ellaa-writes - Tumblr blog

ellaa-writes · 2 days ago

Text

idk smut smut smut was supposed to be a drabble but here we are 1.6k words later i needed to shake off the rust anway whatever

You're already late. You know it the moment you glance at your shrieking phone on the nightstand, its blinking light blurry through sleep-bleary eyes. But you barely have time to panic before a massive hand presses flat against your stomach, right below your navel, forcing you back down into the mattress.

"'Not goin' 'nywhere," he grunts, his voice thick and unpolished. The bed groans beneath his weight as he moves over you, slow and heavy, and the heat of him steals your breath and will.

"Waitwaitwait," you rattle, trying to twist out from under him, but he sinks his waist between your thighs, pressing you deeper into the sheets. "Can't be late again."

The warmth of his breath floods your ear, his jaw rough with sleep and stubble, dragging across your skin like a brand. He hums low in response, and it vibrates through your spine. His lack of response makes you pause, though. This isn't a new conversation. You remember the first time he said it, with his voice low and eyes steady. "I've got you, ya know."

It'd sounded sweet, protective even. Until you realized that he meant it. Literally. Fully. Without question.

You wriggle again, half-heartedly, because there's no getting through that thick skull of his when he's like this— already pulling your shorts down your thighs, out of his way. He doesn't give you room to resist. He doesn't want resistance; he wants submission. Wants to make his morning and ruin yours in the best way he knows how.

And somewhere in the back of your skull, a tiny little worm writhes to life— quiet, insistent. This isn't really about sex. This is a punishment.

For getting up yesterday and pretending you had somewhere more important to be than under him. For smiling politely at your boss. For putting on a blazer to hide the marks he left on your skin, raw reminders left on your tender flesh.

You whimper as his hand finds your sex, already hot, already slick from yesterday, or rather, early this morning. Simon tuts, a soft, clipped sound as he spreads you with thick fingers, dragging them slowly through your cunt, unhurried and mean in how thoroughly he knows your body. "See? You say ya needa go but my girl 'ere," he strikes the top of your mound and the moan that leaves you is swallowed halfway into silence. "She doesn't wanna leave me."

Simon pulls his fingers from you slow, with a generously wet sound that feels louder than it should be, and while his hand hovers in the dim light— the faint, pulsing glow of your phone screen casting your wetness in a soft sheen across his fingers, he doesn't take his eyes off you.

It's a mess. You're a mess. And he loves it that way.

He watches your face twist in embarrassment; watches you try to look away. Then he brings his fingers to his lips.

And sucks. Slow. Deliberate. One finger at a time, tongue curling to lap up every trace of what he pulled from you. His eyes never leave yours, even as his mouth moves— hot and filthy and reverent all at once.

"Mmm," he hums low in his throat, lips dragging off his fingertips with a quiet, obscene pop. "Tasty."

You swallow hard and his lips curl in that way of his, that crooked knowing tilt, and your throat works around another almost painful swallow.

Simon wastes no time after that, reaching down to free himself, and your thighs instinctively tense. "Easy, sweet'eart," the strokes he gives his cock are lazy. "Ain't nothin' you 'avent taken before."

You try to respond, that no matter how many times he fucks you, nothing ever prepares you for that first slow push in, but your words crumble on your tongue as he lifts your legs and pushes them up, high, until your knees are nearly pressed into your chest. Then he hooks them over his shoulders, the muscles of them rolling beneath his skin like thunder, and locks them in place with his arms braced on either side of your waist. The shift tilts your hips up perfectly, exposing every inch of your aching pussy, open and helpless beneath him.

"Stay right there." As if you have any other choice, sits tartly behind your clenched teeth. He lines himself up, thick and heavy, the flushed head of his cock hot and firm against your entrance, and he doesn't slam. Doesn't thrust. Simon just... presses.

Steady. Firm. Merciless. Like he has all the time in the world to fill you, and he's going to take every second to make sure you feel every goddamn inch.

Your breath catches instantly, hips twitching, instinct screaming to move, to brace, to ease it somehow, but he just holds you still. One giant hand on your hip, the other planted by your ribs.

He looks up from where the two of you join to look at your pretty face, to watch how your eyebrows tighten, how your jaw slackens slightly at the intrusion. (Assault, more like.)

"That's just the tip, pet," Simon croons.

And it burns.

Your walls stretch, clinging tight around the thick crown of him as he inches forward, ridge by ridge, dragging the edge of pleasure and pain along every tender nerve inside you. Your legs shake, thighs trembling with the effort to stay open.

Simon groans softly, deep in his throat, like your body's making it hard for him too.

"Fuck," he rasps. "Tight fuckin' fit." He keeps going, slow, unstoppable. Each inch makes you fuller, until your back curls and your nails dig into his arms in surrender. And still, he doesn't stop. Doesn't let you escape the stretch. He just keeps pressing in, deeper, hotter, until your body is shaking and your mind's blank from how much of him there is to take.

When he finally bottoms out, hips flush to yours, your cunt stretched around him impossibly wide, he just stays there, pulsing deep, cock throbbing, letting you feel what you've been made to take.

No rush.

Then he starts to rock his hips, and you cry out— loud, raw— because it's too deep. Too deep. This angle has him hitting places that have you squirming away. Or trying to, anyway, but he just follows, pulling an inch out and pressing back in, unmoved by your struggle.

No mercy.

"Don't run," he hisses, "You're right where you need t'be." You let out a choked sound, half whimper, half plea, but he grinds forward, hips rolling slow, never leaving you empty. Not for a second. Simon keeps you full, stuffed, aching.

"Fuck, look at ya," sweat drips down from his forehead, coming to drip off his crooked nose. "Takin' it all in with those legs wide open f'r me." He fucks you in earnest now, his rhythm that of someone with too much body and too much need. Every thrust slams your hips into the mattress, your breath punched out in ragged gasps. Simon drives into you like he's trying to fuck any rational thought out of your head, and he is.

He fucks you not just with his cock, but his whole body. His hips slam forward with enough force that you can feel it in your bones, the mattress groaning as it tries to hold itself together. His chest crushes yours down when he leans in to bite your shoulder, your inner thighs screaming as they widen even further to accommodate him. There's no escaping it. There's no outrunning a man like him.

"You're not leavin' this bed 'til I finish in you."

You know what that means. You've felt it before: the way he pulses at the end, the way he doesn't stop even when he starts to come. How he fucks through it, forcing it deeper, making sure your sweet pussy doesn't spill a drop.

You sincerely hope an apology will be enough to not get kicked to the curb by your boss.

You don't remember falling asleep after he came in you— only the deep, bone-melting ache of being used so thoroughly you couldn't lift your hips, let alone your head. When you wake up, it's to the smell of coffee, your thighs still sticky, his seed still warm inside you. When you roll over to grab your phone, there's a new message.

