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spikedfearn · 1 month ago

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As if It’s Heaven’s Gate

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You take a job as a live-in nurse for the town’s most infamous recluse—Remmick, the strange, soft-spoken man hidden away in a rotting Victorian farmhouse no one dares approach. Locals warn you not to touch him. Not to linger after dark. But when you meet him, he’s all big eyes and broken manners, trembling hands and gold chain glinting at his throat. Touch-starved, tender, and ruinously ancient. He flinches when you reach for him—and sobs when you don’t. You drop to your knees, and he forgets the taste of blood. He’s already yours before you ever put your mouth on him.

wc: 8.5k

a/n: holy 2k followers batman!! I wanna thank everyone for the outpouring of love and support my work has gotten over the last month, truly insane, still processing, gonna release something soon as a massive thank you <333 based off this post, I'm sure I'm not the first but I haven't come across any fic of reader going down on Remmick yet and I have a great need to suck that man's dick until his stomach caves in like a Capri-sun (someone revoke my internet access) so here we are. Thank you to @ddlydevotion for finding my photo refs. Dedicated to Sam @matrixfangs for not only beta reading this but also requesting I incorporate Jack's cross tattoo into one of my fics!! title from the song too sweet by hozier.

warnings: vampirism, oral sex (m!receiving), d/s dynamic, begging, spit kink, hair pulling, praise kink, humiliation kink (soft), drool, overstimulation, ruined man behavior, touch starvation, religious imagery, cross kink?, control kink, sub!remmick, somniloquy, emotional degradation (tender), slight dacryphilia, mildly unhinged reader, dark romance, southern gothic atmosphere, implied violence, implied murder (offscreen)

I am doing away with my tag list because it's getting a little long so I recommend turning on notifications if you don't wanna miss when I post c:

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, enjoy!!

The bus wheezed like it was exhaling its last breath, sputtering to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Dust kicked up around its wheels as the brakes hissed and the door creaked open with a reluctant sigh.

You stepped off into the heat—that heavy, wet Southern heat that sticks to your skin like tacky glue, curling into your clothes and dragging its teeth across the back of your neck.

The sun hung fat and merciless in a sky bleached bone-white, cicadas crying loud enough to shake the treetops. Sweat bloomed across your collarbone before your boots even hit the dirt.

It wasn’t real pavement, not out here. Just cracked-red earth, dry and crumbling, veined with weeds and the roots of things too stubborn to die. The main road—if you could call it that—was lined with rusted fence posts, bowed under the weight of creeping kudzu and wire that hadn’t held anything in years.

The town itself looked like it had been forgotten in a drawer: sun-wilted storefronts with paint peeling off in strips, glass windows clouded with grime, and a gas station that hadn’t changed its prices since Prohibition.

A man with no teeth watched you from a bench outside a bait shop. A girl gnawed a peach in the shade of a feed store awning, juice dripping down her wrist as she stared without blinking.

No one smiled. No one welcomed you. Just silence and the shrill, electric whine of summer bugs, loud as a curse.

You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle—leather, secondhand, the clasp a little loose—and stepped forward, your boots crunching on gravel as the bus hissed again and pulled away behind you. The sudden stillness in its absence made your ears ring. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once, then went quiet.

The driver who’d agreed to take you the last few miles was late. Or not coming. You checked the watch on your wrist—scratched crystal, the hour hand a little jittery—and waited. The skin on your shoulders prickled. Not from the heat. From the eyes.

They were still staring.

A woman in a gingham dress crossed herself. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you twice.

Then a voice—cracked with age and smoke, coming from just over your shoulder—broke the thick, humid quiet: “That house got ghosts in it.”

You turned. It was the man from the bench, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes milky with cataracts. He spat to the side, aimed like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“He don’t come to town. Don’t let him touch you, honey.”

Before you could ask what the hell that meant, the groan of old suspension and rattling chains cut through the air.

A pickup truck, wheezing like the bus, pulled up in a cloud of red dust. Faded forest green with rust eating away the sides and a crooked license plate hanging on by one bolt. The man driving it looked as old as the truck—tan leather skin, yellowed shirt, a straw hat pulled low.

He didn’t say your name. Just nodded once. Like he already knew.

You climbed in beside him, the vinyl seat burning hot through your skirt. Neither of you spoke. The ride out of town was long and winding, lined with cypress trees and fields that had gone to seed. Every now and then, the man would spit out the window. You watched the land unravel into nothing—just swaying grass, rusted scarecrows, and buzzards perched on telephone wires.

Then, after what felt like forever, the truck crested a hill.

And there it was.

The house.

Aging Victorian farmhouse, two stories tall, white paint weathered to the color of bone. Porch bowed in the middle like a snapped spine. Shutters hanging off their hinges. The front door was so dark it looked like a hole punched through the front of the house. Vines crept up the sides like veins, crawling toward the chimneys and windows like they wanted to choke it. Or hold it down.

The iron gates at the front were rusted and tall, still latched shut. You could make out glass-paned windows that looked hollow, staring out at the road like eyes that hadn’t blinked in years.

The man parked, killed the engine, and didn’t move. You stepped out. Shut the door behind you. He didn’t offer to help with the suitcase. Just lit a cigarette, slow and deliberate.

“He sleeps durin’ the day. House is yours ‘til sundown. Don’t linger on the porch.”

You waited for more.

He didn’t offer it.

He put the truck in gear and reversed down the dirt road without another word, vanishing behind the veil of oak and kudzu until there was nothing but eerie birdsong and your own breath.

The wind kicked up. Dry. Hot. Mean. The house creaked—just once. Like it had been holding its breath too.

And then…the front door groaned open.

The open door breathed out a draft of air—cool and heavy, smelling of cedarwood, old paper, and something vaguely sweet, like dried flowers pressed between book pages. It curled around your ankles like mist.

You stepped forward. The porch groaned beneath your feet, boards soft with age, and for one heart-pounding moment you thought the whole thing might give. But it held. Just barely. The screen door had been ripped clean off its hinges long ago. The wooden door itself was open wide now, dark as pitch inside.

You crossed the threshold. The world behind you dropped away like a curtain falling shut.

The house swallowed sound. Swallowed light. It was dim and old in the way caves are old—cooler than it had any right to be, shadows pooling like ink in the corners. Lace curtains yellowed with age hung limp at the windows. The wallpaper had peeled back in strips, revealing ribs of rotting wood beneath. A hallway stretched long ahead of you, lined with crooked picture frames and closed doors.

Your hand skimmed the wall, trying to find your balance. The place felt like it was holding its breath.

Then you saw him.

He stepped out of the parlor like he wasn’t used to being seen, like he expected to vanish the moment your eyes landed on him.

Remmick.

And he was…nothing like you expected.

Not some grizzled recluse with wild hair and yellow teeth, not a hissing, skeletal shut-in like the townsfolk seemed to imagine. No. He was—

Broad.

His shoulders were built like a man who used to work with his hands, chest thick under the open collar of a blue-and-white pinstriped button-up, the sleeves messily rolled to his elbows. Beneath it, a threadbare white wife-beater clung to his torso like second skin. His jeans were dark, faded, worn at the knees, and he was barefoot—toes pale, dust smudged across the tops of his feet, like he hadn’t stepped outside in years.

His hair was short and messy, soft-looking, brown with uneven bangs that fell just above his brows in a way that felt almost boyish, almost accidental. Not styled. Just…unbothered. Untamed. Like he’d dragged his fingers through it and given up halfway.

And then his eyes.

Blue. Too blue. Not sky-blue. Not ocean-blue. The blue of cracked porcelain. The kind of blue that shouldn’t exist in nature. They looked almost glassy, as if someone had painted them on too carefully.

You didn’t know that they were artificial, not yet, like a predator blending in with its surroundings to fool the naive prey. That the real eyes were red as flame and waiting underneath.

But even so, you felt it.

Something inhuman. Something primordial.

You didn’t know what you were seeing. But you knew it wasn’t just a man and yet—you weren’t scared.

He froze when he saw you. Like he’d walked into a memory.

His mouth parted slightly. His hands hung at his sides, rough-knuckled, long-fingered. One of them twitched, just once, like he meant to lift it—and then stopped. Like the very thought of touching was…too much.

His voice came slow, thick. Raspy from disuse. “Evenin’.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

That same hand moved to scratch the back of his neck—awkward, almost boyish. He ducked his head slightly, eyes flitting away from yours. His lips pressed together like he wasn’t sure whether or not to smile, and then decided against it.

“I, uh…I didn’t expect you so soon.”

There was a tremble in his voice, barely there beneath the deep drawl. But it was there. Not nervous. Not quite. Just…unused. He sounded like someone who didn’t speak unless he had to. Someone who had been silent for too long.

You stepped forward, instinctive. He flinched.

It was subtle—just a twitch of his shoulder, the stiffening of his posture, a faint shift backward—but your body caught it. Your eyes caught it. His eyes never left you.

“I’m your nurse,” you said softly, giving your name, your voice feather-light.

He nodded. Still didn’t move closer.

There was a thin gold chain around his neck, peeking out from beneath his collar. It caught the faint light from the window and glinted, just for a second, brushing against the pale hollow of his throat when he leaned forward slightly. Like it had weight. Like it mattered.

You took a breath, trying to read him. He was watching you the way a starving man watches a feast. Not greedy. Not desperate.

Haunted.

Like he was talking to someone who no longer walked this mortal coil.

“Where should I…?” you asked, fingers curling slightly around the strap of your bag.

He startled. “Oh. Right. Room’s upstairs. I, uh—” he hesitated, scratched at his forearm where the button-up had slipped back just far enough to reveal the edge of a vein that looked darker than it should—“I ain’t had company in a while.”

“How long?” you asked.

He blinked at you. Like the question hadn’t occurred to him before.

Then, just as softly, with a note of old sorrow so quiet you nearly missed it, he answered:

“Too long.”

He turned, shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and motioned for you to follow. He didn’t offer to carry your bag. Not out of rudeness—it was something else. A hesitation that clung to him like sweat in the air.

The hallway creaked under your steps, your boots heavy against the worn floorboards. His bare feet moved near-silent, just the soft pad of skin on old wood. Dust stirred where he passed, curling like smoke in his wake. You watched the muscles move beneath his shirt—the way the thin material clung to his back, the curve of his shoulders, the faint outline of his spine shifting when he turned a corner. You could almost imagine him once being a laborer, maybe a carpenter, with those thick forearms and that sunken posture—like he hadn’t stood tall in years.

He didn’t look back at you until he reached the stairs.

“They’re steep,” he warned, voice low, accent thickening just a touch like the words were sticking to his tongue. “House wasn’t built for comfort. Not anymore.”

You followed him anyway.

The staircase was narrow and curved, wood darkened by age and use. The banister wobbled when you touched it. His hand hovered near the wall as he climbed, but he didn’t steady himself on anything—as if he was afraid to touch the house too long.

