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, he supposed, but it was too late for that.

“Thank you,” she said politely.

“Whatcha thanking me for? You’re the one cooking it.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh — right.”

“Unless you’d rather unload the truck,” he suggested, through a grin. “Got a few logs that need chopping, too.”

“No, that’s okay,” you insisted, tiny smile returning. “I’m happy to make it.”

“Lovely,” he grunted on his way to the front door before putting on his jacket. Still a little warm from when it was wrapped around her. “I like my bacon nice and crispy, yeah?”

She snorted. Sent him off with a derisive, “yes sir.”

Her sunshine had clouded over by the time he finally clambered back into the cabin, snowblown and encumbered by the tub of freshly cut pine he carted in from under the lean-to.

She sat on the couch with her knees folded, mug of something hot in one hand and a folded book in the other. Narrow eyes pinned to him as he dumped the wood by the fireplace and brushed off his palms.

“Hope you like cold pancakes,” she muttered, turning unbothered back to her book.

Grouchy again. He checked his watch, though, and saw he had taken more than forty minutes. Glanced at the table to see she had already eaten hers, while his untouched meal was placed at the seat opposite, knife and fork tucked neatly beside the plate.

He might have apologised if he thought he had done anything wrong. Having his breakfast cooked for him was not something he was used to, and it wasn’t as if he ever had to tailor his comings and goings around another person.

“Smells good,” he settled on, dropping into the chair at the table and folding a pancake in half with his fork.

She’d made the pancakes with blueberries. Must have gone digging around in his freezer for them. The thought almost made him smile. Quiet followed, though not awkwardly so, as he shoveled his luke-warm breakfast into his mouth and she kept her nose in her book.

“Bacon’s a little burnt,” he murmured, mouth full. The rashers were a little black around the edges.

She cocked her head to glower at him, brows pulled together. “You said you wanted it crispy.”

“Yeah,” he taunted. “Not charcoal.”

She sucked her teeth scornfully. “Piss off.”

At that he chuckled. Kept prodding. “Waste of good bacon.”

“Feed it to the fucking dog, then.”

Found himself earnestly laughing as she scoffed and turned back to her book. Shouldn’t have found it as amusing as he did, purposefully winding her up, just to see her get all stroppy and blustering — he simply couldn’t help it. There was something endearing in the way her lips twisted up when she was in a huff.

“You’re hilarious,” she murmured grumpily. Finally recognised he was taking the piss.

He left her be while he finished his breakfast, which was, despite his teasing, quite delicious. He scarfed it all down in about six mouthfuls, before stacking up the plates and dropping them in the sink with cold water and dish soap. Tugged up his sleeves as he took the sponge to the cast iron pan.

She watched him inquisitively over the back of the couch for odd intervals, quietly observing, finally catching his eye as he put the plates away in the cabinet beneath the peninsula.

“What.”

She hummed. “Nothing,” she said, then immediately capitulated. “Didn’t expect you to wash up.”

“No?”

“Thought you’d tell me to do it.”

“Why, ‘cause you’re a bird?”

She shrugged, all but saying pretty much.

He chortled. “Wanna work the kitchen for me, do you?”

“Not really.”

“Thought not.”

She swallowed a breath. “I do, um, I kinda feel like I owe you, though.”

“That’s ‘cause you do.”

Surprise plastered itself in her face like a slap, somehow still shocked at his inveterate boorishness. No use in waffling about it, though, in pretending he was happy to serve her like a live-in butler — he was a man of fairness, after all.

“Yeah, I s’pose you — you know, saved my life, or whatever,” she said, visibly reluctant to admit every word of it.

He grinned. About time she acknowledged it. “You’ll have to make it up to me then, won’tcha?”

She looked askance at him, brows all tight like he had said something illicit. Perhaps he had, if he thought about it for long enough, but whatever implication she had gleaned from the comment was not one he had intentionally put there. He didn’t think.

“I don’t — do you mean…”

He snickered. Eyed her a little too hard. Quiet for a beat too long.

“Get your head out of the gutter,” he jeered.

The rest of the afternoon passed unremarkably, to his astonishment.

After her tiff in the morning, he anticipated the rest of the day to be spent wrangling her like loose cattle. Locking all the doors and windows, looping a length of rope around her ankles to prevent her from killing herself in the frozen wilderness — which he feared she would deem preferable to staying with him, big old beast that he was.

But, mercifully, she was perfectly tame. He might have even mistaken her placidity for contentedness, as she pulled a tartan blanket over her knees, licking her fingertip to flip the pages of her book. Left him to find things to entertain himself with — which ended up being more wood chopping, then finally taking his shower once the water had heated up, then microwaving some baked beans for lunch, then re-sorting the tool bench in the shed, and finally plonking himself on the couch for some more Halo: Combat Evolved by the time four p.m. rolled around.

She had yawned performatively from her perch on the armchair a few times before he deigned to comment on it, and when he refused to give her an inch, she finally requested that she be allowed to take a nap on his bed.

On, she had clarified — wouldn’t want to overstep, or anything, just wanted something to sleep on for a bit, because she didn’t sleep well on the floor, or whatever, and since he was sitting on the couch, just wondering, surely being on top of his blankets would be acceptable.

She could sleep wrapped in his sheets for all he cared, but she insisted that on top was fine. Worried, he supposed, that she’d set a slippery precedent. She wasn’t sleeping in his bed, of course not, just lying atop it like the dog would. Nothing untoward. No boundaries broken.

It wasn’t until a few hours after sunset that she finally shuffled out of his bedroom, eyes all puffy, with the woolen blanket that layered on top of his duvet wrapped around her shoulders.

“What time is it?” She yawned.

He looked at his watch, leaning the wooden spoon against the wall of the casserole dish. “Ten past seven.”

“Oh. That’s okay. I thought it would be like, midnight, or something.”

He chortled. “Thought I’d just let you keep the bed, eh?”

“I dunno.” Still a little fuzzy from her nap, he supposed, because her words were coming out all gooey. “Smells good in here. Is that dinner?”

“Beef stew,” he said.

“Ooo,” she hummed, pottering over to the stove to peek into the dish he stirred. “Aren’t you a domestic goddess?”

He snorted. “Uh-huh. You hungry?”

“Mm. Yes,” she nodded.

“Siddown, then.”

Did as she was told, taking the blanket with her as she plopped herself down on one of the dining chairs at the table. “Sure you don’t need me to do anything?”

“Yep,” he said, as he grabbed two bowls from the cupboard. “You’re doin’ plenty.”

“Doing what?” She asked, frowning bemusedly.

“Sitting pretty.”

She looked winsomely at her feet, and he might have seen a little smirk in her lips if he was any closer. “Ha-ha,” she drawled, as if he had been kidding.

Probably shouldn’t have said it, but much like everything else that came out of his mouth, there was little thought preceding it. She was sitting pretty. So pretty. Impracticable not to say so.

Her brows piqued as he lumbered over with the filled bowls and plonked one down in front of her, leaving a trail of steam from the kitchen.

“Thank you,” she chirped, immediately plucking her fork from his fingers and tucking in as he sat himself in the chair to her left.

“Get used to it,” he said dryly. “This’s dinner for the next three days.”

“That’s fine,” she mumbled, shrugging, mouth full of potato. “It’s good.”

Most of the meal passed in silence, muffled noise of chewing notwithstanding. He watched as she blew on every hot mouthful for a few seconds longer than necessary, amused by the thought that it would probably be cold by the time it made its way into her open mouth.

He was halfway through his meal by the time he noticed she was poking at a few chunks of meat that she had nudged to the edge of her bowl.

“Somethin’ wrong with it?” He grunted.

She blinked up as though his voice had startled her. “No, it’s — I just don’t really like the, um, the gristly bits.”

He snickered. “Gristly bits?”

“The like — the chewy bits.”

“Right,” he said, gesturing with his fork, “give ‘em here, then.”

She nodded, lancing each hunk off beef with her fork and dropping it into his bowl. “Thank you. Sorry.”

“S’alright. Can’t have you eating any gristly bits,” he derided, feeding himself two chunks at once.

She tittered, finishing off her meal, and he wondered if he gave her too small a helping. She picked up his bowl unrequested once he had scoffed down every last morsel, and left the blanket hung over the chair as she went to start stacking up the dishes in the kitchen sink. It was only fair, after all — he cooked, she cleaned. Made him smirk to think that he didn’t even have to ask. Learning the rules already, clever girl.

“I might go to sleep now,” she sighed, once she had finished, wiping her hands off on the towel hung over the oven handle. “I’m still pretty tired.”

Took him a moment to realise why she had told him so, until he understood that it was her way of telling him to get out of the room, since it was the only place he had given her to sleep.

He exhaled in thought, tapping the dry wood of the dining table with his fingers. Shouldn’t ask what he was about to, but it slid out anyway.

“You gonna be alright on the couch?”

She blinked at him. Lips twisting. Considered it for a little too long.

“Um,” she wavered a bit, “yeah, thanks. Couch is fine.”

He nodded. “Suit yourself.”

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hugmeimtouchdeprived · 19 days ago

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ghost x f! reader. 4.5k words cw: none. 18+ mdni [masterlist]

your car breaks down in a snowstorm. a crude stranger takes you in from the cold.

If she was perturbed by his demand that she put on her beanie before she hopped out of his truck, whatever look she gave him when he suggested that he carry her to the door was ten-fold.

Not an offer he made to be a gentleman, was never in his nature to be one. Wasn’t about to lay his coat down over a puddle for her to step over. It was the pragmatic thing to do, he thought, because the girl was already teetering on the edge of early-phase hypothermia and there were no socks on under those slippers. Last thing he wanted was to have to strip off her wet clothes and stick her in front of the fire wrapped in blankets, because he was sure she’d kick up one hell of a fuss if he tried.

Her circumspect squint twisted into a gawk of disapproval once she had processed the offer, standing in front the garage’s open side door with her arms crossed like a crabby little girl.

“What? That’s — no, I’m fine, thank you.”

She had to yell it over the volume of the gale, whipping through the towering pines that surrounded his cabin and hammering against the open door, snow blowing in from the thick coating on the ground outside.

“Snow’s a foot deep,” he growled, and when she shook her head he scoffed irately. “Fuck’s sake. Fine. Move it then, snow’s getting’ in.”

She only chuffed, marching out into powder once he stepped aside to give her room — impeded immediately, because the ever-thickening layer of fresh snow reached her knees. Watching her try to wade through it might have made him laugh if his tempers weren’t so high.

It was genuinely a miracle he even managed to get the truck up the long driveway and into the garage, considering how deep the snow was already — and it was still growing deeper, the snowfall was so dense he could practically see it accumulating in inch-thick layers with every passing minute.

“C’mon,” he barked, planting a firm hand on her shoulder to nudge her forward the porch, guiding so that she didn’t hit the rocks and bushes hidden under the snow.

Smirked when she failed to conceal her chill from the ice filling up her Uggs, a bright squeak as the biting wind nipped at her cheeks. Not a long walk from the garage to the cabin, only ten-odd metres, but he had no interest in tending to frostbite if she was completely snowblown by the time she toppled through the front door; so he was not gentle.

“What about my stuff?” She moaned, as he jostled her up the porch steps until she was under shelter, and began punching his code into the lockbox by the door.

“Jesus, girl,” he grumbled, exasperated, almost snapping the lid off the box in his ferocity to open it, sheer frustration turning his hands into bear claws. “I’ll get your shit in a second. Getting you inside first.”

She was bouncing on her toes as he unlocked the door, already shivering and whimpering in the cold; her hair was covered in a sprinkling of snow, white flecks caught on her lashes and melting on her cheeks. Once he managed to unlock and open the door, he hooked an arm around the small of her back and unceremoniously hurled her inside.

Fucking dog started barking immediately, those ear-splitting husky yelps he let out whenever Simon came through the door; only exacerbated by the surprise arrival of a stranger. She squealed in fright, stumbling backwards until she fell against his torso — and that startled her even more, she chirped and bounced off him like a ball off a racket.

Couldn’t help but chuckle at her, as he reached around her and tousled the dog between the ears.

“Careful,” he sneered. “He’s aggressive.”