It's short, concise.

"We've decided to terminate your position effective immediately. Best of luck in your future endeavors."

You stare at the screen.

Fired.

Simon stands in the doorway, a towel slung low around his hips, hair damp from a shower you don't remember him taking.

"You alright?" he asks, voice smooth and casual.

Your eyes flit up to his, stunned. "I got fired."

He lifts a brow, and walks over, his thumb brushing over a dark blotch of red and violet from where his jaw clenched too tight. "Look at tha'. Can't even touch you without feelin' my own goddamn teeth."

You shake your head, still processing. "I thought— I thought he was being understanding. My boss said we could talk..."

He sighs, soft and dismissive. "Sorry 'bout tha', love," and kisses your forehead, gently, sweet almost. "Let's order in, anythin' you want."

Nodding absently, you lean into him, sighing, small and defeated. He wraps his arms around you, lifting you onto his lap like you weigh nothing. Your head rests against his chest, your heart heavy.

And in his arms, you let yourself slip away, completely ignorant of the late-night phone call Simon had made from the edge of the bed, his tone cool and detached. The words had been measured, absolute, as he told your boss you wouldn't be coming back.

"Make it final.”

(no breakfast in bed, though. he won't have ants in the bedroom.)

1K notes · View notes

ellaa-writes · 2 days ago

Text

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Twelve

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (mdni): post-apocalypse au, swearing, blood, tending to injuries, dubcon showering, brief nudity, angst

Word Count: 4.2k

You and Simon face the aftermath of his actions.

Chapter Twelve // Chapter Fourteen

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

“That’s the last of it.”

A pair of bloodied tweezers lands with a soft clink in a shallow metal pan. It’s small. Rectangular. Filled with red. Filled with glass. Each a painful, sparkling reminder. Each a fragment of boundless torture.

“Should shower,” continues Simon, his voice low, bordering on soothing. “To be sure.”

Mustering any response is impossible. Even with the glass gone, your back still aches—still stings from the bite of those tiny shards. An injury that could have been avoided if you hadn’t panicked. If you had calmed down and listened rather than assumed the worst of him, the evening wouldn’t have turned out bloody.

The tiny cuts in your back are nothing compared to Simon’s. He sports worse slices, and he’s hardly tended to them. Rivers of dark red stain the side of his face, stemming from a deep cut above his right eyebrow. Smaller cuts pepper his head and neck were broken glass made a home. Bloodied and naked, mouth and chin still slightly glossy from your arousal, Simon is the warrior returned from battle, uncaring of his wounds and only wanting his woman.

It's a heady visual, yet your heart burns. Burns with lust. Burns with anger. Burns with hunger. Burns with betrayal.

How could you, Simon?

“You’re bleeding,” you murmur, because it’s true and you don’t know what else to say.

Simon shows no indication that it bothers him. “So are you.”

“I’ll be fine,” you breathe, nearly laughing at his concern for you. There is far more blood coming from him. The cuts deeper from taking the brunt of the impact.

And you will be fine. Physically. Cuts and scratches and bruises and blood and everything else can heal. It can mend. Be washed away. But there is a deeper wound, one calcified to your marrow, leeching and sucking and squirming around like a cancerous slug.

“I’ll turn on the water,” replies Simon, reaching for the shower curtain.

Simon deserves nothing from you.

“Stop.”

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

“Your face, Simon.” You’re looking over your shoulder at him, observing how the blood is both terrifyingly attractive and desperately worrying. “There’s glass.”

“Had worse.”

Stubborn fool.

“Doesn’t matter.” You’re reaching for the tweezers. Reaching for the bottle of rubbing alcohol. “Glass can’t stay.”

“No,” agrees Simon, his fingers lightly dancing over the cuts on your back. “It can’t.”

Pouring the alcohol over the tweezers in your hand sends rivers of it into small cuts in your skin. You hiss, nearly dropping the tweezers in the sink.

“Here,” he murmurs with a tenderness that causes your heart to drop into your stomach.

The twisting yank between affection and frustration turns sour in your gut. Your lungs are incapable of filling to capacity. Only shallow breathes will do.

You swat away his hand, giving Simon your back as you shake off the excess rubbing alcohol. “Sit,” you instruct with a nod of your head toward the toilet seat lid. “You’re too tall.”

Simon disregards your bluntness. Stepping around you, the tips of his fingers ghost over your hip. It sends a shiver through. It is duality in motion—a flare of desire mixed with hesitation. The two of you are naked, standing in a bathroom that is far too small to hold the both of you, covered in drying blood.

You hate him. I don’t hate him.

You’re angry with him. I’m terrified, Simon.

The plastic lid of the toilet groans under Simon’s weight. Leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees, he tilts his head to the side, presenting the worst wounds to you. Wounds that you made. Perhaps you overreacted in the moment. You allowed the primal instinct that’s kept you alive to take over, and in turn, it betrayed you.

That’s all you remember, really. Everything else is a bit of a blur. Even Simon, the shape of him, and his fingers moving inside you, is fuzzy. Almost…warped, as if it wasn’t entirely real. It’s not a good feeling, but it’s tangible. At least you’re not numb.

Of what you recall the least; it is Simon’s fingers and the amount of cum he guided into your pussy. As you sanitize the tweezers, you try to recall that moment in as much clarity as possible. The hot spurt of cum against your clit. Gentle fingers swirling it around until you were brought to orgasm. Penetration. Thick and perfect and so good you were on the verge of asking Simon to fuck you. At the peak of your climax, Simon inserted two fingers inside you, fucked you with them as if they were his dick.

The tweezers are cold in your hand.

Did Simon push his cum inside you? You swear he did, but why do you doubt? Why? Cum-laced fingers are still cum-laced fingers. There’s still a chance. And Simon risked it. Without asking.

“Stay still,” you murmur. You shouldn’t be nice to him. Fucker. “Don’t want to nick you.”

Tweezers find glass. Lift. Remove. Falls amongst its siblings with a clink. You don’t speak, and Simon remains mute as you find the tiny shards imbedded in his skin.

Clink.

Simon clears his throat.

Clink.

“Can I explain myself?”

Clink.

Silence.

Clink.

“Dove.”

“If you try I’ll put it all back,” you growl.

Simon grimaces as the tweezers find a deeply embedded piece of glass. “You think I did it on purpose.”

Clink.

“I know you did,” you retort.

Clink.

“I did.” Your hand pauses at Simon’s admission. “But you’re wrong about why.”

Clink.

“Don’t enlighten me.”

The last of what you find drops into the metal pan. You set the tweezers down on the sink. Blood stains your fingers and the porcelain. As you step away, Simon reaches out, his large hands grasping the backs of your thighs to tug you between his spread legs. Reactively, you place your hands on his shoulders, pushing back as if you’re strong enough to break his hold.