The landing opened into a hallway lit only by a single cracked window. Dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight, and Remmick avoided it completely, skirting the edge like a shadow. You didn’t think much of it. Just heat, maybe. Or habit.

He stopped in front of a door at the far end. It was plain—faded green paint, iron handle gone dull with rust. He opened it for you but didn’t step inside.

“Room’s clean,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “Did it myself this mornin’.”

You peered in.

Small, but tidy. The bed was old but made, white sheets tucked tight. There was a vanity with a tarnished mirror, a small closet door that hung slightly crooked, and a bedside table with a worn oil lamp and what looked like a book left behind years ago. A hand towel had been folded and left on the pillow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

“I did,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d leave it…unfit.”

He stood there, barefoot and awkward, hands half-curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His bangs had fallen deeper over his eyes, hiding them. But you saw the shape of them behind the strands—wide, almost deer-like.

He looked like he didn’t know whether to apologize for being alive or thank you for showing up.

You stepped inside. Set your bag down. When you turned to speak again, he was already halfway down the hall.

He hadn’t made a sound.

Later, after you’d unpacked and washed your face in the cracked porcelain basin, you made your way down to the kitchen, following the faint clatter of dishware. You paused at the doorway.

He stood at the sink, back to you, sleeves rolled higher now—his forearms dusted in pale hair, thick with muscle, the veins just barely raised under the skin. The gold chain shifted at his throat as he rinsed out an old tin mug. He didn’t seem to notice you.

The light from the window cut across the floor, a bright bar of late-afternoon sun. It stopped just inches from where he stood, and he didn’t cross it. His toes curled against the edge like it was a line he couldn’t breach.

You finally spoke. “Do you want any help?”

He jumped.

Not violently—just a twitch. His shoulders drew in, spine straightening, as if your voice had reached into him and plucked something loose.

Then he slowly turned. His eyes—still too blue—met yours, and for a second you thought he looked guilty. Like he’d been caught doing something shameful.

“No,” he said, swallowing. “But…thank you.”

You stepped forward anyway.

He froze. Again.

“I’m just getting a glass,” you said, brushing past him, your fingers grazing the inside of his forearm by accident—just a whisper of skin against skin.

He flinched. Actually flinched. Not hard. Not violently. But enough to feel like a blow. You pulled back, brows furrowing.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, voice hushed and low and cracking like dry wood underfoot. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

You turned your head, studied him.

“Do you not like to be touched?”

A pause.

He looked down at the floor. His hands opened and closed once.

“I just…ain’t used to it, is all.”

Not used to it. Not anymore. Not in a long, long time.

You felt something tighten in your chest then, strange and aching. A tether drawing taut. You didn’t know what had happened to him. Why the town feared him. Why the sunlight seemed to singe the air around him. Why his voice trembled when you spoke too softly.

But you did know this:

He was alone.

And he had been alone for a very, very long time.

The glass was cloudy. Not dirty—just old, like everything else in this house. When you turned the tap, the pipes groaned in protest before surrendering a stream of lukewarm water. You sipped, then leaned against the counter, your eyes sliding back to him.

Remmick hadn’t moved.

Still by the sink, shoulder just shy of that stripe of sunlight, arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know how to stand. The water dripped from the mug he held. A single droplet clung to the edge of his knuckle and then slid down, curling over his wrist.

He stared at the floor. At your boots. At anything except you.

“You live here alone?” you asked.

His head tilted slightly, as though the question had startled him. He nodded.

“For how long?”

A beat.

“…Long.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just that one syllable, spoken like a stone dropped into a well. No echo. No follow-up.

You took another sip. “Locals said you don’t like company.”

His lip twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. It was more like…a ghost of a smirk, something he might’ve worn naturally once, long ago, before it fell out of practice.

“I reckon they said worse’n that.”

“They said not to let you touch me.”

That made him flinch for real.

A sharp intake of breath, his spine straightening, knuckles whitening around the tin cup. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. But the shame bled off him like heat, pouring into the space between you until the air turned too thick to breathe.

You waited.

And when he still didn’t say anything, you set your glass down with a quiet clink and asked gently:

“Why would they say that?”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

Eyes wide. Blue. Too blue. Glassy in the way that porcelain is glassy—shiny and fragile and false. A color that didn’t feel real, not on a living thing. His brow was furrowed like the question pained him.

“…They scared,” he said softly. “Always been. But fear makes folks say things that ain’t...whole.”

“Is it not true?”

His throat bobbed. That thin gold chain moved with the motion, catching what little light the room offered. His jaw tensed, a tick pulsing just beneath the skin. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

“I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

He said it like it was a rule, not a defense. Something sacred. Something self-imposed and unshakable.

“I didn’t think you did,” you murmured.

That made him pause. Head tilted again. Studying you like you were a puzzle with too many pieces.

“Then why’d you come?”

You gave a small shrug. “They said you needed help.”

“And you believed ‘em?”

“I believe you now.”

That silenced him.

He set the tin mug down gently, almost reverently. The sound was soft. Barely there. Like he’d learned to be careful with his strength. Or maybe he was just scared of breaking things.

“I ain’t had a nurse before,” he said. “Didn’t think I needed one.”

“Well,” you said, tone light, “I’m here now.”

Another pause.

He nodded, still not smiling. Just…accepting. Resigned. Like he’d already decided you were temporary.

A flicker of something passed behind his eyes then. Regret. Fear. Hunger. You couldn’t tell. But it made you step closer. And again—he moved back. Just a step. Not far. Not fast. But enough.

Like your nearness singed. You didn’t take it personally. You were starting to understand: it wasn’t you he didn’t trust. It was himself.

“Can I ask your name?” you said, after a beat.

He blinked. Then, slowly, he answered:

“…Remmick.”

You repeated it once, soft. Let it settle. His breath hitched. And just for a second—less than a breath, less than a blink—his eyes flashed red.

Bright. Brief. Burning.

Gone just as fast.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure you’d seen it. But he turned away like he had something to hide.

“I’ll, uh…be out on the porch. If you need me.” His voice cracked again. “Dinner’s in the oven.”

“Remmick.”

He stilled.

“Thank you.”

His hand touched the doorframe. Just the tips of his fingers. Then he left without looking back, the gold chain glinting once over the curve of his collarbone as he slipped into the shadows again.

You didn’t know what you’d just seen. But you knew you weren’t afraid. Not of him. And not of whatever was buried beneath those woeful eyes.

The dining room was crooked.

The long table—mahogany once, now dulled and water-stained—sat slightly uneven, legs warped from heat and time. One chair at the end had been worn smooth with use. The others were still draped in white sheets, untouched, forgotten. The chandelier above was dust-choked, only one bulb flickering faintly. Shadows wavered across the ceiling like they were alive.

Remmick was already seated when you stepped in, spine stiff, hands folded neatly in his lap. Not touching the silverware. Not even looking at the plate in front of him. A modest meal—roasted potatoes, black-eyed peas, cornbread—steamed in a careful arrangement across two plates, though yours was a little fuller.

He’d set it out like it was a ritual. Like it mattered. His eyes jumped to yours the moment you crossed the threshold. That same stare—wide, dark in the low light, too big for his face—gave him the look of something puppyish, soft in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.

“I hope it’s alright,” he said quickly, words too fast, too eager. “I cooked it this mornin’. Tried to keep it warm without dryin’ it out.”

You slid into the chair across from him. “It smells good.”

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, like a wire had gone slack. “Ain’t had much reason to cook for two.”

You took a bite, slowly. It was simple—salt, butter, heat. No herbs. No flair. But it was made with care. You could taste that.

Across from you, Remmick didn’t eat. He watched you instead.

You didn’t comment on it at first, but when you finally glanced up, fork paused midair, he looked away too quickly. A flicker of red threatened behind his lashes—gone before you could be sure.

“You’re not hungry?” you asked gently.

He hesitated. “Not for that.”

You blinked.

He flinched. “I mean—nothin’ wrong with it. I just—I don’t eat much. Not lately.”

You let it go. For now.

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It strained under its own weight. Not tension between you, but the kind that comes when someone’s forgotten how to be in a room with another person. He kept shifting in his seat—shoulders tight, hands flexing slightly in his lap, like he had to remind himself to stay still.

You tried again.

“So…you’ve lived here a long time?”

He nodded. “Since before the war.”

“Which one?”

His lips twitched. “Exactly.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “Do you ever leave?”

Another long pause. He looked down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of a scratch in the wood.

“I used to,” he said. “Town was smaller then. Or maybe it just felt that way.”

“You don’t go anymore?”

“I scare folks.” He said it plainly. No self-pity. Just fact. “And I don’t…do well in the sun.”

You watched the way he said it—carefully. Intentionally vague. Like he was testing how much he could say without scaring you off.

“I noticed,” you murmured.

His eyes lifted again. In the dim lighting, they looked almost black, shadows swallowing all the unnatural blue. The wide shape of them gave him a look so innocent it was disarming—a big-eyed, vulnerable softness, like a boy too shy to ask for what he needed.

“I’m not scared of you,” you added.

He swallowed hard. The gold chain at his collarbone shifted.

“You should be,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you’re not.”

The food sat cooling between you.

You noticed he kept glancing at your hands—how they moved, how they curled around your fork, how they pressed briefly to your chest when you swallowed water. He didn’t leer. Didn’t ogle. But he watched with the intensity of someone who’d gone without touch so long, he’d forgotten what warmth looked like.

“Do you miss it?” you asked.

He looked up sharply. “Miss what?”

“Conversation. Company.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

“Yes,” he said. Just that. No hesitation. Voice cracking around the edge.

Then, quieter:

“I try not to. But yes.”

You sat with that for a beat.

“I could talk more,” you offered, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Or less. If you’d rather quiet.”

He shook his head, too fast. “No—no, I like it. I…I like your voice.”

You blinked. Your cheeks went warm.

He blinked too, startled at himself. “Shit—I mean—not like that. Just. It’s nice. I ain’t heard anything like it in…”

He trailed off. His ears had gone pink.

You laughed gently. “You’re a little out of practice, huh?”

“I’m fuckin’ terrible,” he muttered, half to himself. Then, with a glance at you: “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “It’s nice. You’re…nice.”

He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that word. And then, without warning, a loud creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. The pipes moaned. The lights flickered.

You jumped.

Remmick didn’t move. But the red flashed again in his eyes—just for a blink, just enough to raise the hairs on your arms.

“Old house,” he murmured.

“Right.”

But he was staring down the hallway now, like he heard something you couldn’t. His jaw clenched. One hand curled tight against his knee, as if fighting the urge to stand.

“Is it safe?” you asked, your voice dipping instinctively into something wary.

His eyes cut to yours.

And something about the way he looked at you then—those big, dark, wide eyes still soft as a dog’s, still scared to ask too much—made your breath catch.

“With me?” he said.

A beat.

Then, softer:

“Always.”

The house changed at night.

It didn’t creak. It breathed—slow and hollow, like the walls had lungs of their own. The old wood carried footsteps in strange directions. Voices turned inward. Time unspooled.