A joke. He was a well-trained pup but a miserable failure of a guard dog. He didn’t jump or mouth, just rested his chin expectantly on her belly and wagged his tail like a whip, panting like he had just run to the lake and back. Had clearly chosen a new favourite already.

“This’s Johnny.” He cleared his throat, because the name made his mouth dry to utter aloud; and only then did he realise he hadn’t spoken it in months. Only ever referred to the dog as boy. Shorter, simpler that way. Didn’t leave burns on its way out.

“Oh,” she bleated, once she had caught her breath, releasing it with a sheepish chuckle. Gave the blue-eyed husky a timid pat on the forehead. “Hi Johnny.”

He stepped around her, then, shutting the door behind him and heading towards the woodburner in the corner of the small sitting room. Added a few logs to the embers to get the fire going again, blowing on it until the pile glowed amber and a puff of ashes sprinkled over the stone tiles around the hearth.

“C’mere,” he ordered, as he shut the firebox door and twisted the wrought iron knob to seal it.

“Hm?” She hummed, distracted by the dog who lavished her in attention, and her expression was not nearly as dour than it had been not a minute earlier. Boy seemed to have that effect on everyone.

“Here,” he repeated, no give in his tone.

She meandered over without dispute, dog nailed to her hip and looking up at her expectantly. Kiss ass.

“Dark in here,” she remarked.

“Mh. I’ll start up the generator in a minute,” he said, dusting the slivers of wood off his palms and heading back towards the front door. “Warm yourself up.”

“Where are you going?” Her arms crossed, pup as attentive to his departure as she was.

Didn’t like that the concern in her question made his throat sting like he had swallowed something sharp.

“Unloading the truck,” he said.

First thing he did was start up the generator.

Needed a top up on diesel, but it started without issue thanks to the antigel, and through the sheets of snow he saw the lights flicker on through the bathroom window once he stepped out of the shed.

The blizzard was somehow worsening, though, and in the few steps from the toolshed to the garage he felt shards of ice form in the mucosa of his nostrils, skin of his cheeks threatening to blister in the cold — so he decided to unpack the truck proper in the morning. Anything perishable would be better preserved in the frigid air than his freezer, anyway. He took in the fuel cans, though, so the petrol wasn’t frozen by morning, and begrudgingly grabbed the girl’s enormous suitcase from the backseat. Weighed a damn tonne.

She stood uneasily in the corner of the sitting room as he lumbered back into the cabin, pushing shut the door with significant effort against the incursive gale and sealing it with a switch of the lock. He kicked the snow off his boots as the dog wandered up to him and gave him a welcoming sniff.

She watched him like he had committed some wrongdoing, rigid and white-knuckled, perched close enough to the fire to feel some of its warmth but not curled up like he’d hoped she’d be.

“What,” he grunted, shucking off his thick black jacket and hanging it from the hook by the door, the snow that had coated it dusting over the hardwood. There was a churlishness in his tone he didn’t intend to put there.

She only returned with a mutter, crossing her arms. “Nothing.”

“What’s the matter,” he repeated, impatient, as he walked in her direction. “Y’want a bite?”

She didn’t seem appreciative of the offer. “No thank you.”

“What do you want, then?”

He didn’t mean to snap like he did. Abrasive was an apt description of him upon reflection, because every word that came out of his mouth was acrid with irritation. He was irritated, though. He just lacked the ability or care to conceal it.

She only huffed like a child, turning to look into the woodburner instead of at him, as he came to a stop in front of her. She seemed to shrink when that close to him.

“Use your words, girl. Can’t be arsed with sulking.”

She gritted her teeth as she chewed on a response, still averting his gaze, pinching at the fabric of her hoodie as though some habit borne of discomfort. He was sure he was making her uncomfortable just by being in the same room as her, but that was something she’d just have to suck up or get used to.

“I’m just tired,” she mumbled.

He sucked his teeth. “Right. Well, couch is there if you want to sleep.”

Not the most appealing thing to sleep on, he’d admit. A two-person loveseat with wooden armrests and thin, overused cushions that had lost their spring after forty-odd years of exiled military asses sitting on them. Place was built in the eighties, he guessed, and half the furnishings were mummified remnants of the era.

Stiff shit for her, though. He could see her wrestling with it, eyes peeling away from the sapless couch to flit around the room, as if she might find a more comfortable alternative.

“There a problem?” He asked, amused at her hesitant expression when she met his eye. He’d have loved to tell her that her only other options were his bed or the dog bed. He was sure she’d have chosen the dog’s.

“No,” she shook her head.

Her belligerence did little to obfuscate how afraid she was. She was riddled with it, pre-programmed by a swollen amygdala to keep her still and chary as a trapped animal. It left him exasperated more than anything — because there was seemingly nothing he could say, nothing he knew to do to assuage her overwhelming distrust. Unlikely she would sleep a wink that night while in the cabin with him, and the last thing he wanted was for her to be sleep-deprived and crabby when the news of her inevitably extended stay was broken.

He wanted to tell her he wasn’t a bad man. He didn’t think he could say it with a straight face. Couldn’t convince himself, let alone the girl he dragged in out of the cold.

He let out a harried sigh and rubbed his brow with his thumb. “Scared I’ll do something, are you?”

Her glare pinned to him, and he could all but see the battle waging behind her forehead — deny politely or risk honesty. Asking her so bluntly was probably not the most couth way to go about it, and he she tightened up at the notion.

“I just—” She hesitated, squeezing her shoulders with the hands wrapped around herself. “I don’t really know you.”

He nodded, tilting his head in concession. Not quite a clear answer, but she confirmed it implicitly.

So he turned and went to the tall cabinet by the door, rummaged through the drawers within for a moment, before returning with his glock. Was never good at storing his firearms properly. It was fortunate she didn’t register what he was holding until he held it out for her to take, grasping it by the barrel, grip in her direction.

She gawked at it, horrified, and for a heartbeat he dreaded that he had made everything worse by presenting her with the very tool she feared he’d murder her with.

But she reached for it tentatively, fortunately understanding he intended to give it to her and not point it at her. Whispered what the fuck to herself as though forgetting she had spoken aloud. He found himself amused by how gingerly she took it from him, holding it like it was liable to jump from her grip or explode if she touched it wrong, eyes not parting from it for a second. Tiny hands made the thing look twice as big.

“Safety’s on,” he mumbled, turning the gun over in her palm to show her the switch, before flipping it. “Now it’s off.”

“This is… why would you—”

“S’yours,” he said dryly. “If I do something bad you can shoot me with it.”

“I — you — but I—” Short-circuiting, evidently, eyes darting from the pistol that suddenly looked more comfortable in her hand and back to him, her supposed captor.

“Won’t need to, though,” he said dismissively, giving the dog a pat on the side before he turned and wandered towards the narrow hallway. Dog was staying with her tonight, apparently, because he remained by her side instead of following him to his bedroom like he usually did. “Blankets are in the basket under the couch.”

“Where are you going?” She asked again, and he bit down on nothing.

“Bed.”

He anticipated silence, or some more whingeing, or perhaps even a bullet to the back of the head on his way out.

Instead, an apprehensive murmur. “Good night.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He responded with only a grunt.

His dreams were ugly.

Axes and lumbered logs, too wet and rotten to burn. Blood where it shouldn’t be, splashed over the stump, smeared on the throat of the axe grip, in the shape of his handprint. A futile effort to wash the red off his hands, and while the water ran rusty down the sink, the stains remained.

Only when they were rubbed raw, finally clean, did he find a splinter in his palm — tried to squeeze at it, pick it out with his fingernails, scratch off the flesh it was embedded in — he woke up with his fingernails burrowing into his hand, with sweat clammy on his neck and and his blankets kicked off.

The heater in his room had been humming all night, and the cabin was well insulated, so he had almost forgotten the extent of the snowstorm until he slipped off his bed and tugged open his plaid curtains.

White.

All he could see. For a moment he thought the snow might have been deep enough that it swallowed his entire house — instead it was more whiteout, thick cloud that obfuscated much of the horizon he was used to. The snowfall was lighter, though, and the wind had somewhat settled. The lodgepole pines that were once spindly and deep green were thick with a coating of fondant, branches drooping under the weight of the cover.

Hard luck for the wee girl on his couch.

He remembered she was there as he wandered out of his bedroom in his sweatpants, rubbing his eye with his palm and grunting huskily to clear his sleep-coated throat.

He could smell her. Only in the warmth did the faintest hint of her perfume fill the air, or perhaps her deodorant, even just the scent of her skin — utterly alien in the permanently dust- and tobacco-tainted air of his cabin.

She was, bafflingly, still asleep when he made it to the kitchen. He spotted her curled up on the scratchy woven rug on the floor, a stolen sofa cushion under her head and two woollen blankets pulled up to her cheeks. The fire had gone out overnight, and she and the dog were as close as possible to the hearth without sleeping on the stone surround. Dog must love her already, squished up behind her with his chin resting in the hollow of her waist. That, or, she was a good source of warmth.

The couch must have been that uncomfortable. Couldn’t bear it for even a single night, princess and her damn pea. He wondered if he’d be able to find her an alternative for the next few nights she’d be stuck with him, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

He heard a faint moan as he lumbered towards the kettle, filling it up with water and setting it on the gas burner. Must have woken her up. He hadn’t made any particular effort to be quiet, though such a thing was near impossible for him. So damn heavy that every step shook the floor.

She was still fully dressed as she stumbled over to the kitchen archway, same clothes as yesterday, though she had her pompom-adorned beanie on the top of her head. Must have been cold overnight, once the fire went out.

“Morning,” she said, voice all croaky from a rough sleep, rubbing her eyes with her fists.

“Couch no good?” He asked derisively, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet above the counter.

“It was a little um — yeah,” she dithered. Yet unwilling to be frank with him. “It’s fine, though, I slept alright.”

“On the floor?” He questioned, smirking, his back to her.

“It was fine,” she repeated.

He shrugged. Unwise suggesting the only alternative just yet. He grabbed the tin of teabags from the cupboard.

“Tea?” The offer was bitten out short and impatient, a grunt more than a word.

“I’d like to hit the road pretty soon, if that’s okay with you.”

He let out a hoarse sigh. Too fucking early for a conversation he didn’t want to have at all. He had hoped she’d have come to terms with it on her own, the obvious fact that she was there to stay. Spared him the argument.

Her eyes flicked up from his chest as he turned to face her, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. He might have grinned if he wasn’t filled to the ears with beleaguered dread.

Birds used to love it when he forsook a shirt in his days of being an active field operative. Back when he was nice and chiselled, all carved abdominals and lean around the middle. Two years of hibernation had thickened him up, though. He had grown a hearty padding of fat that wrapped his meat and kept him warm, muscles bulked up by the manual labour of living off-grid. The slight paunch of a man too familiar with alcohol and a diet of mostly red meat and baked beans.

Not a pretty sight, in his estimation — but he wouldn’t begrudge her skittish glances. Liked that she looked a little sheepish when she met his eye.

He chewed on what to tell her. How to say it. “Have you looked out the window?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty snowy, so—”

“It is,” he grumbled.

“—So we should probably head out before it gets worse.”

Just about rolled his eyes. Scratched his stubbled chin instead. “Use your head, love.”

“What do you mean,” she questioned accusingly, “I am. I want to make sure I can get to a — a town, or something, before I get stranded.”

Seemed she wouldn’t reach the conclusion on her own. “You already are.”

Her brows scrunched up at that. “No — it’s, but you said—”

“I know what I said,” he disputed. “I said if the road’s open I’d take you.”

“You don’t know that it’s closed,” she spat, “you haven’t even gone out to check.”

“Mh. Go on, check then.”

“But—”

“Find the road for me.”

She scowled, scoffed, turned up her nose as she stomped over to her nest on the floor and shoved her feet into her Ugg boots. He found himself chuckling as she unlocked and tore open the front door, only to be met by a wall of snow on the porch that met her knees.

For a misguided moment he was satisfied. Patent evidence that there was no chance of driving anywhere, smack in front of her, surely that would suffice — but then she stepped into it.

“Fuck’s sake, girl,” he barked, marching to the door. “I wasn’t serious.”

She was unfazed. Waddling through the powder like she might walk all the way back to fucking Hazelton.