“Picking out glass wasn’t an invitation,” you snap.

Simon appears unperturbed, his expression pensive. “We should talk about this.”

You may be calmer than when you were smashing a glass vase over Simon’s head, but you’re not levelheaded. You’re a worn rag that’s been twisted one too many times. Falling apart yet holding on by a thread. Your nerves are fried, and those blackened parts have soiled your mood. A spark still lives within you—a primal anxiety wanting to gnash its teeth.

You press the back of your hand to your forehead. Rest. You need rest. And an uninterrupted sleep wedged between a mountain of pillows.

“Fine,” you growl. “You want to talk?” The attitude comes roaring forward and you inwardly cringe. This is exactly what you didn’t want. To show how on edge you are. “I’m sorry. Happy?”

Simon frowns. “For what?”

“For,” you gesture at his head. “Using your cranium as target practice.”

“Is that normal after you orgasm?” asks Simon in a monotone voice.

“What?” you blurt.

“Don’t think my skull can handle it.” He shrugs. “But I’ll try.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Is he serious? “Are you—are you making a joke?”

Simon’s hands tighten on your thighs, squeezing in a way that is far too intimate. Your body betrays you, responding to him, the space between your legs igniting with excitement.

He avoids your question. “A shower,” he nods his head toward the closed curtain. Simon lightly slaps your left cheek and releases your thighs, standing.

You take a step back, but there is little room in such a small space. “You said you wanted to talk about what happened?” Another step has you bumping into the wall.

“We don’t need any lingering glass,” he says, retrieving a couple towels and setting them aside but within reach of the shower curtain.

A headache starts to form behind your eyes. “You can go first,” you reply dismissively.

Simon glances over his shoulder. “We’re showering together.”

The headache intensifies. “That is not necessary. I can wait.”

Simon fully turns to face you. Thick rivulets of blood drip onto his tattooed arm. Red amongst black. Trailing down. Coating hip. Coating thigh. Staining—you stare at Simon’s face with extreme intensity. You will not look down. You will not.

“My mouth was on your pussy, dove,” he says casually, using the back of his hand to wipe away blood on his chin. He smears it. “Think we’re past modesty.”

With a grimace and a twinge of embarrassment, you attempt to stand your ground. “You’re insulting me.”

“How?” he asks. “It’s true.”

“That’s not the point.”

Simon takes one step forward, and then you’re truly backed against the wall. “We both need it. Why waste warm water?”

You snort with disbelief. “Unbelievable. Using the same trick as before? How original.”

There is no calmness in your heart. The defensiveness is rising again, curling into an itch that longs to lash out with wagging tongue. It wants to slice into him, severing limbs, and opening fresh wounds. Fists are not your ammunition. Not if you can help it.

“It’s not a trick,” he sighs, as if you’re a petulant child in need of a good scolding.

“But do I have a choice, Simon?” The venom of your words burns your lips. “Seems I ask you that a lot. I find that interesting.”

His expression is serene, almost pitying. You fucking it.

“There’s always a choice, dove.”

You’ve grown to like the pet name Simon uses with you, but right now, you want nothing more than to squish it under your foot like a pesky bug.

A choice. There is always a choice. An illusion of selection.

It’s not a lie to admit that you enjoyed yourself today, that you liked spending time with Simon outside of…everything. His arrival at your door was unexpected but not unwelcome. The way he sat beside you, spoke softly to you, tried to help you through the overwhelming stress showed him in a different light. You saw the man beneath. Not the killer. Not the kidnapper.

Then he took you away from it all for a bit, allowing you to feel fucking normal for once. The coneflowers were an unexpected but lovely touch. A piece of your home. You had said so, and Simon did everything to bring it here to you.

But it’s a game. And why are you surprised? You’ve been using him, too. Something to latch on to. A back-up in case things go south. It’s clear that he wants you, and that is easy to manipulate, but is it manipulation when you’re constantly penned into a corner by those around you? Are you making any progress? Or are you only digging yourself a hole?

No. You have no room for mercy.

“You keep proving how much of a selfish bastard you are,” you murmur. “You take whatever you want. And give me nothing.”

The truth of how you feel drips from you like a bloody faucet. This is not how you wanted things to go, but the words have already been said. Can’t take them back. Better to surge forward and be done with it.

Simon simply stares, and you hate how you cannot discern what he might be thinking. “You think I’m selfish?”

You laugh. It’s watery. A drowning quality. “Yes,” you breathe. “You’ve even admitted to it, Simon.”

“I know,” he admits without hesitation.

“Then why ask the question!” you exclaim.

Simon takes a step back, turning toward the shower curtain. He yanks it open, revealing the simple showerhead that juts from the ceiling and the lopsided tile work that desperately needs new grout. The metal temperature knob surrenders to him.

“I’m only selfish when it comes to you.”

A metal pipe in the wall clanks loudly. Water trickles, and then becomes a steady deluge.

You wrap your arms around yourself protectively. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Simon studies the water for a few long seconds. Extending his bloodied hand, he presents it, palm upward, toward the showerhead. As the water hits him, it mixes with the drying blood, turning into pink rivers that travel along his forearm and drips onto the floor.

He removes his hand, lightly shaking off some of the excess. “It’s hot,” he declares, ignoring your question.

You guffaw, pressing your palm to your forehead. This man is unbelievable. And you nearly fucked him. “I’m not taking a shower with you,” you declare, as if that will change anything.

With a sniff and a blatant crack of his neck, Simon grabs you by the waist, shifts you around, and guides you under the hot water.

“You asshole!” you shriek.

Simon playfully taps the tip of your nose. “You’ll be fine, dove.” Grasping the back of your neck with both hands, Simon tilts your head back until your hair is covered by the stream of water. “Can’t let you keep the glass.”

He stands directly in front of you, his body caging you in, feet planted on either side of yours. With the curtain partially in place, it creates a private alcove where there is no one in this world but the two of you. It’s hard to focus with Simon’s hands on you, how tender and soft they are, how caring he is even after everything.

You smashed a glass vase over his head. Clawed at his face. Spit at him. Snarled. You were pure desperation. Bottled frightened doe. A caged animal scenting slaughter. The years after, when you were alone, they’ve changed you. Made you frightened of everything.

I thought you were over this.

Simon is an asshole for what he did. Listening is the last thing you want to do because it’s too soon. You need space. You need to think. To have yourself some peace before you can even fathom speaking to him.

He’s leaving.

“I can wash my own hair,” you growl.

“You’re injured.” Simon shrugs. “Let me handle it.”

You arch your neck in an attempt to free yourself from his hold. But there is no space. No room. Simon stands in front of the only exit. It is you, wedged between him and the tile wall, unable to flee but not entirely wanting to.