You lay in bed, still dressed, still wired, the heat slick on the back of your neck. The lamp on your bedside table cast a low, amber glow across the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a whippoorwill called once and went quiet.

The room smelled like lavender soap and old cotton. The fan in the corner ticked every fifth rotation. You hadn’t seen Remmick since dinner.

He hadn’t said goodnight. Not that you blamed him.

He’d looked like he wanted to linger. Like his legs didn’t quite want to carry him away. But something in him—something knotted deep—had yanked him back into the dark, like a leash.

Still, you thought of him as you lay there. The way his eyes kept dropping to your hands. The way his voice cracked when he spoke too kindly. The way he watched you like he hadn’t watched another soul in decades—and didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You didn’t mean to doze. But the silence folded over you like a sheet.

And then—

You heard it.

Low. Fragile. Muffled.

A sound curling up through the floorboards.

You blinked awake, heart ticking faster, every hair on your arms rising before your mind even caught up. You sat up slowly. The fan ticked again.

And again, that sound.

A moan.

Male. Soft. Throaty.

Followed by something rougher. Shaped by a tongue and a mouth. Words.

You slid from the bed, bare feet ghosting over the cool floor. Pressed your palm to the wall. Leaned close.

The voice—Remmick’s voice—was speaking. But not English. Something old. It came in broken fragments. Whispered. Half-strangled. And aching.

“A chuisle…mo chuisle, mo chroí…”

(My pulse…my pulse, my heart…)

The wood under your fingers thrummed.

“Táid mo lámha ag crith…Dia, tá brón orm…”

(My hands are shaking…God, I’m sorry…)

A sound followed—wet. Guttural. Like he’d tried to breathe through a sob and swallowed it.

You stepped back, heart rabbiting, heat pooling low in your belly—not from fear, but from something else.

The need in that voice. The loneliness. The way the words clung to his throat like they hurt coming out.

And then—

A moan. Sharp. Broken open.

“Lig dom é a mhothú… lig dom tú a mhothú…”

(Let me feel it…let me feel you…)

You were rooted to the floor, bare toes curling against the wood as something bloomed low in your abdomen—hot and needy and shameful in its intensity. Your thighs pressed together before you even realized you’d done it.

He sounded desperate. Not sexual—not entirely. But starved. Ragged.

Destroyed.

Like he was begging for something he didn’t think he deserved to have, not even in sleep.

“Tá tú anseo…tá tú fíor…ná fág mé…”

(You’re here…you’re real…don’t leave me…)

The words were choked now. Slurred. Drenched in a broken kind of longing. You didn’t mean to press your palm flat against the wall. Didn’t mean to close your eyes.

Didn’t mean to whisper: “I’m here.”

But you did.

And somehow, the sounds stopped. Not abruptly. Just…slowed. Faded.

As if he'd heard you.

As if, wherever he was in that dream, the presence of you at the wall soothed something raw and ancient inside him.

The air stilled. No more moaning. No more whispers. Only quiet. You stood there for a moment longer, breath shallow, chest tight. Then turned back to the bed.

And as you crawled beneath the covers, something inside you whispered—

He wasn’t dreaming of just anyone. He was dreaming of you.

You didn’t sleep long.

When you woke again, the air was different. Thicker.

Your body was heavy with it, sunk into the mattress, heart drumming in your ears like you were already in motion. The fan had stopped ticking. The lamp had gone out. A soft glow slanted in through the hallway—a light left on downstairs, maybe. Or—

No.

Someone had turned it on.

You sat up slowly. The floorboards creaked outside your door. Once. Twice. A pause. Then a knock. Soft. Barely there.

Your stomach flipped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still sleep-rough, soft enough that he could ignore it if he needed to.

But he didn’t. The door opened a crack. And there he was.

Remmick.

Still barefoot.

Still dressed the same—pinstriped button-up wrinkled from sleep, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. His hair was mussed now, falling harder into his face, and his chest rose and fell beneath the thin white wife-beater like he’d climbed stairs too fast. Or hadn’t been breathing right since sundown.

He didn’t cross the threshold. Not at first.

He stood there like a man unsure of his place in the world—a broad shadow outlined in gold from the hallway light, wide-eyed and fidgeting, arms at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to lift them.

“Sorry,” he said, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

He hesitated.

Then: “Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. But his eyes flicked toward the inside of the room—dark and private and unthreatening—and you understood.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

He stepped in.

Carefully. Like the floor might bite him.

The door shut behind him with a click that echoed louder than it should have. He stood near the dresser, eyes darting—not in panic, but like he was looking for something to anchor himself to. His fingers worried the hem of his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched, defensive, vulnerable despite the width of them.

His eyes—dark in this light, wide and glassy—looked almost wet. Puppyish. Devastating.

“I heard you,” you said quietly. “Last night.”

He stiffened.

“I didn’t mean to,” you added. “I just…couldn’t sleep.”

His jaw flexed. His throat bobbed. He didn’t look at you.

“You were speaking in another language.”

“Gaelic,” he muttered, almost like he was ashamed of it. “From…before.”

“Before what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer. His hand twitched at his side.

“I didn’t know I was talkin’,” he said. “I don’t—usually.”

“You sounded upset.”

“I was.”

You waited.

Then, just above a whisper:

“I was dreamin’ of you.”

The room tilted. Your breath caught.

He raised his eyes then—still that soft, drowning dark, still wide like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say your name, let alone admit this.

“I know it ain’t right,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost breaking. “But I’ve been here so long. Been quiet so long. And then you—” His breath hitched. “You come in here like you’re made of light. Like you belong. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stood slowly.

He didn’t move. He watched you with that same broken hunger, like he’d already decided you were too good for him, but couldn’t stop himself from needing you anyway.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

He glanced down. His hands were trembling. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch this time.

But he didn’t touch you either. Just stood there—shoulders tight, breath shallow, like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

“I ain’t touched anyone in so long,” he whispered. “And I keep thinkin’ about what they said. About me. About my hands. That I ruin things.”

You reached up, slowly, brushing your fingertips just above his collarbone—where the thin gold chain clung to his skin.

He gasped like it burned. You didn’t pull away.

“You didn’t ruin this.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lip trembled. A sound caught in his throat—half a sob, half a moan—as he leaned forward, forehead just barely grazing yours.

“Tell me not to,” he whispered. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But if you don’t—if you don’t say it—I swear to God, I’m gonna fall to my knees.”

The air between you crackled.

And his voice dropped, Irish blooming up from the roots of him like something ancient and helpless:

“Cuir do lámha orm…ná tabhair uaim thú…”

(Put your hands on me…don’t take yourself away from me…)

You didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move either.

Just breathed—slow and even, like you were the calm center of a storm, and he was every desperate gust of wind trying to press against your skin.

Remmick stood there, trembling. Not from fear. From need. It curled off him like steam, thick and desperate, clinging to the air between you. His pupils were wide, swallowing the color of his irises until they looked nearly black, and his lips parted like he wanted to say more, to beg, to confess—but didn’t know how to start.

You reached for him.

He gasped—actually gasped—when your fingers slid up the open placket of his button-up, brushing the edge of his white ribbed wife-beater. You felt the tremor through him, all the way down. His chest was warm and solid, rising and falling like he was trying not to pant.

Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, palms splaying against the thick muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. And then, softly—gently, like it was a kindness—you pushed him.

He let you.

Without resistance, without question, he backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he sank down like he didn’t know how to carry his own weight anymore. He sat there, breath shallow, eyes wide and wet and locked on you like you were the moon and he hadn’t seen the sky in a hundred years.

You stood between his knees. Tilted his chin up with just two fingers under his jaw.

“Hands to yourself,” you ordered, soft yet firm.

His breath hitched. His fingers dug into the comforter on either side of him, white-knuckled and obedient.

You watched the way he fought his own instinct—fought it like it pained him. He wanted to touch you. God, did he want to. It rolled off him in waves. His thighs were tense, knees spread wide, shirt wrinkled where your hands had touched him. He looked wrecked already.

“Y-you sure?” he asked, voice cracking like shaky glass under the burgeoning weight of desperation.

“I didn’t ask for your hands,” you said. “Not yet.”

His throat bobbed. The gold chain swayed at the base of his throat as he nodded—once, sharp, frantic.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, I—yeah, I can do that. I’ll be good.”

You smiled, slow and soft and wicked.

“I know you will.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. A soft, strangled sound pulled from the depths of him, one he didn’t seem prepared for.

His hair had fallen over his brow again, mussed and curling faintly with sweat at his temples. You brushed it back, deliberately slow. He didn’t lean into the touch—he melted under it. His lashes fluttered. His lips parted.

“You’ve really gone this long?” you murmured, thumb stroking the sharp line of his trembling cheekbone.

His voice was barely audible.

“Thirteen hundred years.”

You blinked. He looked away, ashamed.

“I feed when I have to,” he said, “but touch? Mouths? Skin? That kinda closeness?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Not since—fuck. Before the plague hit London.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“You’re starved.”

He looked back at you with those wide, dark, pleading eyes, red bleeding into his pupils like a fresh laceration, like a man who's learned to lick his wounds clean in silence finally cracking open wide and letting you see the most vulnerable parts of him.

“I’m starvin’.”

You nodded, slow and understanding, letting your hand fall away from his face.

“Then sit still, Remmick,” you murmured, hushed, like you were afraid to shatter the silence. “And let me feed you.”

His breath shuddered out of him like you’d punched it from his lungs. His hands curled tighter in the sheets. His voice was hoarse, shaking, with the faintest Irish crack as he whispered:

“A ghrá…táim i do lámha…”

(My love…I’m in your hands…)

You stayed standing between his knees, just looking at him, because even if you didn't know what those words meant, you could feel them carve into your soul like a brand.

And Remmick—God help him—let you. Didn’t dare breathe too deep, didn’t dare move a single muscle. He was shaking with it. With restraint. With want. With that terrible, ancient hunger not just for blood, but for closeness, for skin-on-skin, for the obscene luxury of being touched.

Your fingers reached for him. He twitched.

Not in fear. In anticipation. His lips parted, a fine strand of spit hanging off one corner, catching in the gold glow of the hallway light behind you. It glistened, trailing down toward his chin before pooling at the dip beneath his lower lip—thick, warm, a little foamy, and wholly instinctual. His breath came in short, shallow bursts now, as if his body was preparing for something it didn’t fully understand.

You slid his suspenders off the broad slope of his shoulders first, snapping one against his pec, feeling arousal pool into your cunt like molten hot lava when he whimpers at the pleasant sting of it, letting the thin scraps of fabric fall down beside his hips.

Then you undid the first button of his shirt. Then the next. And the next. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact.

Remmick’s eyes were huge in the dark—dark and shiny, wide like a dog waiting to be called forward, like he’d sink his teeth into the floor just for a word from you. Sweat pearled at his temples. His thighs spread slightly wider beneath you as the shirt parted open.