He was woefully unprepared to follow her. Only item of clothing he had on were his grey sweatpants — no shirt, no socks, no shoes. Hardly enough time to put his snow boots on before she got too far and vanished into the whiteout, so he left them unlaced as he ordered the dog to stay and hurried out into the snow.

Lucky that the residual body heat from his fitful sleep meant he could handle the gelid morning without a jacket. Hoped it would last as long as it took to catch her.

It took him a moment to spot her through the cottony haze of cloud — a moment too long for his liking, because he felt his chest tighten up when he couldn’t find her, until he saw her silhouette meandering towards the garage.

Fortunate that he was well-practiced in trudging through snow, and she manifestly was not; must have got her foot caught on something, because he watched her topple forward and land arms-first into the powder. Heard her squeal get muffled by the snow as she sank in it.

Growled indignantly as he shambled towards her, where she scrambled and bleated like a tipped goat, failing to push herself to stand. He hooked her by the belly once he reached her and reeled her out of the chalk-white snow, hoisting her up like a limp animal, cold and wet.

She didn’t kick, didn’t squeal, didn’t even wriggle in his grip; instead she disputed with only a moan, a pitiful appeal; “put me down.”

Her defeat was tangible in her laxity, though, flopping her arms over his shoulder as he hauled her back to the cabin. Snow that had stuck to her hoodie melted into his skin and his frustration only distended, gelid water dribbling down his spine and soaking into the waistband of his sweatpants, and he might have called her a stupid girl if the circumstances didn’t make him feel like a reprobate.

“Any luck?” He grumbled, needlessly facetious, as he carted her up the snow-coated steps and finally had her back inside. Shut the door with his boot before he dropped her to her feet.

She stood there with her arms crossed, snivelling quietly to herself, refusing to look at him or take a single step in any direction. Perhaps he would have felt guilty, if she hadn’t forced him to venture out into the frigid morning to prevent her from getting herself killed. Again.

He pinched the thick fleece of her hoodie between his fingers. Soaked with melt.

“You gonna do that again?” He asked grimly, watching the flakes of snow on the top of her beanie deliquesce into the holes in the yarn.

She was obdurately silent, wiped away a smelting snowflake with the sodden cuff of her sweater as she glowered at the wall to her left.

“I don’t wanna be stuck here,” she mumbled, somehow spiteful. “I don’t want to be stuck here with you.”

He couldn’t suppress a mordant chuckle at that. A puff of droll air out his nostrils.

“Stiff shit,” he said. “I don’t exactly want you here, either.”

The grimace she gave him could have turned him to stone, but it only made him grin in placid amusement. A cruel twist of fate, wasn’t it?

“Then why won’t you take me back?” She asked bitterly, and his amusement was snuffed out as quickly as a blown candle.

“Y’think I’ve kidnapped you?” He questioned, vexation poisoning his tone. “S’that really what you think?

Seemed she wasn’t willing to say as much, that she wouldn’t stoop low enough to make an outright accusation, but she wore her conviction plain as day in the crease in her brow.

“You won’t let me leave,” she murmured, her voice suddenly infinitesimally small.

He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger until they ached and he saw red blooming, because she was, regrettably, probably right. He had no intention of letting her leave. Not one. He’d sooner tie her up by the ankle to the radiator than let her wander out into the snow on her own.

He’d like to think it was merely fervid protectiveness. An inborn and insurmountable need to safeguard the vulnerable that was only fostered by a decade in the military. The pathological need to obviate any further responsibility for someone else’s death.

That was a charitable excuse, though.

He could feel something uglier in his gut. Something dark and desperate, borne of a malignant and omnipresent familiarity with loss. A void that both forcibly assured its vacuity and yet still hungered for something living and beating to surfeit it.

Worse, still.

She was such a pretty thing.

He loathed that he liked the smell of her, the sight of her, the sound of her voice. Even in spite of how she irked him; a prickly rosebud in the thorn-ridden bramble of his solitude, one that he quite selfishly enjoyed the presence of.

“No,” he admitted, through teeth. “I won’t.”

Wet little eyes fixed to his. Scleras all pink from welling tears and a restless sleep. Pupils blown wide and black, looking for something. He could feel it, picks mining away at the stone walls surrounding his motivations, like there might be something obvious within them. He wasn’t even sure what she’d find.

“Snowstorm will last a couple days,” he said, eventually, amidst a sigh. “Then it’ll clear up. Snow’ll melt. When it does, I’ll take you wherever y’need to go.”

Then, miraculously, she nodded. Slowly, warily, but he was grateful for even an iota of acquiescence, so that he didn’t have to confront the possibility of forcibly restraining her.

“How long will that take?” She asked, taking a preparatory breath.

“Week, maybe.”

Good timing from the dog, as he meandered over from his bed and sniffed at her thigh, and she seemed to loosen a little. Gave him a scratch behind the ears.

“Do you — have you got supplies for that long?”

“‘Nuff to last a month,” he said. “Not my first time being snowed in.”

She nodded again, and he felt a weight lift from somewhere he couldn’t pin. “Okay,” she breathed. “Fine. As long as you promise you’ll take me to town the moment you can.”

“Cross my heart,” he grunted. Plain in her expression she understood how brittle a promise was from a stranger, but he was pretty sure he meant it.

The silence that followed was prickly. Clear she had no clue what to do with herself, as if awaiting permission or instruction, because she was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be.

“You should put on something dry,” he said, as he turned to head back into the kitchen. Kettle needed to boil again. “Want a tea or not?”

She said nothing as she went back to her spot on the floor, and he heard her unzip her suitcase and burrow around in the doubtless mountain of clothes within.

“Um — yeah, thanks,” she said, and after a moment she appeared in the kitchen archway with her arms wrapped around a bundle. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“First on the left.” One of two doors. Decided against warning her that it didn’t have a lock.

She came back a moment later. “Is it — um, is it okay if I use the shower?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you have a spare towel?��

“Cupboard in the hallway.”

“Can I—”

“Use whichever one you want, I don’t give a shit,” he grumbled. “Just don’t use all the hot water.”

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hugmeimtouchdeprived · 26 days ago

Text

you've never been good with turbulence.

it's not the easy sway of a wide-body jet, but the vicious kicks of something this small—this rattling wasp of a plane, where you swear you feel the wind leaking in and the engines whining. every drop is a trapdoor opening under your stomach, yanking it up into your throat, and you press yourself against the window as if you could weld yourself to it. your jaw tight, teeth harsh on your tongue to strangle the pathetic little noises threatening to escape. no way you're going to make a fool of yourself in front of your fellow passengers, oblivious to your struggle.

least of all the man next to you.

not that he's paying attention. he fell asleep the second the wheels left the runway. slouched deep, knees spread wide, eyelids shut tight above his mask. his breathing and posture don't change when the plane lurches.

another big dip, and your nails bite half-moons into your palms. you shut your eyes. a second later, something taps your knee.

you jolt and look over. his hand is there, palm up, waiting. his eyes are still closed, his body still slightly slumped. the skin is rough, somewhat sun-damaged. tiny scars scatter across the back of it. another bump and you latch on before you can think, and the warmth of his palm and fingers automatically lacing with yours surprises you.

it feels childish. needy.

but his thumb strokes once, twice, over and over again slow across your knuckles, and you let yourself breathe.

you come uncoiled bit by bit, shoulders sinking, peeling from the window. his leg shifts, spreads even wider, knee pressed firm against yours. what would've felt invasive five minutes ago now feels like a brace holding you together.

the plane lands clean, smooth, the kind of landing that deserves applause. (no one does, thank god.)

and he doesn't let go.

you wiggle your hand, try for polite, no-pressure withdrawal. murmur a thank you with a nervous laugh. his grip tightens. just a hair.

a quick glance to the front—only one flight attendant on this tiny puddle-jumper, but she's swallowed by the churn of passengers fighting to get off. you part your lips to say something—anything—but the words stick to the roof of your mouth.

he rouses, straightening up in his seat and cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders like a bear coming out of hibernation. his eyes blink open, dark brown, and settle on you, crinkling at the corners as he squeezes.

with his free hand, he draws your hood back behind your ear and leans in. the mask brushes your ear.

"in a rush? didn't feel a ring on that finger."

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hugmeimtouchdeprived · 26 days ago

Text

splinter [1]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 4.5k words cw: ehh. none. 18+ mdni

Solitude was as familiar an organ as his liver.

It had been with him since birth. A congenital defect, bulbous and ugly, wedged somewhere between his lung and his stomach.

Inoperable. Harder to kill than a liver, too. Liquor alleviated the ache in the short term, a brief reprieve from feeling it nudging against his ribs — but he wasn’t ignorant to the fact that booze was a nostrum. Fed it like tributaries to a lake, diameter stretching every year, and it wouldn’t be long until he drowned in it.

He didn’t concern himself with the long-term, though. Not much point in it. He’d tell himself that he’d cross that bridge when he got to it; but, in truth, he never imagined himself reaching the bridge in the first place.

He wasn’t in a hurry to die, by any means. There was some gratification to be found in surviving one day at a time. Gave him the feeling he was proving someone wrong. His father, maybe. The Captain. Himself. Didn’t matter — that spite was what fueled him, and as long as there was still gas in the tank, he’d keep driving.

The safehouse he had been holed up in for the better part of two years was good for him in a bad way.

The perfect place to fester, let his apathy rankle into something cold and vindictive, to the point that crossing peoples’ paths irked him and their smiles struck him as insults. He hadn’t considered himself antisocial as a young man, because wherever he went there were people around, to either his pleasure or annoyance. Kids at school, barrack mates, brothers-in-arms. Pretty birds, too, back when he used to be pretty himself.

Proof was in the pudding, now that he was tucked away in the backwoods at the base of Mt Thomlinson, with a counterfeit Canadian passport and specific orders to stay under the radar. Human interaction was something he needed to seek out, to actively pursue — and he didn’t.

The thought made his jaw tight, in fact. Gone long enough without it that the very notion of it nettled him. He’d answer with two words maximum when the Captain checked in. He’d offer the worker at the nearest supermarket a single greeting when he checked out and a single thanks when he left. Most words he exchanged were with his dog.

It wasn’t social anxiety that turned him reclusive. He wasn’t shy, wasn’t reserved out of some bashful worry that he’d say the wrong thing — no, what kept him alone was anger.

Anger with nowhere to go but out. A creature in itself, starved, hankering for another being to consume. To infect. His simmering rage was confined within the walls of his cabin when he was alone, safely restrained, hidden from sight. The simple presence of another heartbeat threatened to tip the balance, to pop the balloon he had been steadily inflating with every breath he exhaled since his sergeant was shot in the head.

Being alone was fine by him. Preferable, even. Beholden to no one, and no one to him.

His monthly supply run had come a week early, in anticipation of the snowstorm they had been blathering about on the radio for the past few days. The three-hour drive to Smithers was rarely a pleasant one, winding roads that were carved into the tall mountain faces, poorly maintained chipseal riddled with waterlogged potholes – but this time the snowfall was especially heavy, and the dicey trip took him an hour longer than usual.

He wasn’t complaining. Empty time to sit in silence and smoke a whole pack.

The bird at the Safeway checkout wasn’t particularly bubbly, something Simon always found a relief. Made him feel like less of a prick for not reciprocating even a single smile. Probably at the end of her shift, pissed off that he showed up fifteen minutes before closing with five-hundred dollars worth of groceries. She gave him a half-roll of her eyes as he loaded his goods onto the belt; not quite subtle enough to avoid notice, but he had as little interest interacting with her as she did him, so he said nothing. She sent him off with his receipt and a muted stay warm and he responded with only a grunt.

He left the township with enough supplies to fill the bed of his truck, secured tightly under a tarp — cans, jars, bags of milk, three cows worth of beef that would find home in his chest freezer. Toilet rolls, pancake mix, couple blocks of chocolate. Few jerry cans. Diesel and gasoline. Liquor, but that went without saying — enough to kill an elephant, but he was only replenishing his dwindling reserves. Hopefully just enough to last him the rest of the month.

The weather had turned for the worse on his way home. Someone with a stronger sense of self-preservation would have pulled over and waited for the blizzard to pass, but he had his husky waiting for him by the hearth, and a bottle of Redbreast calling his name. Besides, his truck was built for it — four-wheel drive, locking differentials, deep tread tyres with alpine snow chains.