Anger is a brute force. While it swells inside you, there is tenderness that coats it like a comforting blanket, wanting to soothe the flames. It’s fucking annoying.

You decide on sharpened tongue. “You think you can take whatever you want.” Simon lathers up the shampoo. Ignores your quip. “That’s how you’re selfish. You take from me as if you’re owed it.”

Simon’s hands fall away from your scalp. He rinses his hands. “I take whatever I want.”

It’s not a statement. Not a question. He’s hearing you, but you sense that Simon is about to turn this entire conversation on its head. And still you push. It’s what you always do.

You form fists. Bring them down on his chest. It’s a pathetic blow. Slides right off his water-slick skin. “I can write you a whole goddamn list,” you snarl.

Simon grasps your wrists, but it’s not to stay your wayward hands. He pins them to your chest, shoves you back with enough force to startle you but not hurt. The momentum sends you toward the tile wall, but Simon is careful of your back, bringing you flush against him rather than awakening those fresh wounds.

“I could take whatever I want,” he murmurs, gaze intense. “I could have. And I didn’t.”

“Well, congrat-u-fucking-lations,” you mock.

The middle of Simon’s brow creases, and you swallow down the next snarky thing you were going to say. A dangerous man stares back at you. The same dangerous man you met that horrible day. In that stare is territorial possession. Wound around it like twisting vines is brutal violence, as if ready for any exterior threat.

You lick your lips. The water there faintly tastes of shampoo. “You haven’t always given me a choice.” Your hands flex, fingers stretching. Simon’s grip on your wrists slackens but does not release. “That’s what you don’t understand.”

“And I keep telling you—"

“Don’t you dare,” you growl. “You had no right.”

Simon shakes his head. “I fucked you with my fingers.”

“Fingers that had your cum on them.”

“Hardly.”

“Don’t minimize this,” you hiss. “I was scared, Simon. You scared me.”

A crack forms in the brutalness of his gaze. Softening, it returns to a look that is familiar and comforting. “I’m sorry if I scared you. That wasn’t my intention.” His grip on your wrists tightens ever so slightly. It’s a whisp of a tug. A fleeting pull that draws you in. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No. You weren’t.”

“I’m trying to talk this out with you,” he huffs.

The arrogance of this man.

“And I said I needed space.”

Simon mouth turns downward. “I leave in two days.”

“Plenty of time,” you reply.

He releases your wrists, running his hands over his face in agitation. “What is it that really want to say to me?”

“Fucking Christ, Simon,” you mumble, attempting to turn away from him. Without proper clearance, you only manage a slight shift to the right.

Simon grasps your chin, forcing you to look at him. Some of deluge gets into your eyes. You blink rapidly, twisting your neck to break his hold, but he stays firm. “Say it.”

“You’re trying to impregnant me.”

Simon’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s not—”

“Cut the shit,” you snap.

Simon matches your energy. “I was pussy drunk.”

“That’s a weak fucking excuse.”

“It’s not a lie.”

“But it’s not the whole truth,” you insist, stepping into his space, allowing your anger to settle in. If Simon wants to talk, the two of you can fucking talk. “What do you even like about me?”

Simon blinks, clearly startled by the question. The thought has been nagging at you. Festering.

“What makes me special?” you breathe, pushing more. “Is it my womb?” You place your hand on Simon’s chest, splaying your fingers wide. “A new toy?” A soft stroke. A tease of a touch. Simon’s eyelids flutter.

Fucking bastard.

“A soft cunt to stick your dick in?”

Simon’s nostrils flare. The hand on your chin shifts, falling to your throat. Squeezing. “Or a wife,” he adds with a growl.

“No wonder you tried to baby trap me.”

The flash of irritation flares and quickly dissipates. His hand around your throat eases, lowering until it’s resting against your collarbone. “I’m just a man.” His gaze lingers where his hand rests. “And you were fucking perfect under me. And I—” Simon’s hand slowly ascends, encircling your throat again. “I had one thing on my mind.”

Men always do. You don’t entirely fault him for that. But it’s not an excuse.

“I don’t have space for forgiveness,” you murmur, voice barely audible above the running water. “Not yet.”

This admission displeases him, but he doesn’t verbalize it. Instead, Simon reaches for the conditioner, and all the steam rushes of you as if you were hit by a bus. Everything crashes. Slows. The only energy you have left is reserved for standing. Staying afloat. Simon understands, because he doesn’t goad you or attempt to continue the conversation. Under the warm spray, he rechecks your cuts, scrubs away the blood with soap. All of his attention and care is for, and somehow, it’s not sexual.

There is no groping. No unwanted touches. His movements are practical and purposeful, wanting to cleanse and clean rather than seek intimacy. This act alone brings tears to your eyes. An adrenaline drop that makes you lightheaded.

“All done,” he murmurs, hooking his pointer finger under your chin, tilting your face up.

You’re boneless. Empty. Yet you’re not unfeeling.

You exhale, and the words that follow hurt. “You next.”

Simon drops his hand, observing you as you pick up the soap. Lathering it, you start with is arms, fingers running over the tattoos, scrubbing away the rivers of blood. At your feet, the floor turns red, then pink, then clear once more.

Tentatively, you press your fingers to the space just under the cut in his head where the glass vase impacted. It’s not as deep as you thought. A surface wound. Something that will heal easily and cleaning with time. It’s not pretty though, and it’ll just be one more scar amongst the many he already has.

Once Simon’s body is clean, you reach for the shampoo, careful not to allow any of it to run into his head wound. It’s a slow process, but neither of seem in any hurry. Simon, to his credit, bows his head for your convenience, unbothered by the fact that his neck has to hurt from the angle.

With a light touch, you cradle the side of Simon’s face. His gaze sweeps toward you, and then his head lifts. The water is starting to cool, but you’re warm inside.

“Lieutenant,” you breathe.

“We’re back to that?” he teases.

You start to drop your hand, but Simon ensnares your wrist, bringing your palm to his mouth. It’s a light brush of his lips. A gentle kiss to your flattened skin, just in the dip. A fracture forms in your heart—a breaking of resolve. You’d give anything to stand outside, alone, in the dark, and scream.

“What do you think would happen?” you ask softly as Simon lifts his head. “If it took?”

The shift is slight—almost imperceptible—but you see the tension, the seizing of Simon’s muscles. His gaze is assessing, eyes shifting over your face as he considers the question. A beat of silence. Movement. Simon reaches behind you. Shuts off the water.

“It’s late,” he states.

You blink, surprised by Simon’s sudden withdrawal. He wraps a towel around you, and you sink into it, holding it close to your body as he unabashedly steps out of the shower fully nude. He quickly runs his own towel over himself, draping it over his neck once he’s done. You keep your focus everywhere but his nudity.