His chest was beautiful. Scarred, but beautiful—pale muscle threaded with faint blue veins, the sort that spoke of long nights and longer hunger. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, though you could feel the heat roiling beneath it, just under the surface.

But what drew your eye—what made you pause—was the tattoo.

On his left ribcage, inked into him like a brand, was a budded cross—old, faded, the lines a little blurred from age but unmistakable. A Christian cross, yes—but older, rougher, like it had been carved into him by a trembling hand in candlelight.

You stared.

He followed your gaze, and his throat worked, the motion making his chain jump slightly against his collarbones.

“I got that when I still thought it’d save me,” he whispered, voice tight.

You dropped to your knees. He whimpered.

No contact yet—just the sound of your body lowering between his thighs, the shift in the room, the weight of your presence pressing into the cradle of his hips. He tipped his head back against the edge of the bed, more thick drool sliding from the corner of his mouth, breath now shallow, frantic, like he was trying not to choke on his own spit.

You leaned forward. Pressed your mouth to the edge of the cross.

He hissed.

You kissed it. Then licked—tongue flattening over the cool ink, tracing it reverently, slowly. He trembled beneath you like a man being sanctified and defiled all at once.

The irony rolled off your tongue with every stroke.

A man like this—older than gunpowder, older than the books that tried to define him—wearing a cross close to his heart like it still meant salvation.

You dragged your lips lower.

Down his ribs. Over the ridges of muscle. To the soft trail of hair starting just below his navel—a dark, fine line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You licked that too. Just once. Teasing.

Following the path slowly, like you were on your knees at an altar, taking your time with worship. His happy trail twitched under your tongue.

Above you, Remmick made a noise that wasn’t a moan or a sob but something shattered between the two.

More drool slipped from his lips now—foamy, thick, sliding down his chin, catching on the curve of his neck and the edge of that trembling gold chain. He didn’t wipe it. Couldn’t. You’d told him not to touch.

His voice broke apart.

“I c-can’t take it,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’m gonna come just from you lookin’ at me like that—just from that tongue—fuck, darlin’, please.”

You looked up at him.

Still on your knees. Still reverent. And said, with quiet finality, “Good.”

You reached for his belt.

His breath caught—sharply, like the sound a deer makes when it hears the snap of a twig too close behind it. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at you with those wide, wet eyes, black in the low light, pupils blown to the edge. His chest rose and fell like he was sprinting through mud.

The leather was worn, soft from age and use, the buckle cool in your fingers.

You took your time.

Slowly, purposefully, you undid the clasp, the soft clink of metal loud in the hush of the room. He whimpered, his thighs tensing beneath you, and more drool spilled from the corner of his mouth—thick, glistening, sliding down his chin

“Stay still,” you reminded him, voice silk-wrapped steel.

He nodded, a jerky, miserable little movement, and you swore his lower lip quivered. You dragged the zipper down, each tooth catching slightly, the sound sharp and intimate.

And then—finally—you pulled him free.

Your breath hitched.

He was hard. Painfully so. Flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking, the slit glossy and wet. He twitched in your hand, a thick vein pulsing along the underside, and his thighs quivered like he could barely keep himself grounded.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Remmick gave a breathless, broken laugh, chin tilted back as he struggled not to move. His hands were fists in the sheets now, white-knuckled, his gold chain trembling across his throat with every shallow breath.

“I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t stop—fuck, it’s so much—”

You looked up at him as you gave him the first stroke.

Just one.

Slow.

Base to tip, twisting your palm, watching his mouth fall open wider—thick drool spilling freely now, down his neck, dampening the edge of his shirt. He looked utterly destroyed already.

“Does it feel good?” you asked, your voice soft, cruel with how gently you said it.

He nodded frantically.

“Use your words.”

His head lolled forward. His voice was wrecked. “Feels like heaven,” he groaned. “Oh God, sugar, I cain’t—I cain’t believe—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned forward, licking up the length of him, tongue flat, slow, letting his taste settle warm and heavy on your tongue—salt and skin and something a little coppery, something distinctly him, something old. He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest hiccuping, thighs jerking just slightly before he caught himself and moaned through clenched teeth.

Your mouth wrapped around the head. He cried out.

No words now. Just a strangled sound ripped from his throat, and more drool frothed at the corners of his lips. He looked dazed—eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. His hips bucked once—a reflex—and immediately stilled like he was terrified to move again without permission.

You pulled back just enough to speak, saliva stringing between your lips and his flushed cock.

“I told you,” you whispered. “Hands to yourself.”

His voice came out wrecked, breathless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then your mouth was back on him.

You took him deeper this time—slow, tight suction, twisting your wrist around what you couldn’t take yet—and the way he howled, you’d have thought he’d been starved in every way a man could be. Which, of course, he had. Thirteen hundred years of this. Denied. Suppressed. Begged away.

His thighs trembled. His belly tensed. And still he didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Didn’t dare.

You sucked harder.

He broke.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—darlin’, I—I can’t—oh, please, please, I’m so sorry—”

He was crying.

Not just drool now—actual tears, shining in his lashes, streaking down his flushed face as you sucked him through it, as he jerked and shook and whimpered out your name like it was a hymn.

He came with a sob, hips barely stuttering forward as his whole body went taut, his cock pulsing against your tongue, spilling hot down your throat in waves, thick and heavy and so much you almost gagged on it.

He was loud.

Pathetic.

Perfect.

When you finally pulled off, he was slumped forward—a wrecked, shivering mess, his lips bitten red and his chain soaked through with spit and sweat. His chest heaved. His thighs twitched.

You sat back on your heels, wiped your mouth slowly.

“Still with me?” you asked.

He nodded, weakly. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you leave.”

He collapsed.

Not fell—melted. Like every bone in him had turned to syrup and grief, his body slumping forward, catching on the edge of the bed before slipping down to the floor.

Boneless.

His cheek pressed to the old wood, hair clinging to his forehead, the buttons of his half-undone shirt twisted beneath him. He was drenched—sweat slicked across his chest and ribs, his pale skin kissed pink from effort, a shine of drool still slicking his chin, clinging to the corners of his mouth like foam. His gold chain was crooked now, stuck against the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.

You rose slowly to your knees, then leaned forward—not to comfort him, not yet—but to press your lips to that chain.

Right at the dip of his collarbones. He gasped. Like it burned. Like your mouth was fire and he’d been craving the flame.

His eyes fluttered open—glass-wet, dazed, the whites shot red, his lips trembling from overstimulation. He looked wrecked. Used. Holy.

And still. Still, he tried.

One shaking hand rose, dragging along the edge of your thigh—hesitant, aching, reverent. His fingers brushed your hip like he was praying through it.

“Lemme touch you,” he breathed. “Please. Let me—wanna make you feel good—want your taste on my tongue, sugar, please—”

You caught his wrist mid-rise. Firm. Final. His breath hitched. His mouth parted. But he didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. You leaned in close, until your mouth was at his ear, and whispered—

“You don’t get to yet.”

His eyes fluttered. His breath caught.

“You’re gonna learn to wait.”

A tremble rolled through him, from head to toe. His hand fell away, limp at his side. And then he nodded.

Small. Shaky. Utterly obedient.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait, I swear.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, gently now, and he whimpered at the touch.

“Look at you,” you murmured.

He did. Glassy-eyed. Pathetic. So fucking into it.

His tongue darted out across his lower lip, catching more of the drool clinging there, and he looked at you like he’d fall on his knees all over again if you so much as told him to.

“Did I do good?” he asked, voice so small, so needy it nearly broke something open in your chest.

You smiled.

And whispered, “You were perfect.”

He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.

Just curled in beside your legs like a dog, bare chest heaving, forehead pressed to your knee, as if your body alone could tether him to the earth. His arms folded in at his chest, drawn tight like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you again.

You stayed still. Let him have it. Let him exist in the aftermath—his breath still catching, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his brow, drool drying tacky at the corners of his mouth, his jeans half undone around his hips, completely forgotten. He looked small down there, despite the size of him. Small and wrecked.

He murmured against your thigh—words so soft you almost missed them, lips brushing the fabric of your skirt like a confession:

“Didn’t know it could feel like that…”

You glanced down.

His eyes were closed, lashes wet. His lips parted as he pressed the side of his face closer to your leg, as if nearness was the only thing keeping him from coming apart again.

“Didn’t know I could feel like that.”

You stroked his hair gently. He shivered.

“I ain’t been held like this since…” He swallowed. “Since before.”

You waited. Then, with a sigh that hitched in his throat, he said:

“Before I stopped bein’ a man and started bein’ a thing.”

Your fingers paused at his temple.

But he nuzzled into your knee like he hadn’t said something awful. Like he hadn’t peeled that truth out of himself and bled it onto your lap.

“I remember what it was like,” he whispered. “Before I turned. Before the hunger. Before all that silence got in me and stayed.”

Another pause.

“I used to think about what it’d be like, y’know? Fallin’ apart for someone. Just crackin’ open. Bein’ touched like I was human.”

He sighed again.

“Didn’t think it’d ever happen.”

Your hand returned to his hair, soft strokes over the messy bangs sticking to his forehead.

He let out a low, contented whine.

“Felt you on my tongue before I ever tasted you,” he breathed, voice thick and syrup-slow. “In my dreams. In my fuckin’ bones.”

His fingers brushed the floor. Not reaching. Just hovering.

“Tell me you won’t go,” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t move. And that was enough.

He breathed deep then, nose brushing your thigh, the gold chain glinting dully in the light. His body slackened further, weight pooling against you like he meant to stay right there forever—a crumpled thing collared in sweat, salt, and shame, held together only by the sound of your breath and the soft drag of your fingers through his hair.

“I’m ruined now,” he said sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”

You smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He whimpered again. A sound so low and lovely it curled down your spine and planted itself deep in your stomach.

And then he sighed—the sound of someone finally coming home—and nuzzled in deeper at your thigh.

#for the sub!remmick nation #sainted by spit #1300 years of celibacy destroyed by (1) act of service #sinners 2025 #sinners au #sinners remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x you #jack o'connell

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thelotusrabbit · 2 months ago

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DpxDc #17

What a (death) day.

Jason was going to kill whoever was selling drugs to kids in the alley.

The boy on the ground was shaking, barely breathing, and coughing up blood. The poor guy was coming down from a seizure, almost suffocating on his own spit.

Luckily, Jason saw him on time and was able to help put him in a safe position. He almost had a heart attack seeing a kid having an overdose in a lonely alley.

He rubbed the kid's back, trying to stimulate breathing, begging internally for his heart to keep beating.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

The black-haired teenager kept mumbling between breaths, muscles twitching like a dying bug.

Jason could only try and help as much as he could. He wasn't going to call an ambulance, since unfortunately, there was a high chance that his call was going to be rejected due to the location and nature of the emergency.

Drug overdose was too common; they would tell you to make sure they don't choke and hang up on you.

"I'm sorry..."

"Shh... It's alright, you're going to be okay..."