Even still, the emergency alert lighting up his phone was enough to put him slightly on edge. Snow squall warning in effect until 03:00 PDT. Slow down.

Bit fucking late for it to be of any use to him. He could see it out the damn window. See was a stretch, even — the snow beating on his windscreen was so dense it was near blinding, glowing bright white in his headlights, and despite knowing the road like the back of his hand he begrudgingly slowed to twenty to avoid careening off the side of the mountain.

Small miracle that he did.

Right as he went around a bend in the road, the smallest flash of an orange light cut through the sheets of white — smack in the centre of the road ahead. He slammed his foot into the break, cursing as the truck screeched along the salt-covered road, planing slightly on the fresh snow — kept the truck under control, though, and he managed to veer off into the shoulder, narrowly missing the trunk of a lodgepole.

He sat in the silence for a beat as he came to a stop. Just long enough to take a breath. Bit down on the adrenaline-riled rage that threatened to erupt through his jaws as he kicked open the driver side door and jumped out into the snowfall, leaving the engine running.

He heard the harried voice before he saw its origin through the whiteout; “Are you okay? I’m so sorry!”

Finally spotted the young bird yelling out to him through the blizzard — standing by a multi-decade-old Toyota Starlet with the hood popped and the hazards on, spun out in the middle of the road.

“The fuck are you doing?” He roared on his approach, arm up to shield his eyes from the blisteringly cold wind.

“I’m really sorry,” she pleaded, wetness in her throat, “I was — I was trying to push it out of the way, but I—”

“No, girl, what are you doing out here in the middle of a fuckin’ snowstorm?” He barked, forgoing his initial reaction to deride her for attempting to push the damn thing; mousy wee bird that she was, amused that she would even attempt it.

“I drove over some ice, and I — I don’t know what happened. I slammed on the brakes and heard a crack and — and now the car won’t start—”

Only as she started rambling and his fury waned to an impatient frustration did he hear the panicked tears in her voice. Stupid fucking girl — driving a tin can like that in the middle of nowhere, amid forecasted blizzards, alone. The pith of his anger quickly shifted from exasperation at the near-miss to the fact that she would have gotten herself killed if fate hadn’t placed him on the road when it did.

Wearing a hoodie and leggings, for shit’s sake. As if those Ugg boots would have kept her feet warm in the double negatives.

“Should’ve waited in your damn car,” he grumbled, as he marched past her and squished himself into the open driver side of her Starlet — fucking clown car — and twisted the keys in the ignition. No use asking for her permission, and she put up no fuss. Probably did her the favour of quashing her need to ask for his help.

The car was screaming at him, dashboard practically a light show — but the cause and manner was unambiguous in the slick whirr of the engine. No catch. Wheezing like a dying man.

“Can you tell what’s wrong?” She asked eagerly, leaning down to peer into the open door, arms wrapped tight as constrictors around herself. Shaking like a puppy.

“Timing belt,” he grunted, as he pushed himself out of the car. Must have found him intimidating, because she shifted to her hind foot once he stood up straight. He was used to that.

“What?” She spluttered, worry creasing in her brow, “is that — is that bad?”

He snorted. “Yeah, it’s bad. Engine’s dead.”

Her face crumpled like a tissue when he said that. “Shit,” she sobbed, gritting teeth, “Can you — is there any way to fix it?”

“No,” he said bluntly.

Stupid girl, swallowed it again so that she didn’t have to hear it — clear in her expression she thought it as much as he did, as she rubbed her face with flat hands, elbows tight to her chest. Those little hands would be black with frostbite if he left her out in the cold much longer.

He made up his mind. Resolved to lumber to the back of her car and crack open the boot. She was quick to protest; “What are you—”

“Get in the truck,” he ordered.

She dithered by her open door, quivering and moaning as she battled for any reasonable dispute she could mount. Must have known as well as he did that whatever she could have mustered would have fallen flat, because there weren’t any.

There was a suitcase in the boot with a sock sticking out of the zipper, overstuffed to the brink of bursting. Found himself fleetingly curious where she was heading with her whole life packed in softshell luggage, driving through the Canadian wilderness in the middle of the night. Running from something, girl?

Not his business. He yanked it out and carted it towards his truck.

“Hey, you can’t just—”

“Don’t make me tell you twice,” he snapped, tearing open his back door and tossing the cumbersome suitcase into the backseat.

“But, my car — there m-must be something you can do,” she begged, as if he might be able to pluck a more agreeable alternative out of the aether and present it to her.

“Yeah, I can get you out of the cold so you don’t fuckin’ freeze to death,” he said, leaning into her open car door to grab her purse from the passenger seat. Tossed that in his truck alongside her suitcase.

“Will you take me t-to a — a nearby service station, or s-something?” She stammered; clear the cold was sinking deep, because he could hear the strain of her full-body shivers in her throat, voice grinding out through gritting teeth.

“Nearby?” He scoffed, “do you have any clue where you are?”

“I was on the w-way to Hazelton,” she said, an endearing attempt at certainty.

“Get in the damn truck. Last time I’m asking,” he grunted, fuse running short, as he went to put the car in neutral and began pushing it to the side of the road. Size of a go-kart, he probably could have picked it up and carried it if he felt so inclined.

She snivelled. “Can you t-take me to Hazelton?”

“D’you hit your fuckin’ head, girl?” He growled, slamming shut her door once the vehicle was off the road.

Wee thing was frozen solid. He could see it in her lips as he stomped towards her, grey and cracked, crystallizing in her eyes as she squinted in the wind. Shivering bordering on convulsion. No doubt her hypothermia was becoming severe enough to affect her judgement.

“‘Nuff pissin’ around,” he grumbled, taking her bicep in a fist and hauling her towards his truck.

“Wait — but I don’t — I don’t even know you,” she blubbered, but put up no tangible resistance. Let him drag her along like a pup on a lead. Lucky, because even if she had fought him he’d have thrown her in the truck kicking and screaming. Wouldn’t have another corpse on his conscience, whatever was left of it.

“Too bad,” he said. “Not leavin’ you out here to freeze to death.”

“I’m n-not ev-even c-cold.”

He almost chuckled at that. Daft girl. Brain all mushy from the chill of the snowstorm blowing in through her ears. Not a good sign.

In any other situation, he might have considered her reluctance understandable. Rational, even — pretty young thing alone on a backcountry road, carted off in a strange man’s truck, no cell service, nowhere to run — didn’t look good. The alternative, though, was leaving her to wander into the snow at the behest of hypothermia-induced psychosis and die where nobody would ever find her.

“Hey — you can’t—” Still whingeing as he lifted her with two hands under her arms and plonked her into the passenger seat. Mouthy little thing.

“Knees in,” he said, no interest in entertaining her grousing.

Did as she was told, at least, petulant huff notwithstanding. He threw shut the door once her legs were clear of it and went back to her car for a final once over — didn’t want to hear the bitching if anything was left behind, because he wasn’t coming back for it.

Found an insulated drink bottle, a phone charger, and a beanie with a silly little pompom stitched to the top. Nothing else beyond old receipts and empty cans of diet coke.

He chucked his spoils at her as he hopped up into the driver’s seat and they landed in her lap, but her shaky little hands did little to prevent them from dropping onto the floor between her feet.

He cranked up the heater once he shut his door, full blast, and held the back of his hand to the vent that he turned to pump in her direction. Took a minute to get to max heat, but eventually he felt the warmth bloom across his thick skin.

“C’mere,” he huffed, gesturing with a beckon of his fingers for her to give him her hands. When she failed to realise what he was asking for, he grabbed them, pivoting them by her wrists until they were palm-up.

Frigid to the touch. Stiff and waxy.

“Feel that?” He murmured, pinching the tip of her middle finger, and she sucked her teeth.

“Kind of,” she gritted, then let out a high-pitched chirp when he pinched a bit harder, squishing her nail bed. “Ow.”

He let out a puff of air. “Good,” he said, before forcibly maneuvering her hands so each palm sat flat against a heating vent. “Keep ‘em there.”

She said nothing in response as he put the car in drive and took off down the snow-blanketed road. He had always preferred driving stick, but the truck was prescribed to him by one of the many governments that had him in their employ — and he couldn’t begrudge the thing. State of the art. Something built for the arctic tundra, so rugged and fit-for-purpose that it seemed like an insult to drive it on sealed roads.

Not to mention — good fucking heating. The interior of the cab was a balmy twenty-five celsius within five minutes.

“Where are we going?” She finally piped up, squeezing her hands into fists and twisting them so the backs of her knuckles had a turn in the heat. “You didn’t — um… you didn’t tell me.”

Proper bundle of nerves, now that her wits had returned with a stable body temperature. Focus shifted from surviving the cold to surviving the stranger that threw her in his truck.

Couldn’t blame her. He could practically see the terror dawning on her between every syllable, the stark realisation that she had asked him no questions, had no bearings, and there was no escape.

He had no intention of harming her, but he lacked the ability to make that apparent. Couldn’t exactly say I won’t hurt you without inviting suspicion that the very thought had crossed his mind.

He was self-aware enough to acknowledge his presence alone was threatening, great ugly beast that he was. Scarred and knurled and frayed around the edges. Eyes that carried death with them. Teeth a bit crooked and canines far too sharp. Not least the size of him — served him well in the military, but in the pitch-black wilderness it rendered him something of a cryptid. A sasquatch in a gore-tex jacket. Towering. Beady-eyed. Communicating only in growls and grunts.

Could tell that she was thinking as much, watching in his periphery as she flicked her gaze to him for short bursts, flinching every time he moved. Timid wee thing. Felt just a touch of guilt that he so clearly frightened her, but then he was reminded that he had just saved her from certain death, and her trepidation suddenly bordered on insulting.

Only when she let out a shaky little breath, sinking into her seat like she might fold up into it, did he realise he hadn’t answered her question. Just let the worried words float in the air until they decayed into a denied plea.

“My place,” he said firmly, far too late for the answer to be any succor, because his silence was a threat in itself.

“Oh,” she eked, eyes darting around the car as if to soak in her surroundings. He hoped she wouldn’t be stupid enough to try and open the door, but he resisted the urge to hit the locks, because he knew the second she heard that sound her quiet nerves would erupt into base terror. “Is it, um, how far is it?”

“Not far,” he said. “Twenty-odd minutes.”

“Is it safe to — to drive in snow like this?” She asked worriedly, and he snorted at that.

“You tell me,” he chided.

She huffed. “I didn’t think it would get this bad,” she muttered. “I had to — mh. Doesn’t matter.”

His curiosity was piqued, but he didn’t press. He resolved to remain silent unless prompted, focusing on what little of the treacherous road he could see through the whiteout, cruising at fifteen now that he had more precious cargo aboard.

She regarded him with a caution that made the back of his neck feel hot. Evasive blinks in his direction. Eyes on his hands as they hung from the steering wheel.

No good could come from enjoying it. How he troubled her. How she looked at him with a faint curl in her brow, eyes wide and ears pinned like a cornered cat. Might have spoken to a latent thirst for control that not even being a lieutenant could slake. Could just as likely have been the fact he liked birds with a bit of scratch in them.

“What’s your name?” She asked tightly, hunting for dirt on him rather than asking out of interest. He smirked at the thought, that she was collecting all of the leads she could to feed to the cops once she escaped from his clutches, as if he had taken her against her will.

“Simon,” he said frankly. She was quiet after that, picking at her fingernails and staring out the window, so he returned; “Gonna tell me yours?”

She had to think about it for a bit. Like sharing her name with him might present some risk. When she told him, she only mumbled it, with enough reluctance that he wondered if she had lied.

“Pretty,” he murmured.

Knew he shouldn’t have been complimenting her given the circumstances, but maintaining etiquette was not his strong suit. There was no filter between his brain and his mouth and he had no interest in installing one.

Didn’t help that she was a lovely thing. Sweet enough to bite. Soft-cheeked and glossy-eyed. Might have acted too soon in taking her to his cabin with him.

She drew in a careful breath. “So — tonight, you—”

“Y’can crash at mine,” he said simply.

She looked affronted by the suggestion, head cocked back and all. “For the night?”