Entering the bedroom, Simon heads for your closet. With a confused frown, you follow.

“What are you doing?” you ask as you discover him with an empty duffle bag.

“Packing your clothes for tomorrow,” he replies, glancing at your clothes with a considering expression.

“I—”

“You can’t stay here.” Simon gestures toward your bed with a quick nod.

You slowly turn, and wince at the destruction. The bed is intact but it’s covered in broken glass, crushed flowers, and stained, bloodied sheets.

“And stay where?” you ask, tentatively.

“With me.”

“That isn’t necessary,” you say quickly. “I can stay with Hannah. Or Eloise.”

Simon pivots. “At this hour?”

You check the time, and know that he’s right. They likely won’t be up. And it’s not like you know where either of them live.

Simon returns to rummaging through your clothes. “I’ll wear this,” you interject, grabbing a few things off the hangers and handing it to him. Simon stuffs them in the duffle bag, and heads for the bathroom, throwing in a few of your toiletries.

It’s nice not having to think, to not do something for yourself. And as much as you’re upset with the situation, a small part of you is melting under this attention and care. It’s fucking frustrating. Downright confusing. Two days isn’t nearly enough time to figure it out.

And when he leaves, there is a chance he won’t come back. What will you do then?

A sharp tightness seizes your stomach, twisting and tangling until you have to remind yourself to breathe deeply. It takes all your energy to focus on grabbing yourself some clean clothes, to dress, to find shoes and pretend that you’re not on the verge of collapsing. The only reprieve is that the walk to Simon’s apartment isn’t far. Only a building over, and a couple flights of stairs.

Bone weary. Sluggish. Every step is stiff and slow. You hardly notice the details. Hardly notice the layout. You simply follow Simon into the bedroom, sighing with happiness when the bed comes into view. Limbs move on their own, guiding you onto the soft duvet, or tearing it back to nestle underneath the sheets, to burrow amongst the pillows.

The bed dips beside you, and the spell is broken.

You turn onto your back to face Simon, but he’s not sliding in beside you. He sits on the edge, expression pensive.

“You can stay here for the night. You’ll be safe. When you leave in the morning, turn the lock on doorknob. It’ll lock behind you.”

You lick your lips. Find them dry. “Are you not staying?”

Simon shakes his head, fingers flexing where they rest against the duvet. “Need to take care of something.”

You nod, sinking back into the bed, the warmth of it seeping into your bones and softening your muscles. Simon shifts. Starts to get up. Sits back down. Leaning in, he reaches out, grasping the side your neck, cradling it like you’re precious.

His eyes are watery. “I’d cherish the both of you.”

Simon abruptly pulls away, grabbing his jacket as he exits the bedroom. You listen in the silence, closing your eyes when you hear the front door shut. Every breath hurts. Stings. You’re starting to drown. To fracture. This place is suffocating.

You’re not sure when you drift off. It’s almost instant in the way you go from consciousness to nothing. What you do recall is Simon’s scent, how it clings to everything, how nice and comforting it is as sleep lulls you into its embrace.

It’s a blanket.

An envelopment.

Your lungs are full of him.

221 notes · View notes

ellaa-writes · 2 days ago

Text

AN: i got a little carried away here, oops.

older icky boyfriend simon riley with his younger easily flustered girlfriend who just can't get enough of him.

bickering with him about a commercial you remember and when he pulls it up and tells you the year it was released you defiantly say "That wasn't that long ago!" to which he replies "Oh yeah? What grade were you in sweetheart?" causing you to blush and dart your eyes away from him, knowing the answer is shameful.

singing along to songs in the car that your dad used to listen to, late 90's and early 2000's alternative/rock, when simon turns to you and asks how you know these songs. "It's dad rock!" you proclaim before simon snorts and goes to change the song to a classic rock song from the 80's, "This is dad rock sweetheart." watching as your face goes bright red as you sputter some nonsense about growing up with dad's who were into different kinds of music.

when your car takes a shit on you, simon is quick to fix it, claiming that he's "been working on these cars since you were born" hanging over your head that your car was a shitbox from the era of the early 2000's. never letting you be the one to drive, you find yourself sitting in his nice new truck, just another thing that reminded you of the difference between the two of you. how he was old enough that he could afford such a luxury while you were stuck with the car you got when you turned sixteen.

it's even worse once he gets you in the bedroom, teasing you for your lack of experience while you gag on his cock, watching as you struggle to take it. "you'll learn how to take what I give you doll" he coos, reveling in the sounds of your struggle. when you first felt him through the thick fabric of his jeans during a random drive your eyes went wide, muttering that you've never had someone as big as him. "of course you've never been with anyone as big as me, you've never been with someone as, how do i put this, qualified before me."

and when you take his cock for the first time? stars explode behind your vision at just the tip. whining about how it's "too big" and watching as simon just chuckles, bullying more of his length into you. "You can handle me baby girl, just look at what you're doing to me." he groaned, sweat glistening on his chest, muscles flexing as he tried his best not to lose control.

he's rearranging your guts when you first say it. writhing in a bliss heavy heaven that had you believing in a god you had never thought once about. "d-daddy please!" simon's pace stutters, and you worry you may have said something wrong, until you feel a brutal thrust against your cervix that has you screaming. "daddy huh? should've guessed a dirty little thing like you would like the fact that I'm older than you."

simon doesn't let up after that, teasing you by getting you to say it even outside of the bedroom. you need help getting some shoes on? "thanks daddy" you want a particular skirt at the mall? he's making you say "please daddy" in a way that has him wanting to take you to the nearest fitting room and show you exactly what it does to him. he has you so trained, that when you say "thank you daddy" when he compliments your new dress, he's already tugging you over so he can show you just how much he likes it.

932 notes · View notes

ellaa-writes · 3 days ago

Text

demon!Price

Was in a diabolical mood.

Full frontal (with a little surprise) on my Patreon.

801 notes · View notes

ellaa-writes · 3 days ago

Text

Put him on his place

I forget to upload this one here lol

643 notes · View notes

ellaa-writes · 3 days ago

Text

I NEED A HERO, the bloodied knight returning to his lady.

Tip jar

8K notes · View notes

ellaa-writes · 4 days ago

Text

Simon always goes for a run, doesn't matter where, doesn't matter when, that man is keeping fit no matter what. The last run he went on, he dropped his water bottle and it cracked. He'd told himself he'd replace it but, with a busy schedule and getting deployed the day after, well, it slipped his mind.

So, when he's jogging the next time he's home, in the summer heat, sweat dripping down his face, wet black t-shirt in his hand and he sees your little van, why, he is relieved. He stops in his tracks, panting like a dog as he approached, dipping his hand into the pocket of his shorts, cursing under his breath when he realises he has no change.

You spot him immediately, grinning ear to ear, chirping like a songbird, 'what can I get'cha?'