What a shitty, shitty day.

It hit him like a truck, the pain in his chest.

He was just walking back to his hotel room after visiting Gotham University, when it started.

Danny compleatly fucking forgot about his death day.

He was able to drag himself into an empty alley, trying not to die of embarrassment as he was starting to feel his arm tingle.

This was going to suck.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton #danny phantom #dc universe #dp x dc prompt #writing prompt #jason todd #red hood

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bunny-jpeg · 4 months ago

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packing my husband's lunch

simon "ghost" riley - inspired by this

tags: smut & fluff, domestic, established relationship (marriage), housewife!reader, butcher!simon, food, body worship & praise, missionary,

a/n: changed a little bit of it for the fic, i hope that's okay! i hope everyone loves it!!

it wasn't supposed to be a big deal, these were little videos that you made when simon was at work. people did a lot worse on the internet! you were mostly in sweet aprons with your username embroidered onto them and occasionally one of the dresses that your loving husband bought you!

you wanted to keep yourself busy now that you were a stay-at-home wife and the income from being part of the creator's program was a nice bonus.

"thank you for the banana bread recipe, mrs. riley!"

"where did you get that dress?"

"i wonder what mister riley looks like! i bet she totally lucked out!!"

you built up a sweet little community that was mostly sharing recipes that you've aquired over the years. viewers were impressed of how well you could handle spice despite your gentle demeanour, but you once said in a video that you had been eating spicy food your whole life!

"plus, my husband loves it too!" that was the big mystery of the account, who was mrs. riley's husband? viewers knew he existed and that videos occasionally were about making his lunches. but he had never showed his face in any video.

you thought the comments were cute, you'd often show them to simon while you were in his lap on the couch.

"they think that you're like christian grey."

"who the hell is that?" simon chuckled as he rested his head on top of your head so he could look down at your phone, "sounds like a real prick with a name like that."

another day, another video. you worked within the kitchen explaining the recipe. "you have to remmeber to add the spices before it all comes together or else it won't have time to mingle with the potatoes or the carrots. the taste will be all off!" you tone was like a bird's chirp as you had one hand on yourhip and the other stirring the pot with a spoon.

"my husband loves this! and i think who ever you make this for, wife, husband, boyfriend, partner, family member, friend, they'll love it too! but i suggest if you're making it for your nana that you tone down the spices a little!" you talked away as you continued to cook.

it filled the near silence in the kitchen and allowed you to keep viewers engaged!

but this video ended a little different. while you showed off finished stew in a pastel pink bowl, viewers caught the sight of him. hulking mass of man in a white t-shirt with a suspicious amount of red stained across it.

"girl, are you okay?"

"who is that?!"

"pack him a sandwich in the next video if you need help!"

"hey girlie, close your fist with your thumb inside if you're not safe!"

you were confused by the comments, simon wasn't a bad guy? he had never hurt a hair on your head. you've been trying to get him into more experimental kinky play in the bedroom!

you heard the door unlock and peeked out of the kitchen to see your husband coming home. you were use to grime he brought home, you met at the butcher shop his long time friend price owned. so a t-shirt stained with blood was nothing new. but then it clicked in your head.

oh they thought that simon was some kind of serial killer.

before you could say anything to your husband, he pulled you in for tight kiss and held you by the back of the head with his strong hand. you smiled against his lips and giggled when he picked you up. you wrapped your legs around his waist and held onto his shoulders.

you weren't the lightest thing in the world, but simon had spent most of his life hauling things (meat) heavier than you could ever be. he eyed you from top to bottom and smiled. his smiles were rare to others but frequent with you.

"how's my love bug today? makin' more videos for the fans." he asked as he carried you to the couch and put you down gently. he then leaned in to kiss you on the lips.

"yeah, they think you're a serial killer though."

his blond brows raised, "serial killer?"

you looked at him in return, "you were in the back of one of my latest videos, i didn't notice anything until i realized that you were in a work shirt and it looked like you were a serial killer."

"i see, i see." he said as he sat next to you and laced your fingers with his, "tell them i'm not, i don't need rumours to start." simon didn't like being the center of attention.

he once told you that he married the brightest woman he could find so she could be the center of attention and he could be supportive from the sidelines. it was why people gravitated towards you while being a little afraid of you towering husband.

you pulled him closer to you and kissed at his scarred face. he was an active service member before he became a butcher, so much history on his body and you loved every molecule of him. when you kissed him, he deepened the kiss and held both your hands.

"simon."

"let me take you to bed." he replied softly before he pulled you to your feet and then pulled you up into his arms bridal style. it took you a while to get used to him carrying you. not that you were worried about him not having a good hold on you, but rather you not having a good hold on him!

he brought you to your shared bedroom and placed you on the bed delicately. he then got his shirt up and over his head, exposing his strong body to you. he wasn't model trimmed, he was built with proper strength.

i ain't no pretty boy, dove.

but you thought your husband was the prettiest of them all. slowly you started to take off your dress, you could feel your husband's hungry eyes on you as you undressed for him. your viewers saw a sweet little wife, bu simon saw that sweet little wife totally nude.

when the mis-matched pair of bra and panties ended up on the floor with the dress, simon felt like a new man. he worked hard to provide for your family of two and would continue to work hard every day. you were his wife, his everything. and he loved you more than he could ever articulate.

so he expressed his love by getting undressed and into bed with you. laid out on top of the covers, your head in the pillows with simon between your legs.

"look at mrs. riley." he cooed as he rubbed his rough hands up and down your bare thighs, "prettier than those little cookies you make.' he chuckled a little, "boy at work watch your videos all the time, you've been a big help to them, finally able to cook for themselves." he went in to kiss you on the lips.

"glad i could help." you replied as you held onto one of the pillows under your head. you arched your back a little when he lined his cock up with slick entrance and pressed himself in.

he leaned forward and braced a hand up against the headboard as he got his cock inside of you. the issue with a size difference like yours, it made it a little hard to have sex in certain positions. usually you were on top, but since you got married you've been able to figure out missionary.

"honey."

"i got ya, dove. you feel so good as always." he said lowly, "everything i have ya, it's a complete treat. you take good care of me, you know that. you are a good wife. happy you're making your little videos, and i'm happier i get to come home to you."

you blushed a little bit and wanted to hide your face but he stopped you by pinning your hand to the bed.

"don't hide from me, dove. i want to see my wife's face." he said with his voice tinged with affection. he loved the sight of you, you were beautiful under him, he couldn't help but lick his lips at the sight of you.

"you make me blush too much." you said as he moved against you. your loving, caring husband moved his hips in a steady pace as he held onto your hand and the headboard. his thrusts were easy on you, not too rough but just enough to make you excited all over. you loved the feeling of him, there was just something about it that made you feel a twinge of excitement in your core.

he was a perfect lover and you loved him so much.

"all mine." he purred as he continued his movements. he watched your videos daily during his lunch break, happily eating the food you made for a video that morning or the day prior. the stews, baked goods and pasta dishes that you were known for.

your emphasis on couponing and how to store foods to make them last longer. it was an honour for simon to be with such a lovely woman. you encouraged food as a form of love. and you showed that love ten times over with simon.

he captured your lips and continued to move against you. he devoured the feeling of his lover up against him. you felt amazing, you felt like heaven. he couldn't help himself. he moved against you and continued to kiss you.

"work so hard every day, you work your ass off beautiful. and i love it, all of you. you know that. i can't get enough of you, how you feel against me. how i feel like our souls are connected."

you giggled, "no need to butter me up, handsome." you smiled when he placed another kiss on your lips. you moaned into the kiss, you eventually held onto his strong shoulders. you two moved against each other, husband and wife. quite the pair you were, and simon wouldn't want it any other way.

"baby." he cooed.

"shh, shh." you said, you opened your eyes and stared into his brown ones, he was so handsome. even when he tried to deny it, you knew the truth. he was quite the handsome man. the kind of man that made your toes curl with each hardy thrust of his hips.

the pleasure ran through both of you, the intensity of it made you kiss one another once more. he continued to work himself inside of you. live in each of this thrusts, affection in every movement. simon loved you and you loved him, hence why you held onto him so closely.

"oh, dove. look at ya. perfect for your husband." he cooed as he felt closer to his climax, it was an intense feeling. the kind of feeling that excited him greatly. he loved you and when he watched your pleasure reach its peak, he felt a swell of pride when you clutched onto him tighter.

"fuck, honey." you moaned as pleasure crushed down on you. you tensed up then relax, enjoying the feeling as it moved through you. you shared another kiss.

simon continued to work his body up against yours, and soon he finished inside of you. he rocked against you through his climax and then only broke the kiss when he stopped. he looked you in the eyes, those beautiful brown eyes.

you giggled lightly and pulled him in once more before he laid out on the bed beside you and held you in his arms.

"not too bad for a serial killer."

"yeah, i bet they'd never know that you're such a teddy bear." you dragged a finger across his strong chest and let out a small giggle. he felt so good against you. you soon sat up and said, "i have something i want you to try, i am working on a new recipe."

before you could get too far, he pulled you back into bed with him and wrapped his arms around you. he held you close and said, "whatever it is, dove. i bet it's amazing, but right now i just wanna hold ya."

the following day, on one of simon's days off. you set up the camera and stood beside your much taller husband. you were all smiles as you were ready to bake a nice spring treat.

"hello, love bugs! it's mrs. riley again, and today i have a guest!" you gestured to your husband. you whispered, "you'll need to crouch down a little." and simon bent his knees, "this is my husband, mister riley!"

you hoped that this would quell any concerns your fans might have. and while the comments were positive one made you blush.

"i used to think i had a crush on mrs. riley, but now i have a crush on mr. riley too!"

i hope you love this fic! if you have any suggestions, my open! till next time <3

#bunny writes #call of duty x reader #call of duty smut #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost smut #ghost smut #ghost x reader #call of duty #reader insert smut #reader insert #ghost simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut #simon riley

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oceantornadoo · 22 days ago

Text

a most pleasant marriage (john price x f!reader, minor simon x john x reader)

medieval arranged marriage au, SMUT, reader is a virgin, i did no research i fear, 4k wc

The emerald grass below your window, stories high and nearly minuscule, sways as you wait. And wait. And wait.

He was supposed to come two days ago. Your new husband, a foreigner, promised to you by your father in exchange for help to gain his own lands back. Greed begets greed, and while your maids help you change for your nightgown to a favorite dress of light blue, your stomach churns at the thought of the kind of man who would make such a promise. Your father has refused to educate you in any sort of war strategy, but you’re wily enough to know that promises can easily be broken. That the sagging stone buildings of your kingdom, small and unimportant to bigger ones that stomp on it like a bug, are no prize to be won. Why would your future husband want to help such a land when he could just as easily take it?

And so you wait outside of the arched slits of your stone window, your stitching in your lap as you halfheartedly nod to the chattering gossip of your ladies. After tea later in the day, sugar and butter heavy in your stomach, you nearly doze to their droning in your chair.