“Wouldn’t leave you to sleep in the fuckin’ snow, would I?”

“No, I — I didn’t think I’d be sleeping at your house,” she groused, “I just thought that we’d, I don’t know, wait out the blizzard and—”

“Y’expect me to stay up ‘til five in the morning so I can play taxi for you all the way to Hazelton?”

“Well, it’s just—” She faltered, “I don’t even know you.”

“Sure you do,” he said. “I’m Simon.”

“Simon who?”

He grinned at that. Little bit of moxie slipping out when it probably wasn’t wise to let it. Never know, girl, because he could have been all that you feared he was, and that little bit of fight could have been his excuse.

“Riley,” he said, entertaining her. Not often he threw that around. Didn’t even match the name on his fake passport, but he was sure she’d never lay eyes on the thing.

She blinked at him for a moment. Hunting for the next clue. “You got a wife or something?”

He chuckled wryly at that. “Worried I’ll get in trouble bringing a bird home?”

“No,” she spat, repulsed by the unsubtle implication. “Just — just wondering.”

Want to make sure you’re not a sociopath, was what she clearly wanted to say, because no doubt a wife and kids at home would at least give him the benefit of perceived normalcy. Unfortunate that she kept asking questions she wouldn’t have liked the answers to.

“No missus,” he said, and she nodded rigidly, an attempt at polite acknowledgment to conceal her assumedly staggering disappointment.

Her pussyfooting was beginning to irk him — wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand the quiet suspicion, the coy little questions about his life as though he had endangered her by rescuing her from a snow squall. Course she couldn’t ask it outright, but he hated watching somebody walk on eggshells almost as much as he hated walking on them himself.

She was twitchy, held her knees together, shuffling in her seat. Waited a long interval before she spoke again, like it was a risk just to talk in his vicinity.

“So it’s — it’s just you? Living in your cabin?”

He let out an irate sigh. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not a serial killer.”

She glared at him like he had just confessed to the opposite. Jaw a little slack, eyes all bulgy.

He rolled his eyes. “If you’re so damn worried I’ll hurt you, I can pull over and drop you and your shit on the side of the road.”

“No — sorry, I wasn’t—” She blurted, and his frustration was quick to melt. “I wasn’t saying that.”

Then he felt guilty. Sudden temper like that would not have done much to quell her scepticism, and while he enjoyed teasing her worries he didn’t necessarily want to prove them right. Not if he was going to have her tucked up in his cabin like a stray cat.

“S’alright,” he grumbled. “Cute bird like you gotta keep her wits about her.”

Her lips flattened and she looked out the window again. He certainly wasn’t doing himself any favours. Maybe he was indeed a sociopath.

“If I — If I stay on your couch tonight, can you take me back to my car tomorrow?” She asked, after a short while, arms crossed now that her hands had warmed up.

“That car is dead,” He jeered. “Y’wont be driving it anywhere.”

She let out a sharp sigh. “I could just wait by it and hitchhike, or—”

“You’d be waiting a week.”

“How would you know?” She hissed. “I’m sure truckers drive by all the time.”

“Think a trucker’ll be nicer than me?”

A fraction of a second was long enough to betray that she didn’t think so either.

Strangers on backcountry service roads were hit and miss, and for a bird like her, most likely more misses than hits. He bet the first bastard to have picked her up would have been a cash-swindling hick or a leery old rapist, and God only knows where they’d be headed to or from. She’d eventually come around to realising he was probably the best she could have hoped for.

“Haven’t been that mean, have I?” He pushed, sardonicism on his tongue, glancing at her with a smirk.

“A bit abrasive,” she grumbled, looking directly out of the windshield, no doubt his gaze was making her uncomfortable.

“Abrasive, eh?” He chortled. “Nice way to put it.”

“I just — I just want to make sure I can get back to civilisation,” she murmured. “Will you please drive me to Hazelton in the morning?”

She wouldn’t have liked the truth, so he decided not to tell it to her — that the likelihood of the roads being driveable by morning was slim to none. That the snowstorm was forecasted to last a few days at the least. That the dumping of snow was unseasonable and unprecedented and the meteorologists on the radio were calling it indisputable evidence of climate change. Something we haven't seen since St. John’s Snowmageddon, they said, stock up on emergency supplies and stay indoors. Stay indoors. Stay indoors.

“Sure,” he huffed. “If the road’s open I’ll take ya.”

She deflated at that. Shoulders softened with a long sigh and a feeble nod. Knot of tension in the air unwound with it.

“Thank you,” she said.

He’d deal with the fallout come morning.

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hugmeimtouchdeprived · 26 days ago

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"you don't owe anyone anything" You are a tar pit. Speak for yourself. I personally owe the cafe employees my dishes put away and my friends a listening ear and small scared insects a cup and a gentle trip outside. Hyperindividualism is a rancid infection borne of capitalism and willfully misinterpreted therapyspeak and I will defy it by continuing to be kind regardless of whether or not it benefits me personally

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hugmeimtouchdeprived · 1 month ago

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nsfw!!!

p i c k y o u r b o y

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hugmeimtouchdeprived · 1 month ago

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Napping with the 141 is definitely a pick your battles situation given the fact that they’re all different breeds of monsters when it comes to being still and sleeping for an hour.

Price fortunately has the ability to sleep anywhere- a habit he picked up over many years of being in the service. He can tilt his bonnet over his face and be out in a few minutes. You think this would make him a great nap buddy, but you’re wrong. The man snores in the way an EF4 tornado blows down a house. Even noise canceling earbuds don’t help. You can literally feel him vibrate with the force of it. The benefit is that he’s warm and solid and cozy, so maybe you can put up with the noise long enough to at least get a cuddle in.

Soap isn’t much better- he’s a squirmer. Maybe because it’s his bum knee or inability to sit still for long, but he takes so long to settle. He’s rearranging you, on top of you, under you, tucking you against his side, and most of the time just laying down with you in his arms gets him too worked up to actually nap, and you move your leg to find him hard in his sweatpants as he apologizes and peppers kisses on your shoulders trying to convince you to go for a round- or at least take a nap while he’s inside you (this is a trick. He will NOT let you sleep)

Gaz is just…a little too much. You ask him if he wants to take a nap and he starts running around your apartment gathering the softest blankets, the Bluetooth speaker for the sleep music, the aromatherapy tablets, fiddling with the lights- all of which takes so long that you either fall asleep while he’s going that, or by the time he does finish making sure everything is perfect you don’t have time for a nap anymore. The only way to get around this is to schedule naps in advance, which defeats a lot of the purpose, but hey- maybe it works for you.

Ghost- oh man. Like Price, Ghost has the ability to sleep almost anywhere and anytime. Unfortunately he’s a light sleeper, used to catching a few zzzs in the field while holding a tactical knife in case anyone sneaks up on him. When you do get him to nap, in safety with your form pressed against him, the man sleeps hard. I’m talking the Blitz siren can’t wake this man up. And despite what he says, he’s clingy. Inescapable, really. You can’t get up when you sleep with him, you have to wait until he wakes up, and god knows when that will be. For all you know you’ll have to cancel any remaining plans you have for the day. Not to mention he’s a furnace, so napping with him means you’re trapped against a human wall of flame with no way to pry yourself free. Good luck!!

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hugmeimtouchdeprived · 1 month ago

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do y'all remember this "tapping out" tradition, I don't know if it's a thing in the British military, but if it would be. . . I can only imagine how a teammates girlfriend "taps out" ghost (just because he has no one coming to him) and he randomly decides that huh. she seems like the one.

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hugmeimtouchdeprived · 2 months ago

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Full spread since I unfortunately don't feel like coloring it. 🫠 srry. This was fun tho!

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hugmeimtouchdeprived · 2 months ago

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How big do you think physical touch is for 09 soapghost? I think yes

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hugmeimtouchdeprived · 2 months ago

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ichor tongue; salted wounds

simon ghost riley x fem!reader | warlord x servant | masterlist

Chapter Three: pig

tw: dub-con, mentioned threats of non-con, mentioned/implied bestiality

To the victor belongs the spoils, but Ghost has no use for mere trinkets.

A man of his status requires something of sustenance—meat and blood, something warm and fresh to dig his fingers into, and he finds that in you. Tender offals spewing from a gored deer, viscera tainting his skin no matter how long he scrubs at it. A warrior is not complete without proof of his vitality; without the conquered to trail behind him as a reminder of the pecking order.

That’s what this feels like—your ripped, sodden chiton clinging to your body as you stumble behind him through the halls while he struts as if the palace layout has been burned into the back of his hand since he was born; as if he’s lived here his entire life. A birthright finally passed down to him. Servants gawk carefully from the corner of their eyes, ensuring that they do not test your new lord too vigorously with their gaze. You hold your bosom tighter, water squelching from the fabric and dripping down your stomach.

No—the pecking order is still the same. You’re still at the bottom. Fresh food. A toy for your new warlord.

After all, who wouldn’t be curious about the freak without a tongue?

Still, it is nice to pretend that you are something else for a split moment when Ghost brings you to the room that was once Shepherds throne, now turned into temporary storage. A small band of soldiers sort through various items, all seemingly taken from the palace itself. They garner swords, daggers, bronze shields and thin armor. Pottery, artwork, banners. Sandals, himations, shredded chitons and silk. Two men banter in the corner over a gold bracelet, while a larger group picks at the tip of a sword, degrading its creator for how dull it is.

If you pay close enough attention, you can almost still smell the blood that was spilt here yesterday—it almost stains the stone floor beneath the chair.

Eyes begin to wander when you’re brought to the center of the room. You’re still dripping, chiton running cold against your skin as Ghost begins to rummage through a pile of textiles. Prismatic linen against his skin, he intermittently chooses an item and holds it up to your body, eyeing the size of the cloth against your figure before either tossing it back into the depths or slinging it over his shoulder.

Eventually, there are five different garments shoved into your arms. Beautiful floor length peploses of saffron and rust, a chiton of delicate hyacinth, and two himations, beautiful shawls of seafoam green. You stare in awe at the delicate embroidery that laces the ends of the fabric. Geometric squares, delicate flowers of daisy and anemone, and sharp angles that remind you of the brightest stars in the night sky.

Gifts. That’s what Ghost says they are. He tells you to dress yourself how you please, and then dismisses you with the order to do whatever you wish for the day.

He leaves you with his soldiers, citing work that must be done within the city, alone and standing in the midst of their mess, stunned. Having no way to voice your concern, you simply do what you do best—follow your leader, your emperor; your new lord.

You spend your day the only way you can think of; down in your cove. It is a task climbing down there with your new peplos, but the moment you donned the cloth you knew you could never take it off. It is soft against your skin. Soaked to the brim with expensive dye and decorated with a craftsmanship you’ve never seen in your old, plain chitons. The pale sand is warm against your bare feet, and you spend many hours combing through the shoreline, tickling seashells as they pop up to kiss the soles of your feet.

When the sun heats you too much, you strip yourself free of all clothing before dipping beneath the waves. Kelp wraps around your ankles like loving chains meant to keep you in the only place you ever felt at home, and you float on your back and stare at the azure sky as the tide wills your body where it pleases. Then, when dusk begins to paint the sky with mulberry, you slink out of the water, bones having turned into liquid, and you lay on the rocks next to the starfish caught in tide pools until you are warm enough to drag yourself back to the palace.

Still, you are a creature of habit.

Come morning, you are in Ghost’s chambers again, now with a new peplos and your hands ready to serve. His body lays motionless in his bed, and you find yourself stealing glances as you go about your work. Crooked nose, almost parted lips, bare chest rising and falling with his breaths. He groans when the sound of sloshing water echoes from the basin and you see his body pulse beneath his animal hides as he turns on his side, dark eyes stricken with pink.

“No. None of that,” he dismisses. Pausing, you place your pitcher down before turning to fully face him. His face is heavy with lassitude. It pulls at his gaze and it trembles in his arms as he motions for you to walk toward him. “C’mere, little mouse.”

Obeying, you approach his bed, yet you are still surprised when his fingers wrap around your wrist and drag you downwards. As if falling into the hells, you collapse against the mattress and turn to liquid when he begins to maneuver you how he wishes. Bent on your side, head on his chest, arm wrapped around the back of your head as he lies flat on his back, breath huffing from his lungs.