He waves his hand about in the air and shakes his head, 'never mind,' he says, 'got no money on me.'

He turned his back, head throbbing, prepared to make the long run back home all for you to call out to him, 'hey! Wait - it's fine,' You sound urgent, almost alarmed that he was daring to leave, 'I'll get you whatever you want, on the house. You'll overheat in this heat without something to drink.'

You figure he would take advantage of the offer, granted, you've only done this a couple of times whenever you eyed someone who looked as though they were one step away from collapsing.

'Water,' he says, turning to face you, stuffing his hands back into his pockets, 'please, love.'

You stare at him, 'just... just water?'

'Yeah,' he says, the corner of his mouth twitching, 'jus' water.'

You give him a bottle of water and he thanks you. You expect for it to be the last you see of the man as he leaves just as quickly as he appears. Only, the next day when you return back from your lunch break, you find a twenty pound note taped to the closed shutter on your van, with a note. The handwriting is messy, but you know exactly who left it there.

Thanks for the water, birdie, would've collapsed if it hadn't been for you. Buy yourself somethin' pretty - SR

554 notes · View notes

ellaa-writes · 4 days ago

Text

underdog / chapter 3 ghost x f!reader / cyberpunk au / masterlist

cw: extremely dubious consent, rape/noncon elements, power imbalance, violence and gore, minor character death, verbal abuse - full tags in masterlist

“Need you at your best tonight, Stella.”

“I’m always at my best.”

“I mean it.”

You’re at Solace tonight. A privacy pod at the back of the dining room—soundproof, one-way tinted glass.

As always, Ghost at the ready. Hands folded at his front, blocking the exit. He hasn’t looked your way much since your reconciliation with Win. It strangely irks you, but there are other things to worry about.

“You haven’t told me what this is about.” Whatever it is, it’s serious. He never takes you to meetings like this. “Bushido?”

The past few weeks have been nothing but grind. Preparing for the screen test day in and day out since it’s the one big job on the table. More courses, more practice runs with old scripts. Even started a beginner’s boxing class that’s been kicking your ass four times a week to make you seem more believable. You don’t know the role or your partner yet, but you’ll be ready. You have to be.

Win’s mouth twitches. “No. Not that.” He steals your hand from your lap to kiss your knuckles. “You’re gonna act, though. Be quiet. Look pretty. The guy we’re meeting is serious shit and dry as dust. He’s looking for a partner, and I want him throwing himself at both of us before dessert.”

Your eyebrows hit your hairline, but before you can voice your immediate displeasure, Ghost speaks.

“They’re ‘ere.”

A thin man cuts through the sea of tables, flanked by two figures. You take stock of the leader.

Silver hair, amber eyes. Chrome stretches from cheekbone to cheekbone, crossing the bridge of his nose. His clothes are all wrong for Solace. Plain, utilitarian, function over fashion.

An optical scan returns nothing useful. All three profiles flag the same: Restricted Data.

It’s the green piping on the collars that gives it away. Neon, a tiny detail, but unmistakable.

Barghest.

To make it worse, you recognize the muscle. Muttonchops. You served the bigger men weeks ago, before you quit.

You shoot Win a wide-eyed look, but he’s already rising to greet them. You snap into place at his hip.

The trio enters the pod, and Ghost moves smoothly back into position, squared to the room. His counterparts mirror him.

Their leader wastes no time and closes the distance towards Win’s extended hand.

“Mr. Goforth.”

“Mr. Szabó, a pleasure.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” the man returns, clasping hands in a firm shake. “And who might you be? The starlet I’ve heard so much about?”

“In the flesh,” you smile.

“Organic and ample,” Win adds, gesturing to the table. “Shall we get down to business?”

Szabó lingers on you a moment longer before nodding. “Let’s.”

You never place an order, but the food and more drinks arrive like clockwork. And despite Win’s warning, it’s far from dull. You pick at your plate, sip a delicate gin, and pretend not to listen as the real conversation unfolds.

You can’t help it. This is your first real peek behind the curtain, and what’s behind it is staggering.

The conversation’s coded, but not enough to bar understanding. Product logistics, they say—smuggling. Client bookings, a euphemism for leveraging their high-profile talent, the Goforth Agency’s top shelf, as mules to Dogtown. Sanctioned by Hansen himself as part of a longstanding arrangement, and how Win funds his excesses.

But tonight isn’t about the status quo. It’s about expanding it. Transforming it. They’re talking regime change.

Only, something’s off. They’re not aligned, tension barbing every word. Something went wrong somewhere and amends are piecemeal.

You gather that whatever Win was meant to accomplish in ‘Palm Springs’ backfired spectacularly. He played his hand too soon and inadvertently tipped off a man named Chester Bennett to the plot. Not only did he lose money, he gave Bennett a reason to start digging.

That name conjures something cold and queasy. You’ve heard it before—from the men Ghost turned into ground meat outside Prism.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom and barely make it. The world tilts, stomach churning as you press your forehead to the cool tile. You don’t lose your dinner,but the nausea swells and recedes in punishing waves. Whatever Win’s dragged you into, it’s not just dangerous. It’s suicidal.

When you return, a chill waits in your seat. Ghost stands rigid, fury etched into every line of his body as he glares at his boss.

Win makes a show of furrowing his brows and getting to his feet as you settle.

“Apologies, Szabó, I need to take a call. Shouldn’t be long. Come on, Ghost.”

Ghost doesn’t move. His gaze darts between you and the man across the table.

“Ghost,” Win hisses.

It takes a beat, but he finally pushes off the wall. As he exits, he casts one last glance over his shoulder—then the door shuts, and you vanish from his line of sight.

Szabó watches them go with a small smile. With a flick of his hand, the Barghest dogs file out to stand sentry.

You’re on your own.

Szabó says nothing at first. He reclines slightly, staring. Neither leering, nor with contempt. It’s clinical. Curious.

You shift, prickly under the sudden scrutiny. “You get out of Dogtown often, Mr. Szabó?”

He ignores the question completely, instead gently swirling his untouched cocktail, studying the way its indigo color clings to the rim.

“You’re very beautiful, but you’re not my type.”

You blink. “What?”

“I was wondering if you were Win’s backup plan,” he goes on, cutting clean through whatever excuse you were about to stammer. “Let me guess. He told you to, I don’t know, to flutter your eyelashes and push your tits out?”

Your blood rushes hot, and for a moment, you think you’re drunk—because shame hits in one hard wave.

“Oh! No, I mean—that’s not—I’m not—Win didn’t—”

Szabó sips, unbothered. Pity quirks his mouth. “That is what’s happening. You’ve been served up as dessert. Happens more often than you think.” He tilts his head, eyeing you like something pinned to a board. “According to my intel, he’s done this before. Dozens of times. Bright-eyed little starlets pushed into laps as party favors when he loses leverage. Sold off if and when they’re no longer useful.”