The clattering of horses wakes you right up.

A band of knights on horses, dressed in the black and white colors of your husband’s household, climb the winding hill that leads to your castle. You drop your stitching on a side table and gather your skirts, nearly running down the hall as your ladies follow you gleefully, taking another way about to the entrance hall. Worn stone and fiery sconces pass you in a blur as you skip down curved staircases, apprehension flooding your veins. What if he’s cruel? What if he breaks his promise to your father? What if-

A wall of muscle cuts off your next step, and thought, as you ram right into someone. You can tell it’s a man by the scent of musk and sweat, heady in the center of his torso. Your face hits stretched fabric as pain floods your nose. Strong hands grip your waist, a place no man’s ever touched, and stop your momentum from causing further destruction. Your hands, heavy from the stylish long sleeves that widen at your wrist, grip at stern shoulders as you steady yourself and your rapid breathing.

“I apologize, good sir. It was not my intent to run into you, I merely did not see where I was going. My deepest apologies.” You remove your hands to gingerly touch your nose, effectively blocking your view of him as you try to ensure no permanent damage was done. Remembering yourself, you step back until his hands leave your waist, coldness seeping in after. A terrible position to be caught in, especially with your husband’s men and potentially your husband himself in this very castle.

“Not to worry. I should hope I’m able to withstand an act of violence from a princess after my years of warfare.” Satisfied your nose is not broken, you remove your hands from your face slowly. A man stands before you, seemingly unruffled from your run in. Strong legs, horseman’s legs, build into a wide torso, the kind made for an armored chest plate with shoulders broad enough to bear it. He wears black and white and the insinuation of it sends a shiver down your spine. At last, you take in his face. His eyes are less kind than you thought they’d be based on his voice, the dark blue of a cruel river stream, fast enough to drown a child. He wears a beard in an unusual shape, one you’ve never seen on any man. His hair, brown as an oak tree, is thick enough to run your fingers through.

The thought is traitorous.

“If you call that an act of violence, you must not give accidents any berth to be what they are. Just accidents, that is.” The words escape without thinking, your hands flying to your mouth to stop the onslaught of thoughts spilling from your mouth like a waterfall. It’s then that you notice other things about the stranger. The quality of the fabric he wears, noticing that the black is actually a deep indigo, a rare color you’ve only heard of from whispers in court. Metal chains of gold encircle his neck, showcasing his wealth through lapis and rubies. Such a man must be rich beyond your wildest dreams, and certainly beyond your father. Your heart drops at the realization.

“You knew I was a princess.” You murmur before he can acknowledge your earlier sentence. “Yes.” He takes a step further, no honorific in his words. Any man who’d have the gall to not acknowledge your title must have a reason to. Realistically, he might be able to tell your status based on the jewels that adorn you, but something bigger itches at your brain like a hound pawing at a closed door. “How?” You whisper, eyes trained on his shoes. Something drops on the floor, and only when your trembling fingers touch your skin do you realize your nose is bleeding.

“Your father showed me your portrait before I agreed to the marriage agreement.” His feet, clothed in indigo as well, come into your field of vision as he steps into your space. A callused hand raises your chin up, his thumb swiping at the blood under your nose. He removes his hand almost immediately, his thumb slick with your red blood nearing his mouth. You watch as his pink tongue swipes at the blood, then track as he wipes the rest on the white of his tunic. A claiming, a forbearance of what’s to come.

“King John.” You curtsy as another drop of blood falls, staining the fabric of your sky-like gown. Out of the corner of your eye, the king grins.

“A pleasure to meet you, Princess.”

You officially meet a few hours later. It seems that King John didn’t mention your illicit meeting to your father, and after staunching the bleeding of your nose and changing into another gown, you didn’t either. The gown is a deep blue color, and you couldn’t help but think of King John’s eyes when you picked it. You plead a headache as to why you return early, and your ladies are eager to fill the silence with gossip of the men King John brought with him. One who wore the mask of a human skull, a Scotsman, and another who made so many flirtatious overtures half of the women fainted. All you can think of are warm hands on your waist, gripping you like a God-given right. Though, you suppose it is.

When you make your entrance into the throne room, it’s surprisingly empty. No courtesans, though your kingdom has few already. Instead, King John converses with your father at his throne, towering over the man by pure stature. You curtsy and scurry further when your father calls your name, already confused at the unusual silence of the room.

“King John, may I present my eldest daughter. I trust she is to your liking?” There is no warmth in his tone, just the promise of retribution sparkling in your father’s eyes, the same color as your own. You turn to King John and curtsy again, keeping your eyes lowered as you stand demurely afterwards. “Your Grace,” you murmur. He’s silent, eyes burning into you as he appraises you. He hums, a low sound that goes straight to your core. You hope he noticed the color of your gown.

“She is. Her portrait does not compare.” Your cheeks warm as you keep your gaze lowered, years of etiquette classes holding back your reaction. Father grunts, clearly not wanting to spend more time than necessary praising you when they could be discussing how to win your lands back. “Yes, Your Grace. As we discussed, the ceremony and exchange of dowry will take place tomorrow.” Your heart thunders, blood rushing in your ears. You knew it was coming, of course, having packed most of your things and done dress fittings as your mother planned the wedding itself. Hearing the confirmation out loud is a different beast. This is your new life.

You hope he will be kind.

They converse about the dowry but do not dismiss you, leaving you to stay frozen in place as they discuss how many gold coins and jewels you are worth. Finally, you are dismissed with a reminder of the welcome feast tonight.

If this is the feast before the wedding, you fear for the antics of the one after. King John’s men, a horde of knights with almost no holy men to be found, are rambunctious as they drink your wine coffers dry. You sit at the seat of honor tonight, usually only reserved for your brother, the heir. King John sits on the other side of your father, mainly conversing with the man in the skull mask as you pick at your meal. Your father is reddened by drink, a young maid who is not your mother seated in his lap as he raves about his last conquest years ago. Your ladies titter beside you, your other sibling and mother having been sent off to bed an hour ago.

“Daughter!” You jolt as your father slaps the table to get your attention. “Yes, Father?” You answer meekly. “Practice serving your husband. His cup should never be empty.” He plucks a flagon of wine out of a passing maid’s hands and shoves it towards you. You rise and take it from him, hands shaking as you uncork it. When you round his chair, his gaze back on the woman on his lap, King John’s men stare. And stare. One of them with eyes like lightning nudged the handsome one beside him, whispering something that makes them both laugh. The skull-faced one, sitting closest to King John, is silent, his eyes dark as a demon’s.

You wrench your gaze away from them to land on your future husband’s. His cheeks are pinked from wine and he sits with his legs spread, wide enough to fit a barrel of ale between them. “Go’on.” You pour, your full focus on the jeweled cup as you feel his full focus on you. When the glass is nearly full, you place down the flagon and stand uncomfortably, waiting to be dismissed.

He does not dismiss you.

Those same hands from this afternoon grab your waist again, pulling you harshly into his lap. You make an unladylike squeal, immediately looking over your shoulder to see if your father noticed. Thankfully, he’s gone, probably off with that poor maid. “Your Grave, I don’t think this is appropriate.” You plead, hands gripping the fabric of your skirts so hard they might rip. He shifts you so you sit on one of his thighs, your feet in the space between them while the side of your ass is practically on his…

“You’ll be my wife in the mornin’. And I’d slay anyone makin’ fuss.” You gasp at his sternness, turning to see the truth of his words written on his face. One hand cups the front of your thigh, searing like a cow’s brand, while the other steadies your hip, keeping you in place. “You would, Your Grace?” You ask, eyes wide. He nods, straightening a bit so you fall further into him. Your hand reaches out to brace his chest, your fingers tangling in gold chains, and you keep it there, drunk on the power beneath you. Your father has never made any claims in your name, content to push any duties of propriety onto your mother.

“Call me John,” he implores. He nods his head to the skullfaced man who’s been watching your exchange, no turning in his chair to give you a sense of privacy. “Sir Simon, my right hand. Garrick and MacTavish are off somewhere in the crowd, his seconds.” You nod in your best imitation of a curtsy while affixed to your future husband’s lap. Beneath your thigh, you feel something harden. You freeze as the warmth in your core. John makes no comment, pressing circles into the velvet of your dress above your hip.

“They call you the Ghost, Sir Simon.” It seems wine has loosened your tongue as well. Thankfully, he grunts in a way you think might be a chuckle. “They do, sweetheart. He scare you?” John murmurs, his words losing any royal tone. Nervously, you nod minutely. John chuckles, shaking you awake like a bath gone cold. “He’s not the one you need to be scared of. C’mere.” He scoops your skirts and legs over his other thigh, closing his own to make an overwhelming lap of strength with tree trunk thighs. John grips your chin, a memory of this afternoon, and turns you this way and that. Sir Simon leans forward, close enough that his legs brush your own. “Pretty.” Sir Simon concludes, leaning back out of your face as his chair creaks. “Agreed. And plenty to handle.” He squeezes your thigh for emphasis. You clamp them shut, afraid he’ll take you right there on the table if you give him any leeway. It’s a complicated mix of fear and something you can’t quite name, close to the anticipation of a new dress but all encompassing. Below your stomach, butterflies flutter in places reserved for your husband. For John.

“Go to bed, princess. I’ll see you in the morn’.”

The morning disappears like lemon cakes on a spring morning. The formality of the religious ceremony carved itself into your bones, the same way your father carves your name on the decree of your marriage. Then it’s a parade through the town square, sitting in an open carriage and waving to the crowd as John holds your hand. The sun is sweltering, but you don’t know if that’s from the layers of white fabric you wear or John’s insistence on being next to you at all times. Then it’s back to the castle, the exchange of the dowry getting packed into the carts John’s men brought.

It all leads up to the feast.

This time, you are directly next to John at the place of honor. So many toasts are made you start to lose your voice, placating it with hot broth from the kitchens. Hours later, the crowd drunk on its own congratulations, your father stands with his goblet in his hand. “It is time.” He announces ominously. You lose John’s grip as your father guides you down into the crowd.

Hands, everywhere. Men of all ages lift you above their heads and tear your clothes off at the same time, making their way to your Royal Chamber for the night. All you can do is close your eyes as the smell of fermented wine rolls off their tongues, greedy hands grabbing what they can as they get you up the stairs. Thankfully, it’s harder for them to be coordinated, abandoning the struggle against white fabric as they bring you to the chamber door.

John arrives just after you, a gaggle of women behind him. He’s not as undressed as you, with only a tear in his tunic. You frown and he senses it, his eyes immediately turning stormy. “Out.” John orders. The women leave, but the stupider men stay. One lord speaks up, a slimy gleam to his face. “I beg your pardon, but we need to watch the consummation, Your Grace.” You almost retch at the thought of them watching you be intimate with a man you barely know. “Out.” John says again, fire in his voice like a dragon. They take the hint and fumble their way down the stairs. You gasp in air, breathing out a sigh of relief.