“I was up half the night settling quarrels with your people,” he grumbles. “It’s only fair that one of their own aids me in sleep. At least you squawk less than them.”

The rattling in your chest rivals that of a family of horses trampling through open plains with unforgiving hooves. You think Ghost might feel it as he pulls you closer, body sinking into the linens, exhaling a soft chuckle before his dark eyes flutter shut and you’re left as a prisoner in his grasp.

Curious hands wander over your body just before his snoring overtakes him. Thick fingers paw at your waist, the dip in your hips, the soft pudge of your stomach. Just before his slumber devours him, he mutters something about how you are softer than silk—softer than anything else he’s ever touched before.

Ghost’s heartbeat sounds like war. It’s the pulsing of drums promising impending doom. It’s the throbbing in your mouth after your tongue was stolen from you, leaving behind nothing but rot and ichor. It’s the beating of your mother’s fists inside of the brazen bull, fruitlessly attempting to escape her sealed fate. Still, it sounds like solace, because war is the only comfort you have ever known.

Eventually, it lulls you to sleep; stuffs your skull full of cotton until your thoughts are just as fuzzy as your body. Dreams come sweetly like honey, but the smell makes you gag as your mother drizzles it on bread and holds it for you to eat. You always speak in your dreams. Though, it is rare that anyone ever understands you despite it. When you tell her you cannot stand the texture of honey in your mouth anymore, she only smiles and pushes it to your lips.

Grip like tongs on your tongue. Knife meant for flaying. Blood spilling like juice.

Forever scorned—a little girl so desperate to sing.

You wake to Ghost’s fingers in your mouth. Gentle, hardly invasive; he doesn’t even push them past your teeth, just keeps them behind your lips to feel the way you instinctively suckle on it. He knows you’re awake when your actions cease.

“I am a soldier, little mouse,” he says, pads of his index and middle fingers rubbing against your front teeth. “I can’t stand politicking.” Groaning, his body twists, elbow digging into the bed to prop himself up, torso curling over yours, hips rolling over your thigh. He is naked, and you feel the bite of his warmth through your peplos. “But I keep tellin’ myself it’s worth it, if it’s for you. My little treasure. All for me, yeah?”

When he pulls his fingers from your mouth, he drags them down along your chin, dipping to your throat, and then lower. A thin trail of saliva is left in his wake until it runs dry, and the rough calluses of his fingers trace between your breasts unheeded.

“Dunno why I find myself so infatuated with you,” Ghost admits, though he speaks more as if he’s talking to himself than to you. “Maybe it’s because we’re not too different. You’re the only one in this fuckin’ city who understands me, yeah?”

His words mean nothing to you, and still you nod. Your eyes are locked onto his lips and how they dance as he talks.

“My name is Simon.” It’s a blunt reveal. Something that leaves your mind spinning. Ghost is a name fit for him—something you would not be surprised to hear that his mother herself named him—but his true title softens your aching heart. Simon smirks as he leans forward, nose knocking against yours. “I trust you enough not to tell anyone.”

Then, he seals this revelation with a kiss.

Simon’s lips are heavy against yours, chin rubbing against your own just as his thumb brushes your cheek. Never before have you had anyone embrace you in such a way, and you’re not sure how to react. So you lay there motionless as your ribs attempt to keep your fluttering heart at bay.

It only worsens when his tongue slips into your mouth. It’s an action that brings along the very stars themselves with it, sizzling and sparkling to life what you once thought was long dead. Your mouth opens wider, cheeks hollowing out in order to bring more of him in, throat bobbing in anticipation, but he halts your endeavor with a chuckle as his mouth breaks free from yours with a quiet smack.

“Greedy girl.”

After that, you cannot leave Simon alone. Not now that you know his name. Not now that you’ve gotten a taste for his tongue.

He enjoys it. At least, you think he does. He never allows you to trail far behind him when he’s running an errand somewhere within the city, always keeping a hand on your back. When he sits with his men, he ensures you’re next to him, if not damn near in his lap, arm snaking around your waist, hands quietly toying with you when the war talk riles him up too much.

It’s gotten to the point that people now regard you with some sort of authority as if you are brimming with power and wealth. But don’t you look the part with your purple peplos and hand tugging on the arm of the vicious dog who now leads your city? Soldiers greet you with salutes and bows, and even the servants have begun to follow suit. Heads lowering. Knees bending.

Still—there are others who know you as you are.

A worm, groveling in dirt.

That life finds you again when you wander into the kitchen, having been sent away by Simon to fetch something to eat when he was too concerned about your growling stomach to focus during his meeting. Before you lies a medley of breads, fruits and vegetables, oils and salts—nearly anything your mind can imagine. The aroma is nearly enough to trick your mind into believing you’re tasting it for yourself. Garlic, onion, chives, sun dried tomatoes.

Your stomach growls, but the want is not here. The joy is bland. The action is a chore. It worsens when you spot a small jar of honey.

Pale orange refracts the streams of sun slicing through the windows, and you stare at the liquid with contempt. When your tongue was ripped from your mouth, it was the only thing you could eat for weeks. You’d slather it on the tip of your fingers, then smear it along the open wound within you, rubbing it along the tender skin and pray that the antimicrobial effects would save you from infection. Each time you remember the way it coats the roof of your mouth, or how it sticks to your fingers, you shiver.

Still, you fill your plate with kinder memories. Grapes, bread, butter—anything soft. Anything your traitorous throat can swallow. Then, your mind wanders to Simon, and you grab extras. Apples, cured meat, cheese. You’re nearly weighed down by the cluster in your hands. This is the most greedy you’ve ever felt, yet no one gives you a second look; not in your attire, not with your newfound status.

No one except Caenis—the one who remembers you from before.

The one who remembers you for what you are.

Hands occupied, you nearly clash into her when you exit the kitchen. She stands tall and proud as ever, delicate fingers holding a fat pitcher of water against the side of her hip. For a moment, fear clouds her eyes. You suppose that’s what most of the servants feel these days—something you ought to feel, too, in your newly conquered city. Then, her eyes wander, golden like the metals from the earth tracing your body, reading the embroidery on your peplos, naming the color of the woolen fabric in her head. Then, fear melts into rage, and her lips press into a tight line as she glares at you.

“Look at you. You’re enjoying all this, aren’t you?” she asks facetiously, each syllable dripping with ire. “Oh, of course you can’t answer me. Kissing the new lord’s feet still hasn’t grown your tongue back for you, I see.”

Though your legs yearn to flee, you do what you always have done. Turning to stone like the statues in the garden, you stand there and take her berating the same way as you have always done.

“Everyone’s noticed. You pleaded your innocence so much that day your wretched parents were snuffed out, but look at you now, bedding with The Ghost and following him like some well trained bitch.” There is movement behind her. Quiet, and swift like a diving eagle—it’s Simon; you’ve learned to recognize him anywhere. Curiosity pulls at his face when he rounds the corner in the corridor and spots you. You’ve taken too long. Fingers curling into your plate, you attempt to step around Caenis to meet your lord, but she only chuckles and slaps it out of your hand, sending your food clattering to the ground. “You might think it’s fun to pretend that you’re anything other than filth, but we all see you for what you really are.”

Her throat catches on the last word she speaks as Simon’s foot swipes at the back of her knees, sending her pitcher shattering on the ground as she follows behind it. Caenis’s lambasting is silenced with a squeal as he runs his fingers through her hair, pulling her head back as the fresh well water wets both her chiton and your feet. It swirls with the bread on the floor, softening it until it’s soggy—a true waste of mush.

“I am sick of this city’s kvetching,” Simon sighs. Caenis sends her hands backward, fingers pulling at his grip in her hair to get him to relent, but she freezes the moment she realizes who has a hold of her. Her face blanches. “Your tongue is wasted on you.”

With his free hand, Simon retrieves a small knife sheathed in the side of his chiton and proudly displays it in the pale glow of the sun. Caenis whimpers as he twirls it, toying with her, and it’s nearly enough to get you to feel sorry for her.

“Perhaps I should relieve you of it,” he muses before looking up at you. “What do you say, little mouse? I think her tongue would be of greater service in your mouth than it is in her own.”

For a split moment, you entertain the idea. This notion that you may yet have a tongue to sing with. Something to stitch yourself up with so that you may be whole again.

Then, you remember a time when a soldier cornered you outside of Shepherd’s chambers. Truly, he was handsome. The quintessence of strength and beauty, he sneered at you for a solid five minutes speaking of your wretched hideousness, how no one would ever want a woman as ugly as you, that he had thought of raping you just for his own pleasure but decided to get that relief out of a pig instead.

Some time later, you caught Caenis with that soldier outside of the bath house. She was kneeling before him as he pulled his chiton up over his stomach, taking his cock into her mouth. Though you are not sure how true his claims were, all you could think about is how he must taste like pig.

You do not want a swine flavored tongue.

When you shake your head, Simon smirks before stowing his blade. “The only reason your blood is not on the floor is because of her,” he mutters to Caenis. Then, he releases her with a heavy shove, forcing her hands to brace against the wet floor as she sobs. “Remember that the next time you open your mouth.”

Wide eyed, you stare down at her as you watch her shoulders shudder and head bow as if silently begging for your forgiveness. It’s a sight you never thought you’d see in a woman like Caenis, always so prim. So proper. So above you.

Simon then reaches out his hand, taking yours into his own, before leading you away from the mess at your feet. His warmth and rage are palpable as it bleeds into you, but still, you cannot help but smile as Caenis’s pules echo off the corridor walls behind you.

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hugmeimtouchdeprived · 2 months ago

Text

ichor tongue; salted wounds

simon ghost riley x fem!reader | warlord x servant | masterlist

Chapter Two: mouse

tw: non-con groping, dub-con, nudity, bathing, mouth kink, minor spit play

You stare at your palms the entire way to the bath house.

Indentations still plague your skin, nettling deep into the thick tissue where it saves the memory of the brush you clutched in your hands. Sturdy wood and bristles thick enough to shed long rotting skin. You attempt to recall the last time someone had ever got your hands to curl, either out of indignation or panic, yet nothing comes to mind; not much phases you these days.

Ghost is sure to change this, you think. The tips of his toes nip at your heels as you lead him through the palace, and you’re certain you feel his breath huffing on the back of your neck. He looms. Lowering clouds kissing the horizon, promising a flood, promising lightning and destruction. You’d feel the wrath of the sky if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s already fallen upon your city. You see it in the changing of banners in the corridors; pristine white and silver cloth like wispy clouds are now replaced with red and gold, and an unfamiliar crest—the symbol of barbarians, of your new leaders. The storm has come and passed, and you’re wading through the aftermath. Through the lingering destruction that lies at your feet.

There is a detached bath house that lies away from the palace, past the garden and just before a steep trail that leads down to a placid cove. The building winks in your periphery as it stands outside the windows while your feet carry you further down the corridor. It is one that’s saved for servants and soldiers. Anyone expendable. Anyone deemed not important. Communal, and with a single pool, it’s a great source of socialization where people sit among the curved stone, lathering each other’s backs, or diving into the depths of the water.

It is a place free from prying eyes. Free from judgement of the superiors, of the aristocrats, of the kings one step below the gods themselves.

Once, you attempted to use the same water as the others when rain had punished your city for a near week straight. Voices echoing off of the stone walls, wet skin glistening in the shrouded sunlight, they all fell silent the moment you entered. They questioned what you were doing there knowing full well you could not answer, only point in the water that they shared with one another, but refused to share with you.

I’d rather share water with a pig.

Caenis. That was the name of the servant who spat at you, sneering at the way your feet uncomfortably tapped at the marble floor knowing there was nothing you could do to spit back. No one has ever been kind to you since you lost your tongue and your parents, but no one has been quite as cruel as her. Pristine skin left unmarred, laying with soldiers to get favors, living as an underground princess beneath Emperor Shepherd’s very nose, she always gets her way.

But you do not take Ghost to the same place the servants bathe—to the very place where you were made a fool of—instead, you bring your new lord to the same chambers Emperor Shepherd used when he still drew breath. Private. Quiet. Held with the decorum expected to be given to a ruler.