He produces a rumpled handkerchief, presenting it without slowing.

“The young Goforth is laughably and appallingly transparent. Seems the apple didn’t just fall far from the tree—it rolled off a cliff.”

Reluctantly, you take the cloth.

“Shame,” he murmurs. “Scorpions like him always find something soft to sting. You strike me as a decent girl.”

The words dislodge something in your chest. You swallow against the rising lump, but your throat’s too tight. What he’s pointing out—what he’s spelling out so plainly—you’d known it. In that deep, avoidant corner of your mind. The one walled off from everything you don’t dare admit.

You thought you were different. That if you played it right, you’d be safe. Out from under his wings and flying.

You cling to the lie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m one of Win’s clients. I’m an actress.”

“And you’ve no doubt followed our conversation this evening, haven’t you?”

You don’t answer.

“Then you already know,” he says. “Win’s clients are never just pretty mouthpieces. Call yourself what you like. But you’re not a client. You’re an employee. Employees are tools—useful, but always, always replaceable.”

You go somewhere inside yourself to survive the rest of that sentence. Float a little. You see Win in your kitchen, wild-eyed and dangerous. At Embers, feeding you cake with stained fingers, toasting your future in place of an apology. You thought you understood the trade. One last shot at making it.

“Why are you telling me this? Why not ignore me?”

“There are very few ways in which Junior and I are alike,” he says coolly. “But our preferences in tools? That, I suppose, is where we overlap. You may be useful, yet.”

His gaze dials to the middle distance as he fires off a message. Outside the booth, Muttonchops taps a finger to his temple.

“We’re done here. I will inform Mr. Goforth of my decision. Let Ghost know he’s free to collect his girl.”

He rises and extends a hand, and you hesitantly take it.

“My apologies in advance, by the way. I’m about to make your…boss, let’s call him that, very angry. Still, nice meeting you.”

You don’t need to ask what he means.

The soundproof hush bursts like a bubble as the door slides open and noise from the restaurant floods in. The mohawked guard appears, holding the door while Szabó releases your hand. He strides out without looking back, and Muttonchops falls in behind him.

“Hope to see ye again soon,” the remaining Barghest soldier lilts. His gaze ticks toward the front of the restaurant—and his lips lift in a grin before he chuckles. “That’s my cue tae go.”

Ghost weaves back through the restaurant, servers skittering out of his path.

The Barghest guard’s laugh rings as he slips through the door, leaving you alone for a precious few more seconds as Ghost approaches.

You start to rise, seeing now what he intends, but he’s faster. The solid wall of him fills the entrance before you’ve even taken a full step. His hand finds your shoulder, pushing you back inside.

“Not yet.” He doesn’t stop moving.

He drives you backward until the edge of the table digs into your rear, pinning you there as he looms. His eyes blaze cold fire over his mask.

“Did Jago touch you?”

The question steals the air from your lungs. So he knew. Knew what Win left you here for.

Your lips part, choking out a frantic, “No. No, he didn’t.”

Ghost still leans back enough to look you over anyway, chin dipping to his chest. A finger traces the side slit in your skirt, then disappears beneath it. The others follow until his palm is flush with your outer thigh.

“Did you want him to?”

“What? No.” you hiss, adamant, more confused and flustered than ever.

There’s no urgency in his face. No impatient or cruel words. He’s closing in deliberately slowly, until he swallows the room, until there’s nothing but him crowding your vision. Until you can practically hear his systems humming.

You break first, turning your head away, tracking the cabling that snakes from his neck into the collar of his shirt. Anything to avoid those eyes.

“Isn’t Win waiting?”

“I’ll say you had to use the toilet,” Ghost murmurs, then, “You remember what to do if there’s trouble?”

His hand slides from your thigh down to your knee, where it stops. A chill bleeds through his glove as he rubs a slow circle into your skin. When you hesitate, his pressure deepens.

You look at him again, and this time he’s bent low, stooping until you’re face-to-face. An inch apart.

“Call you? Why? What—what do you know?”

His brow furrows. “Enough.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

His hand hooks around your knee like a brace, fingers slipping into the hinge. He must feel the shiver that rips through you.

“Don’t worry, baby.”

That word again. Baby. It rattles through your skull like a pinball.

He peels away as if the contact meant nothing, catching your arm at the elbow. He steers you toward the exit, reaching for the privacy booth’s door, but you grab his wrist.

“Ghost, wait, I’m scared—”

His eyes flash with something awful at that, like he might drag you back inside, but you don’t flinch. That’s what terrifies the most. You’re not reaching for comfort. You’re reaching for the one thing scarier than whatever’s waiting outside.

But the moment passes.

You stumble over the threshold, and he doesn’t stop. Drags you through Solace securely tethered in his grip, and outside into Win’s orbit just as the call cuts off.

He spins to face you—pale, eyes wide, a storm gathering behind them like a thunderhead ready to break.

You’re sealed in the backseat—doors locked, windows shut, privacy barrier engaged. Ghost and the driver are nothing but shadows beyond the darkened panel, a world away. It’s another soundproof and sightproof box you’ve been shoved into tonight to try and please another audience.

The car pulls away from the curb, and the simmering fury shaking Win’s shoulders at last turns on you.

“Start talking. What happened? What did you say to Szabó?”

“I barely said anything,” you blurt, pressing yourself into the door, hand gripping the handle you know won’t move. “I asked if he liked Night City, and then—”

“Then?” he snaps, eyes rolling as he fights with his lighter, trying to catch the flame to the end of a cigarette.

“He said he...he knew you left me with him so he could—so I could…”

“And? Did you nick him with your teeth or something?”

Ice floods your chest, seizing your heart so tightly you think it’s stopped completely. There’s a tired, put-upon irritation underscoring his anger, like this is a problem you created. Like you failed by not playing the part he sprung on you.

“He wasn’t interested.”

There’s nothing else to say—nothing smart or safe enough. You’re trapped in a moving car with a man who wanted to cash you in like a poker chip.

“Clearly,” he snorts derisively. “Fuck, Stella. Did you even try? I don’t think you did. No—you didn’t. Because if you had, he wouldn’t have pulled the plug on the whole fucking thing.”

You flinch. He barrels on.

“Now what am I supposed to do, huh? He’s got Hansen’s ear. Probably going to tank our agreement entirely. I was this close to locking it in. I was gonna give him Hansen’s head. Make him the leader of Dogtown and make out like a bandit doing it.”

He slouches forward, and the rest comes out miserable.

“Fuck. Dad’s gonna kill me.”