“Wife.” He greets you, appraising your torn state of dress. Your skirts are ruined, turned into strips of fabric. The lengthy sleeves have turned into scraps, exposing the top of your chest, but nothing more. With every breath, you can feel the dress start to rip even more. “Husband,” you reply breathily.

He opens the door for you. The fireplace quietly warms the room, but there’s no light other than that, making everything past the bed hard to see. You start fidgeting as you walk in front of him, taking a seat on the bed as you fiddle with your hands. “We need witnesses for the consummation. If I’m not with child right away, they’ll say it’s my fault or annul it or say you’re-“ He stops you with a thumb to your cheek, the rest of his fingers squeezing the side of your neck. “Look in the corner.” You squint, scanning the room for whatever he’s looking for. Suddenly, you hear a masculine grunt from the darkest corner of the room. When you whip your head towards it, you catch graphite eyes and the silhouette of a warrior.

“Sir Simon.” He tilts his head in acknowledgment, almost like he’s bored with his role. Your palms sweat and you rub your thighs together to stave off the strange feeling in your stomach. “Don’t look at him, wife. Look at me.” You follow John’s orders immediately, locking onto his intense gaze. “What have you been told of this?” Your cheeks warm, remembering the short lesson from your religious teacher and an even shorter one from your mother.

“I shall lay down and let my husband use my body to complete our marital duties.” John sits down beside you with a grunt. Instead of responding, he runs a finger down the length of your exposed shoulder. You shiver involuntarily. He leans forward, and you stiffen as he kisses your shoulder. The last time you received a kiss was years ago, after a harrowing fever where your mother sat next to your bedside for a fortnight. “Is this…part of the marital duties?” You ask, voice trembling as he makes his way to the side of your neck he previously held. “Yes.” John murmurs into the hollow of your throat. He licks at the skin there and you jump, almost hitting your jaw against his head.

“Steady now.” Simon’s voice is raspy, like a dry paintbrush against blank canvas. You follow his orders immediately, willing yourself to calm down as John comes off the bed and in front of you.

And then, he kneels.

A King kneels before you, his rough hands dragging your tattered skirts up your legs, revealing parts of your skin that have never seen the sun. You freeze as he makes his way to your thighs, the skirt sitting around your waist. Your underskirts are made for using the chamber pot easily, so there’s no fabric around your cunt. John groans again, close enough that you can feel his breath cool the wetness beneath you. “Y’know what that is, princess?” He murmurs, spreading your thighs with ease. You shake your head, confused at the butterflies in your core. “Slick. Wetness. Arousal for your husband and his second, hm?” It seems rhetorical, so you stay silent as his fingers near your cunt. He kisses your inner thigh and you immediately snap your thighs shut. John looks up at you, violence in his eyes. “Stay open.” You try to, forcing your thighs open as he nears again. One large hand steadies your right thigh as his other strokes the slick between your thighs. When his fingers get close, your thighs snap shut again of their own will.

“Simon.” He appears in an instant, stony eyes peering down like he’s reading a text. “Hold her other leg open.” A scarred hand clamps down on your left thigh, wrenching you open almost to the point of discomfort. This time, John rubs his fingers at the slick between your folds and all you can do is sit there and take it. His thumb dips into your hole, and the intrusion is frightening, but he’s gone before you can even notice. He moves it up a little and there.

A loud moan escapes your lips, a sound you’ve never heard before. You clamp your hands to your mouth in embarrassment, remembering your mother’s lessons about staying quiet. “There she is.” John murmurs, seemingly uncaring of your break of expectations. He rubs again and again, then changes the angle so the heel of his hand rubs while he teases the entrance of your hole. Your breaths are heaving and Simon’s hand is hot on your thigh, sure to leave marks tomorrow. The top of your dress, already crumbling, breaks under the weight of your panting just as John presses his palm hard. Your nipples scrape against the dress fabric as your tits escape from the confines of your dress while Simon squeezes the soft skin of your thigh. It’s a funny feeling, a little like peeing, as you release into John’s hold, whining as he holds his palm steady.

“What just- I don’t know- did I do something wrong?” You pant as both men look at you with sparkles in their eyes. “It’s called an orgasm, princess. A release. Necessary for your marital duties. You’re being perfect.” Your heart calms at his praise, and it’s only when you nod do you realize your tits are bouncing of their own accord. John stands, ripping your bodice before you can even think to process. Simon tugs the fabric out from under you as John pushes you back, scanning you like a hunter after a deer. “Hands on your tits, wife.” You follow his instructions, laying your hands confusingly across your chest. John opens your thighs with both hands this time, his mouth wet against your curls. Simon leans over you and you realize this whole time, he’s removed the skull mask with only a black handkerchief covering the bottom half of his face. Those same scarred hands cover your own, showing you how to squeeze your nipples until you understand on your own.

The movements send sparks down your spine, making your hips buck against John’s face. He doesn’t complain, sucking hard at your cunt as you squirm. Simon's stare is as intense as a full moon on a clear night, making you feel like the center of the room. Even as a princess, you've never gotten such attention without it feeling transactional. There is no pain like how your maids whispered, just sheer pleasure, better than any honey cake or sweet wine stolen from the kitchens. Lightning sparks down your body, and the pressure of John holding you down while Simon knows your body better than your own. Your cunt is sopping, the sheets under you wet from your slick as you convulse when John adds a finger inside you. You gasp at the sensation, one becoming two quickly as he finds no resistance. He crooks them towards himself, like he's telling his pretty wife to come here. You come again just like that, thrashing into Simon's hands until you melt like a spring snow into the bed.

John strips off his clothing harshly, revealing a masculine figure you've only seen in carvings or glimpses from the men practicing at their swords in the yard. Hair all over, bearish in appearance, but you're learned enough now to not close your thighs. "C'mere," he orders, and you scramble forward, losing the warmth of Simon's hands. He guides your soft hands to his cock, letting you explore it with questioning touches. It's heavy in your hands, velvety but hard as stone. He grunts when you do an exploratory tug, and you drop your hands, afraid you did something wrong.

"This may be quick, wife. I'll rectify it in the morn'." You nod, brows furrowed as you were told it was always quick, no matter what. John climbs out of you as Simon steps back, but you can see his own silhouette of his cock through his trousers, backlit from the fireplace. John lays his weight on you, his forearms bracketing your head, and you sigh at the comforting feel of him. There's no fear anymore, your senses pliable from two orgasms. He nudges open your legs and you feel an intrusion of where he was before, but it's smoother than you thought it would be as he slides in. "John." You moan, mouth open as fullness grows inside. "So sweet, princess." He murmurs into your ear, pushing further until the hilt. You whine, squirming until Simon presses a gigantic hand on your stomach, keeping you in place as John finds his bearings.

He thrusts once and your breath hitches, your arms wrapping around his muscular shoulders as you sink your claws into his back. John tucks his face into the crook of your neck, and it feels like so much more than duty as he finds a pace. Simon's hand stays there, and your stomach feels fuller than the biggest feast. John's thumb finds your cunt and you start squealing at the overwhelming feeling. "John, I'm- cannot again I-," and he just chuckles, thrusting over and over. You share the same breath, your eyes finding Simon's at every other moment. If this is marriage, you think, it is nowhere near a prison. It's the rough hair of John scraping against your torso, his sweat gliding against yours. That spark builds again, not as bright as before but still powerful, and you clench again when he hits a specific spot. John, slippery with sweat and panting murmurs, follows after, warmth flooding between your thighs as he slows.

"I apologize, I cannot last as long as I used to." John confesses, still inside you as Simon takes his hand back. Your head is cloudy and sugar sweet with no room for reason. Your hands are still on his shoulders, and on instinct you move one to slide into his thick head of hair. "Nothing to apologize for, husband. It was pleasant." Simon chuckles, and you wonder if you've done something wrong. “Pleasant, she says.” John says to Simon, letting you gasp as he slips out of you, his cock leaving a trail of white on your thighs. You tighten your grip against John’s scalp as you watch Simon return to his seat, practically unaffected despite his arousal.

“Did I please you, husband?”

“Yes, wife. This shall be a pleasant marriage. Now rest.” And you do, John trapping you with his body and Simon trapping you with his eyes.

#simon ghost riley #cod 141 #tornadothoughts #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost call of duty #john price x reader #captain john price #simon riley x john price x reader #john price x simon riley x reader #john price x f!reader #john price x y/n #simon ghost riley x reader

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abyssyby · 2 months ago

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maybe a turtle

— Kyros thinks his papa is a ghost, but he's not afraid. Wherever Sylus runs, his son will always follow.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: it's kyros's turn!! sylus & kyros!! >0< just wanna say thank you so much for all the love and enthusiasm youve been showing the little twins. theyre so so fun to write about, and im glad there are people out there who enjoy reading about them too. i hope you enjoy this one! ❀-urs

important heads up for context of this story: kyros is (my headcanon) 1/2 of sylus's twin boys. also around 4 years in this one! ᡣ𐭩 read kyros's twin's chapter here ᡣ𐭩

sylus & kyros | sylus x reader | angst, fluff, comfort, sylus's son showing him that there will always be people missing him, dad!sylus, mom!reader

Kyros is scarily quiet. With everyone’s world so bustling and busy, he is often overlooked when he is just standing there. Walking so slowly, his footfalls were silent on tile and carpet. Each step is planted on the ground with care and patience.

Dark crimson eyes open for observing rather than knowing. Still trying to learn the earth beneath his feet and taking his sweet, mellow time with its wonders.

In his world: his brother Lucian is a fluttering bird, always moving, above the ground, and looming larger than his size. Coming down to make sure to tell Kyros all he sees.

His big brothers Kieran and Luke are music, loud and harmonious. Bounding around him when they play, moving him and carrying him like a melody. Making him feel an immense joy knowing they are around.

His mama is apple juice, sweet and comforting. Arms ready to take him in her embrace and sprinkle kisses over his cheeks like the sparkling bubbles in his sippy cup. Kind eyes and a pretty smile, enough to calm big feelings in his little heart. Make him feel safe.

And his papa is a ghost.

Papa’s presence is carefully threaded into the tapestry of his day. When his eyes open, Sylus is already there to lift him out of his crib for breakfast. When he waddles up to his papa’s bedroom or office door, without so much as a knock, Sylus is already opening it and lifting Kyros up in his embrace. When he’s out of the house— papa’s music plays in the study, papa’s food is in the fridge, papa’s scent is on the couch.

But papa has been busier these past few days, leaving early in the morning, returning too late at night for Kyros to run up to him at the door anymore. Although Sylus never leaves without sneaking into his bedroom to say goodbye with a kiss on his pudgy cheek or his hair, Kyros just thinks he’s hiding somewhere he cannot reach.

And each day, he feels that absence.

For the past few days, he’s asked, “Mama, where papa goes?”

And mama says the same thing, “On a mission, angel.”