It is a small room adorned with stone nestled far back in the palace, well away from foot traffic and echoing conversations. A round hole cuts deep into the floor with stairs to lead to the bottom, and a lipped ridge to sit on. It reaches deep enough to kiss your hips, and is wide enough for you to stretch your arms, but not much more. Private. Not meant for sharing. A hand lever pump that joins directly to the aquifer stands towards the back of the room, waiting to fill the carved tub to the brim. Grandiose, this bath is one of the single greatest wastes of drinking water, second only to the ever flowing fountains that peasants sneak sips out of when soldiers aren’t looking.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost murmurs. Stepping around you, he marches to the side of the tub, curiously eyeing the craftsmanship. Engraved in the stone are various creatures of the sea. Clams, gulls, schools of fish and animals from ancient stories—krakens, ship eating squids, merpeople luring unsuspecting men to shore. “All this artistry for a man who starved his people.”

Now, it’ll be wasted on you. A wretched and unkind way to think, but it springs to mind. The blood that taints his skin. The scrapes on his arms. How many civilians did he cut down for this one spoil? For a bath soiled by another wretched man?

Ghost looks to you as if expecting an answer, but you instead direct him to a wooden table against the wall behind him that holds all of Emperor Shepherd’s old oils and soaps. There are countless ones with various scents, consistencies, and medicinal effects crafted by the best artisans. He only scoffs at them.

“Need me clean and smellin’ like a pansy?” he grumbles.

Still, he offers you reprieve in distracting himself as you work on filling the tub. Ensuring that the metal plug is in place, you begin to pump water from the spigot, allowing it to gush and wet the stone at your feet. You are grateful it is not designed like a regular pump. It flows long after you’ve stopped working it, water still gushing from the pressure, spilling and babbling as if it were a waterfall. What should take you hundreds of pumps only takes you fifty before it’s full enough to bathe in.

Not bothering to wait for your direction, Ghost removes his chiton with a stiff grunt while his shoulders pop. Now that you no longer look at him in terror, you take note of all the wounds he’s gathered from the battle. There’s nothing of importance. Nothing that would take his life now or later when the wound goes bad and rotten. He shamelessly struts before you, flaccid cock swinging between his legs, broad shoulders swaying and knees groaning as he steps into the water, hissing at the way the frigidness kisses his skin, smoothing over each injury.

When you realize he hasn’t pointed out a preferred soap, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe out your frustration before approaching the table yourself. Lavender. Lemongrass. Mint. Yes, mint will do. You grab the bar before you kneel at the ledge of the pool just next to Ghost, hands dipping in the water and lathering it as best as you can.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to clean me from there,” Ghost deadpans. Pausing, you turn your attention to him. His elbows are on the ledge, head tilting to the side to look at you. “I’m a big boy.” As if to prove his point, he stretches his legs just as he rolls his hips. You try not to let the distorted image of his cock through the water distract you. “Gonna be hard to reach all of me if you’re sittin’ pretty by that ledge.”

You freeze. Prey caught in the sights of a predator. If he wanted to, Ghost could gralloch you right here with his bare hands—nails digging through your navel, splitting you open, turning his bathwater pink. You clutch the bar of soap so tightly it nearly slips from your hands, and you opt to hold it against your stomach instead.

“C’mon then,” he urges, not impatient but rather intrigued. “In the water, little bird.”

Knowing better than to deny a powerful man his whims, you stand to your feet and pitifully trudge to the stairs. Ghost watches you like a vulture licks its beak over carrion, waiting to peck and tear flesh—to devour something rotten and whole. But you are a defiant creature to an extent. With no tongue to sing with, you hold onto what little power you have left. You do not shed your chiton before descending the stairs, cotton turning wispy in the algid water, hugging your body tight and tangling around your shins as you wade towards your relaxed warlord. The cold has your nipples hardening through the cloth, but you pay them no attention as you keep your chin high and your lips tight.

He’s chuckling by the time you’re standing in front of him. Thick fingers tap against the stone at his back as he watches you wordlessly begin to wash him up. You start with his hands. His knuckles are split like grapes that are too ripe, but he doesn’t hiss at the sting. Meaty palms nearly devour your own hands, fingers and all, and you try not to pay too much attention to the way he seems to linger against you as you swipe the grime out from beneath his fingernails.

Tendons pull taught in his forearms once you begin moving up. There are countless scars to trace. Deep ones that deform his skin, to lighter, silvery ones. Your knees knock against the sitting stone as you lean forward, reaching further along him, body bending at your hips.

“D’ya always make things so difficult for yourself?” Ghost questions. Pausing, you look at his face for further explanation, brows nearly furrowing, but he seems to be waiting for something. On someone. For you. When you don’t respond, he sighs—then, he grabs. Hands slicing through the water, fingers digging into your hips, he pulls you towards him until your legs are spread wide around his thighs, rump resting in his lap. You gasp at the sudden movement, and a smirk pulls at his scarred lips. “Better?”

Mind still spinning from the sudden movement, you attempt to distract yourself with your task only to realize that the soap has slipped from your hands. It floats along the surface, half buoyant and ready to sink, drifting further from your reach. You point at it, finger trembling too viciously to truly follow, but Ghost grabs your face. Thumb and forefinger digging into your cheeks, he turns your head towards him before releasing you.

“I don’t care ‘bout the soap, little bird,” he says. His fingers drift from your face, down your neck, and to your collarbones. You pray to the gods that he cannot feel the way your heart thunders in your body. “Don’t care ‘bout the bath either. Just wanna hear you sing.”

Dipping between your breasts, his hands grab your chiton and then pull. Thread yanks apart, linen ripping down your sternum, bosom on full display as the remaining tatters slip down your arms. Another gasp from you has him humming with pride as you look down at yourself, hardened nipples dancing with each shuddering breath you exhale. No one has ever exposed you like this—so scandalously on display before your lord like a whore.

“This is what you wanted, yeah?” Ghosts questions. His hands are on your chest now, palms cupping both your breasts, swallowing them whole with the ever growing cavern in his eyes until he drifts up to view your befuddled face. Despite the water, he’s warm. Too warm. Sweltering against your skin, the mixture of hot and cold threatens to undo you. “Or are you really expectin’ me to believe that a pretty thing like you would waltz into my room to serve me so willingly? Watched me conquer your city, now you want me to do the same to you, is that it? C’mon, pretty bird. Sing.”

Ghost pinches you where you are soft and tender. The ripening bud of your nipple screams as he squeezes it between his finger and thumb, and it’s as if the sky is angry. Billowing clouds. Cracks of thunder and lightning rippling throughout your body. Your mouth opens enough for a squeak just as your body jolts, and he relents. Pauses. Eyes darkening, head tilting—Ghost looks at you with a fading smile and pursing brows.

Then, he demands; “Open your mouth.”

The softest part of you. Ripe flesh around a peach pit. Teeth like brittle sand dollars waiting to crumble. You obey. You always do.

Lips parting just enough to open, Ghost hooks his thumb into your mouth without warning where he finds purchase behind your bottom teeth, then pulls. Jaw wide open, you stare at him as he peers into your mouth, and you note when he sees it. You. How you were marred beyond recognition. Humming, his thumb dips lower into the space that would harbor the soft tissue beneath your tongue if it were still here. A phantom tells you that you feel it; him. Prodding beneath the wet muscle. A bitter memory of what you once had.

“I see.” He fits two fingers into your mouth and rides them along the ridges of your teeth. You feel him count each one. He presses against the edge. Each point. Enough for your jaw to ache. Nearly enough to draw blood. “You’re no bird. You’re a little mouse, yeah?”

Soft palate now. Dragging forward. Hard palate. Incisors. Then, cheek. Hook and drag, saliva gathering on the tips of his fingers, running over the smooth skin and the indentations left from your teeth.

“I’d ask who did this, but I have a feelin’ I already know. It was that bastard Shepherd, yeah?” Ghost questions with a hum. With his fingers still in your mouth, you nod. “Dirty cunt. This isn’t fresh either.”

He pushes further towards the back of your throat where the mangled remnants of your tongue lie. A branch cut too short on a tree, too much scar tissue and no reach. The nub pushes against the back of your throat as you swallow, skin melting beneath Ghost’s gaze.

This is the most bare you’ve ever been in front of someone. Breasts spilling from ripped cotton, mouth open, lips wrapping around a stranger’s fingers as he pokes and prods at your greatest source of shame—of the hellfire and scorn wrought upon you that still lingers as embers and the smouldering remains of your past.

Eventually, Ghost retrieves his fingers from your mouth, pulling them out slow and steady, prodding at your front teeth before his own lips part. Then, they’re in his mouth. Tongue lapping at your saliva, humming content at the flavor you can no longer taste—a sapor long forgotten. A shaky exhale fans across his face as you watch his eyes dilate. He has kind eyes, you think. A stark difference from the ruggedness strewn across his body, scars like mountains, bruises like valleys. They are soft. Warm like the rocks you sunbathe on after cleaning yourself with the brine of the ocean. Warm like the heated iron used to cauterize your tongue.

“This city was bequeathed to me,” Ghost says, fingers popping free from his mouth before placing his hands on your hips. His thumbs wander. Rubbing, repetitive and soft against your waist, sending water singing around your bodies. “Everythin’ here belongs to me. Includin’ you.”

Perhaps in another life his words would make your stomach churn, but the prospect of being owned by yet another ruler does not phase you. It’s something you require, now. Someone to take care of. Someone to serve. His words prompt you to nod, but his fingers squeeze against you and you freeze—a rabbit ensnared, a doe catching scent on the wind, a little girl kneeling before a man playing god.

“But unlike Shepherd, I take care of my things. I don’t go destroyin’ things that could be easily fixed or corrected. And you—” Ghost pulls you closer, body dragging across his lap and chiton bleeding around you in the bath, forcing your hands to brace against his shoulders to steady yourself as water sloshes around you “—might just be my favorite possession yet.”

For the first time you can recall, something besides fear or contempt swells in your chest. It is not pride, nor flattery, but something deeper. A beast with its maw opened wide, waiting to swallow something—but what? You? Unsure of what to do—here, in your city’s usurper's lap—you nod. You cannot name if it’s because you are saying you understand him, or if you’re agreeing with him.

You tell yourself it’s the latter, but each beat of your heart strangely sounds like yes please, let me be something, anything more than this, something of importance, let me be useful, please let me mean something.

Either way, Ghost chuckles before he taps your hips, legs stretching out behind you. The added buoyancy of the water allows him to move you easier, weightlessness taking over your body as if you’re caught in some sort of dream.

“C’mon, little mouse,” he prompts. “No prized possession of mine will walk ‘round wearin’ rags like these. I like to rip through somethin’ of substance before I eat.”

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hugmeimtouchdeprived · 2 months ago

Text

kiss the skin that crawls

john price x fem!reader | the surrogate au | masterlist

Part Five: actionable request

tw: smut

The bed is cold when you wake up, but your chest isn’t.

Overflowing with bubbling mirth, you’re warmed from the inside out as thoughts from the previous night overwhelm your senses. You still feel your head on John’s chest—shirtless, coarse patches of hair tickling your cheek as his hand traces your spine, dancing along each vertebrae. Memorizing each and every curve you hide under. When his touch doesn’t lull you to sleep, his whispers do. Soft nothings, lips against the top of your head, free hand hooking beneath your knee to pull your leg over his body until you melt into him.

Now in the waking world, you lay flat on your back with your hand over your sternum as the ceiling displays the sun’s gentle art for your viewing pleasure. Rays strewn across eggshell white in long bars—pillars of light to ignite your life. Your heart is beating too fast. Hopped up on adrenaline and a desire you know you could name but are too scared to. There is a tightness inside of you that coils and writhes; an angry snake waiting to strike.

You think back to your conversation with John before you brought him to your bed and you do your best not to cringe at the memory. Your gauche nature will be the death of you one of these days. Awkwardly making sex so transactional, like you’re a bitch to be bred, or he’s a show stallion only meant to pummel you then vanish when the deed is done.

What’s even worse is that you think that if he were in this bed with you right now, you could do it. After all the fanfare of being a timid creature with guarded walls, you want it. You want John Price and the way his waist tapers down his latissimus dorsi and the curve of his lips and the gentle touches on your back.

Instead, he is in the kitchen. Far away from you. Enough that your dreams remain farfetched fantasies you can’t quite grasp. You hear the sizzling of food on cast iron pans and smell freshly warmed bread in the toaster. He is a guest in your home, which makes you either the worst host in history, or him the most chivalrous gentleman you’ve ever brought to your bed.

Forgoing the headache of deciding what clothes to wear, you strip naked and wrap yourself in your bathrobe instead. The plush white cotton helps to ebb the emotions swarming beneath your skin, but all that work seems to be for naught the moment you wander into the kitchen to find John plating food.

Though his dark hair is mussed, his clothes are clean—new. Not the same attire he wore last night for your date, but something comfortable. A charcoal grey shirt and sandy trousers complete with a chestnut belt. Not too far from his feet lies a bulky backpack adorned with several patches—SAS, O POS, an insignia you don’t recognize enough to name, but enough to know the parent.

Ex-military.

“Morning, love.” John’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts as he glances at you from over his shoulder. His scapulas dance beneath the fabric of his shirt as he plates breakfast. “Was just about to come wake you up.”

Wandering to the counter beside him, you cross your arms over your chest as you ignore the warmth inside of you and how it only seems to broil worse with each syllable he speaks.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you tell him.

“Force of habit,” he chuckles. “Was up before you and lazing around didn’t feel proper.”

He clicks the stove off and the gas dies with a hiss which frees up his hands enough to hand you your plate. He’s gone all out with a near decorous breakfast complete with eggs, sausage, toast and jam. The china is warm in your palms and the aroma is almost enough to clear your head of the thoughts mudding your vision.

“I guess you would be one to struggle with that, sir.” You lay your teasing on thick with a facetious tone and a cheeky smirk. John raises a brow, prompting you to nod towards the pack still sitting in the corner of the kitchen. “Military, right?”

“You’ve got a keen eye,” he notes.

Humming, you lean your lower back against the counter as you begin to shovel food into your mouth. Pepper flakes bite the tip of your tongue as you devour your eggs, and the creamy yolk smothers your mouth until it’s hydrated.

“Is that where you retired from?” you question.

“Discharged nearly six months ago,” John nods.

“What rank were you?”

“Captain.” Pausing, John looks at you with his chin tilted down and brows raised in playful warning. “But it’s just John to you, darling.”

A loud simper paints your lips at his teasing, and you decide not to push the boundaries of fun too far before your full attention is on your food again. Neither of you bother to wander to the dining table. You’re embarrassed at the thick layer of dust that coats it from lack of company—besides, you’re more than content standing here anyway.

As you eat, you find your eyes wandering throughout the house, unable to stop the way your brain mentally files away work for you to do later. The chimney still glares at you from the soot covered hearth, and you haven’t noticed how grimy the windows have gotten until you look out at the yard and note the way the sun catches on the glass, displaying each speckle of dirt and dried rain clear as day.

Noticing your mental meandering, John picks up the conversation—small talk about any and everything to keep your brain distracted. His voice is canorous, rolling over you like warm, lazy waves in a crystalline lake. He watches you intently as you speak, devoting his full attention to you—must be the military in him, you tell yourself. You’re not sure why it makes your thighs press together—the idea of concentration; of someone being immersed with you.

You don’t realize just how far John’s fixation with you goes until you bite into your toast and you find he’s no longer looking into your eyes, but rather your lips. Teeth digging into golden food, strawberry jam coating your tongue like a pure taste of summer—you freeze when he reaches out for you. Eyes wide open—a doe that’s enthralled with the new world—you watch as he swipes his thumb at the corner of your mouth to gather a stray drop of jam.

Instead of wiping it off on a napkin, he shoves his thumb in his mouth to clean it with his tongue instead.

It isn’t until his thumb pops back out of his mouth that you recognize how exhausted you are. Stricken with enervation with the wasted energy of pretending that John Price isn’t what he is—a downright handsome man. Gentle and kind enough to get you weak in the knees with a voice like honeyed velvet; something that gets your sex trembling between your too-tight thighs.

You are tired of denying yourself the human desire of intimacy, of letting your stilted nature get in the way of what’s been slowly brewing between the two of you—of what’s bound to come sooner or later. Forgetting about your breakfast, you set your plate on the counter next to you before you let your hands wander towards John’s chest. He pauses as your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, and though you know there would be very little in the world that could ever make a man like him budge, he follows your lead when you pull him closer.

“Thank you for breakfast, John.” Your voice is low—soft. Hidden deep in your throat as if too timid to fully show its face.

“My pleasure, darling,” he hums as he sets his plate next to yours.

Neither of you have finished your meal.

Then, there is gentle connection. Warm lips pressed to yours as your hands smooth over strong collarbones until you’re reaching firm shoulders. John’s hands find your waist before he’s kissing away the remaining essence of jam from the corner of your mouth. You think about how you got the jam at a farmer’s market from an old lady—if only you had known it would be the catalyst to this.

Embers to flame, flame to roaring fire—it isn’t long before your hands find the tie around your waist. All it takes is a simple tug to get your robe to fall open. Circulating air eagerly kisses your bare skin as your chest displays itself, nipples already perking against the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

When the robe slips down around your shoulders, it’s all over.

John’s on you like a well trained dog finally given permission to eat his treat—lips crashing into you, hands gently pawing at your bare skin, he keeps you grounded with the right amount of intensity. A strength that keeps you pulled down to earth without the chance of your brain whisking you elsewhere. The lingering heat from the stove warms your hand as you place your palm on the counter to steady yourself while he nuzzles his face into the side of your neck, trailing kisses along your shoulder until his knees are near buckling and he’s kneeling before you.

“Dessert already?” he murmurs. His hand is slipping behind your thigh now, hiking your leg up until you’re squeaking, hips leaning against the counter for stability as he places you over his shoulder. He gives you a cheeky smirk at your breathlessness. “You’re too kind.”

Your sassy response dies on your tongue the moment he buries his face into your cunt. Tongue out and eagerly slipping into your sex, languidly rubbing over your clit, fingers curling into your hips to hold you steady as he eats—you groan. The back of your head thuds against the cabinet as your fingers weave into the messy strands of his inky hair, and the way he hums at the feeling leaves your eyes rolling.

It’s electric. Neurons firing in your brain, cortex rumbling like a content kitten just as John works you open onto one finger, then two. He’s precise. Unabashed in searching for what makes you tick and then assaulting those buttons until you reward him with a moan and trembling knees.

“Oh fuck, John, t-that’s good, that’s…” Breathless; hardly coherent, you mumble as he works. Fingers curling, your clit hardens against his tongue and he growls in response. He likes the chase. Likes how he can taste it. He doesn’t want it getting away from him now that his maw is wet with its sapor.

You come undone with a delicious keen that leaves your thighs twitching and knees nearly buckling. You can tell by how long it takes John to slow that he doesn’t want this to end yet, but his mouth leaves you the moment you whimper. Then, it’s all heavy breathing and quiet smiles as he continues to gently pump his fingers in and out of you without rush or worry.

“There’s more where that came from if you’re still hungry,” John muses as he presses a kiss to your lower stomach.

John doesn’t hesitate to take you to your bed the moment the request leaves your lips. Robe left on the kitchen floor, you’re splayed out on top of your mussed duvet as you watch John relieve himself of his own clothes. Soft chest and stomach free from his shirt, trousers shoved down his legs where powerful thighs sport dark streaks of thick hair—then his boxers.

You don’t know why you’re surprised at his size. John’s a tall, powerful man; it only makes sense that the rest of him matches. Dark curls around the base of an uncut cock, a lovely vein protruding on the left side that ebbs and flows as he takes himself into his palm to steady the swinging weight as he kneels into the bed between your legs.

“Goregous thing you are,” John murmurs. Using his free hand, he caresses your chin and the side of your jaw with the pad of his thumb. “Laswell and Lottie did a fine job choosing you, love.”

His words stoke a fire in your stomach—or maybe it’s just the way he’s slotting his cock against your entrance. Back arching, you feel yourself melt beneath the pressure as he begins to split you open. You reach up to hold the hand still pressed against your face; your breath stutters as it leaves between your lips.

“Didn’t do too bad with you, either,” you say, mustering as much of a sultry tone as you can manage. “You’re gonna make a good dad, John.”

Your slip up shames you, and the heat it brews in your chest sears out all the feelings of desire and want that you had before. Wide eyed, you stare up at John with your apology half formed on your tongue but you don’t get the chance to let it spew out before his hips are snapping forward, filling you up to the point your breath leaves and your lungs are starving.

“Yeah?” John prompts. His pace is slow and leisurely—enough that he has time to hook his arms beneath your knees and press them forwards; as close to your chest as your body will allow. “You’re gonna make a good mum, aren’t you? Can’t wait to see you like that, love. All plump with a kid with those cute dresses you’re always wearing everywhere. I think that’d look so good on you.”

This dirty fantasy devours both you and John whole—a little secret between the two of you. Kate and Lottie don’t have to know the gritty details of what’s said here as you’re fucked into the bed. Right now, all you can focus on is John and the way his chest darkens with a flush of red the more he thrusts into you, pace slowly creeping up as your hands rest on his arms. You get lost in the way his muscles bulge beneath his skin with every morsel of movement, and the sound of his grunting, and how he hisses through his teeth until he’s nearly whistling.

“Gonna be there through it all. Each appointment, every ache in your body; you’re gonna let me be here, aren’t you darling? Gonna let me kiss it all away?” Unable to get a response out through your moans, all you can do is nod as you take what he gives you. “Yeah, I’ll get you glowing, love. You’ll look so beautiful.”

It builds. Strong and fast. This tight chord fraying inside of you, pulling tighter, taut string vibrating with each pluck until your muscles are melting everywhere but your stomach. John feels you clench around him, and he’s hissing as his forehead greets yours, hips refusing to change their pace now that he knows what gets you ticking.

“Can’t give that to you until you come for me, pretty girl,” he says.

“I’m so close, j-just—right there,” you stutter.

“Doing so well, come on darling, just one more time, that’s all I need from you,” John rambles. “I can feel it, you’re so close, just a little more and I’ll fill you up nice and pretty. I’ll give you that baby you want so bad.”

Somewhere between his lascivious muttering and the strong head of his cock hitting right where you need him to, you unravel. Legs quivering, back arching—your fingers curl into John’s arms as you try to keep yourself steady. He praises you throughout it all, pace slowing just enough to let you catch your breath for a fleeting moment before he’s plunging back in full force.

His murmurs are hardly coherent now, just mindless strings of words half formed but emotion so thick you can feel it brewing in his skin. Child, mum, full, mine. John buries his face into the side of your neck just as he comes, and you gasp at how you can feel him fill you. Cock rhythmically twitching inside of you, nestled right against your cervix, cum flowing right where it needs to.

Then, there is the gentle let down. Breaths slowing until panting wanes, bodies separating until he’s laying next to you and pulling you into his arms, heat dispersing until the sweat lining your skin nearly has you shivering. The morning sun is lazing into the afternoon as your fingers trace the curling pattern of hair on John’s chest like trails on a map. A content buzz coos inside your cranium, lulling you into a heavenly state of in-between.

Neither of you speak about your slip of words or how it seemed to fuel John—in fact, neither of you speak at all for a long time. You’ve nearly fallen asleep by the time he moves, gently resting your head on the mattress as he props himself up to kiss you.

“You broken?” he asks.

“Never better,” you grin.

John returns the smile as he sits back on his haunches to look at you. You curl beneath his gaze, knees bending up as your heels dig into the duvet and arms curling over your chest as if suddenly timid. He only looks at you as if you’re silly for your bashfulness as his hand slots between your thighs.

A steady stream of cum has leaked out of you, making a mess of your legs and the crux of your ass. Wordlessly, John wipes his fingers along the trail, gathering it up until not a single drop remains.

“Oh, I can grab a rag, don’t worry about that,” you dismiss.

Without warning, John’s then pressing his fingers back into your cunt—slow but with a goal in mind. You gasp as your hips jut upwards, and he can only smile at you as he makes sure you’ve taken every drop like you ought to.

“Can’t afford to be wasteful, darling,” he reminds. “Would hate to disappoint the Laswells, now wouldn’t we?”

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