So he pads over to the couch, on papa’s spot and waits. He wanders by his dizzy-spinning-CD’s and listens to his music. He nibbles on the cookies and crumbs he left in the meantime. Until he comes back. Until Kyros can find him again.

Papa is a ghost and Kyros is constantly trying to catch him.

But Sylus isn’t running away. So when he is caught, he submits to the whims of his little hunter.

“Got you.” Sylus startles at the voice. It was too late in the night for anyone in his family to be up still on a quiet weekend. He’d just gotten home from a mission across cities, ones that left his neck with a crick and his head aching with the incompetence of the people he was with.

So it was a surprise to find Kyros out of the blue, in the dead of night, waddling into the study. Soon, he is climbing up on Sylus’s lap, slowly grabbing a crease in his shirt, hauling his body up the legs, and wriggling to right himself to sit upright. Wedging himself between his papa and his papa’s work.

“Hello, Kyros.” Sylus says, lips already drawn to his head in a tender kiss. “‘Got’ me?”

Kyros clasps his hands together, clapping like he was catching a bug. “Like dis.”

“Mm.” Sylus pushes away from the desk and curls his arms around his son’s body, unconsciously drawing him against his belly. “Papa is a mosquito?”

Kyros smiles a little, releases a breezy little giggle like wind chimes on a warm summer day. “No. Papa not mosquito.”

Sylus’s heart flutters at the sound. “Then why did you catch me—“ he imitates the catching with one large hand. “—like this?”

Kyros lingers on the metaphor a little longer. Watching his own hands open and close, distracted by how they move. Sylus notices and imitates the movement with him while he waits for a response.

Finally, it comes when Sylus closes his hand around Kyros’s little fingers, drawing him back to the conversation. “Gotcha.”

Kyros laughs again, prying large fingers off his hand and then patting them. Sylus asks again, wriggling his fingers over his happy, squeezed-crescent eyes. “Why did you catch me, angel?”

Kyros catches his hand and hugs it to his chest. His tone is patient, like how you would explain how soup is meant to be cooled down before you slurp, but with the hint of you should know obviousness. “Is i’cause you quick, papa.”

“I’m quick.” Sylus nods, affirming his ideas. “Papa has long legs.”

“I haves tiny-tiny legs.” Kyros runs with the thought. “And i’cause Kyros is slow.”

Sylus’s lips quirk. “Slow? My Kyros?”

“A-huh. Like turtle.” he’s moving again, small hands petting against Sylus’s chest, head bobbing side to side to imitate a turtle’s scooting on the sand.

“I see.” Sylus has seen you read the boys that book before bedtime. Lucian asked all the questions and acted out all the running. Kyros always just sat there and blinked like he was downloading your voice. “And is papa the hare?”

He thinks a little, looking up at Sylus like he was picturing him with big ears and buck teeth. He shakes his head at the image. “No, papa is papa.”

“Ah,” Sylus tilts his head, considering. “I mean, is papa like the hare? Fast?”

Kyros nods then, getting the semantics now. “Papa like’a hare. And— and like a horse. And a race car. And flyin' ‘Pisto.”

Sylus chuckles something sincere, finds rest in his son’s voice listing the many fast things he is like. His presence was a calm rush of fresh water over his aching bones. It doesn’t even cross his mind that he snuck out of his bedroom past his bedtime. He just listens, breathes him in, grateful. For being a tether to follow back home from being someone other than papa.

He’s here, he promises, he’s listening. Despite the way his arms begin to slacken around Kyros’s body. Despite the way his eyes droop slowly, and the voice he listens to sounds like it’s wandering further down a tunnel he cannot see the end to. Slowly being engulfed by the crackling fire in its hearth. He takes a deep breath, he’s listening… so close to sleep—

“… and leave Kyros behind.” Ice runs through his veins.

Bleary eyed, but alert, he blinks at Kyros in confusion. “What… what was that, Kyros?”

Kyros is already staring up when he peers down. There’s a look on his face that resembles when he is about to get in trouble. He’d heard the tone of Sylus’s voice, and if his children are anything they are incredibly perceptive.

So Sylus breathes, meets him where he was and tries again. “You think papa leaves you behind?”

The look of guilt on Kyros’s face remains as he nods. He doesn’t know just why he feels bad for telling Sylus the truth, only feels that something has changed. The quiet isn’t so warm anymore, and papa is taking careful breathing breaths like he does when he’s a little scared.

And Sylus slips, fall headfirst down a mudslide of his own painful thoughts. Suddenly, every moment with Kyros leading up to now is a focal point— why did he stay awake until he got back? why would he say these things if he did not feel it so strongly? why would he look so sad, so betrayed at the thought if it weren’t true?

And the truth— Sylus is so used to being a shadow if not the wind, of smoke and feathers, of disappearing without notice, of leaving no crumbs to follow. Of being alone.

Even after all these years, he still fails to remember that he is no longer who he was. No longer a beast in isolation, no longer a monster that is feared.

Now, he is a partner, a father. And the people who look for him aren’t always trying to kill him. And the people who witness his absence do not celebrate it, but miss his presence.

The people who need him now need him not for his wealth or his power or his influence— they just need him. To be present, to be loving, to be here.

And now he knows, he is told, that he might be failing at that too. He opens his mouth to speak— apologize, explain, fix, something—but Kyros beats him to it.

“Papa,” Kyros says carefully. He’s sensed the turmoil. The way papa, again, has disappeared despite being here in front of him. He rises to his knees, reaching up to plant his hands on Sylus’s cheeks— just as mama does— and ushers him back. “Papa, wait for me.”

Sylus is thrown another blow to the gut. Another world-shattering glimpse into the true meaning of his son’s presence here now.

Sylus doesn’t just disappear physically. He runs, sprints, shoots off emotionally too. Leaving his family for the tide of shame that consumes him. Leaving his son to wonder what he said wrong that made him drift away once more.

“Kyros…” he swallows, voice so soft it breaks at the edges. Chooses words carefully. His large hands come up to cradle soft cheeks back as he whispers, “Papa is here. I’m here, angel.”

Kyros’s face brightens at the touch. The way Sylus squeezes his face fondly. “Hi, papa.”

His poor heart shatters. His eyes prickle and his nose burns. He overturns all the memories and things he's done in his life to deserve this— and helplessly finds nothing. And yet, here he is. He rasps, “Hello, Kyros.”

“Papa waiting?”

“Papa waiting.”

“Papa wait and—and Kyros catch.” Kyros pats his hands gently on Sylus’s cheeks this time, literally catching father’s rough edges in his soft, tiny palms. Unknowingly catching his unwinding sanity, his breaking heart, and his fraying soul too.

It floors him, drives him into the ground in a harsh wreck. How once he held Kyros’s newborn frame in a cradle of his two hands. And now, somehow, Kyros holds the entire weight of him.

And to Kyros, it feels like he weighs nothing at all.

Sylus watches fondly. His son, with his eyes and his hair, but your determined expression. Your patience. Your understanding. Your forgiveness. Your love.

This gift, you’ve carefully poured into this boy, who now generously douses him with it.

“Kyros will always catch papa?” his voice shakes when he asks, deft fingers brushing messy hair away from sparkling eyes. A hope. A wish.

Kyros takes a while to answer questions only because he likes the thinking part of it all, but for this one, he answers immediately. “Yes. I good at it.”

His eyes close and his breath returns to him. He bows his head in his hold; a dragon succumbing to his hunter. He agrees.

Kyros is always looking enough to see, smart enough to notice, patient enough to understand, and slow— devastatingly and achingly slow enough for Sylus to realize and do the same, to feel the same. To be pulled into his orbit as a planet to the slow burning sun.

The lump in his throat melts and trickles away. Feels a wound once poorly stitched—reopened, disinfected and bound together again with better trappings by smaller, gentler hands.

Of which their owner is trusting because he knows nothing else. And his son proves time and time again that his failures in this life and the last or any other life before, does not equate to the man they see now. Does not carry over to his papa.

Kyros asks for nothing, but for him to wait. To be caught. To slow down. To stay.

The tears fall before he even takes notice. He doesn’t pull away or hide. He practices what he is asked for. He keeps still, and tilts his forehead to make contact with his son’s. “Thank you, Kyros.”

Kyros presses back, unsure why papa is crying, but happy with his touch. His presence. Clumsy fingers wipe away salty tears, which Sylus’s lips chase with kisses. “You welcome, papa.”

He vows then, in the tranquil bubble his son has created for them, that he even when he cannot figure out what he did to deserve him, he will be what he deserves. A ghost that can be caught. A hare that celebrates the turtle’s wins.

“What can papa do for you, my turtle?” he scoops the little boy up by the armpits and lets him rest on the crook of his elbow.

Kyros presses his nose to Sylus’s jaw and hums. An all too familiar action again from a bigger, more motherly source. “Apple juice, pease?”

“Before bedtime?” Sylus asks, voice lilting in amusement. Though he’s already pushing his chair back and standing, with every intention to deliver.

Kyros blinks back, eyes mirthful and sparkling. Sylus’s chest caves, he is brought to his knees at the sight. His fingers come up to pinch full cheeks, having a mind of their own.

“Ma bub, pease?” Sylus laughs, loud and resonant, at your tactics of persuasion making their way to your children now. My love’s lips press adoring kisses to his temple.

Kyros wounds his short arms around Sylus’s neck, giggling like he knows he is his powerful and untouchable father’s weakness. Ever grateful for his presence, a too big feeling for his too little body to make sense of for now. But it is there.

The halls echo the sound of humming, deep and rusty— a practiced lullaby whose notes are bent and twisted, but perfectly aligned to the little ears that listen.

And Sylus walks slowly, his footfalls muted against the tile and carpet. Memorizing the current weight of his too-quickly growing baby against his chest, the warmth of his breath against his collar and the tenderness of his embrace. Ceaselessly chasing these moments so as not to miss a single one. Remembering to be still once he is there.

He clings just as much as Kyros does to this love— gentle, quiet, here— if not more.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“Hate ‘ishuns!” Kyros’s voice pulls you from the trenches of sleep. You make a tired, inquisitive sound like you were simply lost in the conversation.

“Hmm?”

“Shh,” he is scolded. For a moment there is quiet again, and just the static in the air, and so you start to drift once more.

“No more ‘ishuns, papa,” Kyros harrumphs and now you open your eyes to the dim light. Beside you, Sylus is seated up against the headboard with Kyros on his stomach— both wide eyed and guilty.

You release a deep breath. “Apple juice, Sylus?”

Sylus winces at your tone. “He said ‘my love’.”

“and pease.” Kyros adds.

“We’ll go, sweetie,” Sylus offers, moving to scoot off the bed, bring their little late night conversation elsewhere.

He plants a kiss to your forehead, and so does Kyros. But neither gets far, for despite your sleep laden haze, your grip is strong on Sylus’s arm. “No. Stay.”

Kyros clears his throat.

You sigh fondly. “Please.”

And so they do.

✧˚ ⋆｡ prev: maybe a dragon (lucian) || read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you for reading!

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