It catches you off guard. It’s so unexpected, so pathetically small. A man playing at kingpin, whimpering over daddy’s disappointment. A laugh escapes, little more than a breath at first, but it snowballs, spilling out in tittering waves. The would-be architect of some ill-conceived revolution, undone at the thought of his angry father. Sitting there, moaning about a coup that never even got off the ground. A boy crying over a toy out of reach.

“What the fuck is so funny?” he snarls.

You shake your head, nearing hysterics.

The cigarette slips—‘accidentally,’ he’ll say later—and lands on your bare knee. Your laughter shatters into a scream that punches through the cabin. The car jolts as the driver brakes.

Win pounds on the divider.

“Keep fucking driving!”

At the very least, you tend your tiny wound in familiar territory.

The burn gel cools the angry welt, but it’s not enough to distract from Win’s pacing. Back and forth, wearing a groove into the floor and your nerves.

You watch from the loft, listening to his desperate calls. He hasn’t acknowledged you since you returned, and it’s just as well. The thoughts swirling in your head are far from charitable, and one look might spill them all.

You know how this goes. Once his temper tantrums end, it falls to you to soothe him. Say whatever needs saying to keep things civil.

This is the last time. He might not be finished with you, but you are with him.

As for how to extricate yourself, that’s a puzzle that can’t be solved overnight. You haven’t seen the contracts since you signed, but you know what they likely say. Escape means making moves before Win even suspects you’re thinking of it. Maybe Irina knows someone who can get you to NU-SSR. A summer on Baikal doesn’t sound so bad now. A smuggler, new identification—you can afford it if you’re clever.

You wonder if the Bushido screen test was ever real. If the acting classes were just to prime you, make you palatable and pliable for whomever came up. The parties and friends you met—they were his real clients.

Funny. A few weeks ago, the idea of giving it all up was unthinkable. You were so certain you’d come out on top after making a deal with a devil. That you’d somehow become a star, untouchable and out of reach.

How many others has Win set up like you? The previous tenant. The one who ‘fell behind on rent.’ Is that what happened? Nausea rolls thick and hot, and you grip the railing to ground yourself.

Snapping fingers call you out of your head.

Win stands at the bottom of the stairs, expression hard and expectant. Right. Your cue. Time for an encore.

You descend, simpering, and weave into his space. “You know, I still think Seattle’s a good idea,” You slip your arms around his neck. “A little break could do us good. A reset. Forget Bushido, forget Szabó. Let’s get out of here. Just us.”

“No.” He shakes you off like lint. “We’re going to fix this. It’s not too late to throw in with Bennett. I’ll send over a peace-offering, nab a meeting. Do it over. This time, we close. This time, you do your job.”

You shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s another gut punch. There’s no bottom with him. Just layer after layer of rot.

“Is that a good idea? After Ghost, y’know…”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Men like me and Szabó and Bennett—we understand it’s business. It’s never personal.”

Right. Those men were going to carve you up, but it was nothing personal.

“Trust me, Stella,” he goes on. “A couple crates of contraband and dinner with you? Bennett’ll forget the whole thing.”

You stare at him, hollowed out. “You’re serious? After everything—you’re still trying to sell me? To fucking Barghest?”

He bristles. “Sell? Don’t be crass. This is your second chance. Third, really.”

You shake your head. “I don’t get it. Why are you trying to play fixer? Arming a coup, really?”

“What do you think I do for a living?”

“A scout? An executive? I don’t know, your family runs a talent agency!”

Win waves that off. “And you know we do more than that.”

“Well, yes, but I thought—”

“You can’t be this naive.” His voice cuts clean across yours. “Stella, I’m not here to babysit starlets and aging rockstars. When my dad finally kicks the bucket, I’ll be running the whole show. I’m going to take us out of the dark ages. Entertainment’s chump change. You think I care about actresses who peak at twenty-eight? I’m done with that.”

A feverish flush rises high on his cheeks. “I want to be a kingmaker. Politicians, dictators—that’s where the real money is. Real power.”

There it is again, what you glimpsed in the car. He could get a whole new faceplate tomorrow and he’d always look like this to you. Unhinged.

You step back. “You’re insane.”

“Am I?” He follows, tilting his head like he’s genuinely considering it. “I think you’re failing to understand the big picture here. Dogtown wants change. I’m helping to make that happen. All you have to do is help close the deal. A few nights playing host. A little charm to keep the wheels greased once the new regime lands. In exchange? Money. Notoriety. Everything you wanted. Didn’t I tell you these things take sacrifice?”

You retreat toward the kitchen island. He shifts with you, veering off to flank instead of chase like he’s done this before. Maybe he has.

“What if I don’t want it anymore?” you try, desperate now. “Do you really not feel a thing for me?”

“I gave you everything. Everything.” He sweeps an arm at the apartment around you. “You’d still be kissing ass for tips if not for me. I pulled you out. I made you.”

“And now you want me to what? Kiss your ass?”

“I want you to stop fighting me!” he explodes, slamming his hand down on the stone so hard it rattles the drawers. “Stop questioning every goddamn move I make and listen when I talk. I brought you into this life. And if you keep acting like this? I’ll take you out of it just as fast.”

You don’t wait.

You spin and bolt—bare feet slipping on the floor, grabbing the counter to help launch yourself away. Behind you, a stool clatters to the floor as he gives chase. You sprint, dodging past the dining table and hook toward the stairs.

“Get back here!” he screams behind you. “You think this is over, Stella? You think I’ll just let you walk away?”

You scramble up the steps two at a time.

“You don’t get to quit when it gets tough. You don’t get to run!”

You won’t make it to the bathroom. No time. You dive for the bed, arm plunging beneath the pillow until your fingers close around cold steel and—

The pistol kicks in your hand.

Recoil jars your shoulder. A heavier impact slams the bed frame against the wall. A hand claws at your ankle. A wet, choking sound. Another heartbeat, and the grip vanishes.

Your ears ring in the silence that follows. Several seconds pass before you crawl across the mattress to peek.

Win lies crumpled, twitching like a bug. His chest heaves, a grotesque breath dragging in and out of his mouth. Blood pulses in a shallow geyser from a wound just left of center. His eyes are wide, glazed over. Prismatic shades of green kaleidoscope as his vision goes offline.

“Win?” you whisper.

His fingers scrabble at his chest, blindly fumbling.

A fresh bolt of fear poleaxes as you realize he’s searching for his biomonitor. It’s probably already triggered a Trauma Team response. When they arrive, it won’t take long to connect the dots.

There’s only one option drilled into your brain.

Ghost answers on the first ping.

“On my way up. Door better be open.”

You must look like hell. Bloody hands and knees, blood spattered across your face. Your dress soaked in gore.

Ghost takes it all in, giving you a once-over that lasts a little too long, then strides upstairs to confirm what he already knows. That Win’s last breath rattled out minutes ago.

When he returns, he chucks your chin, tilting your face into the light to admire the flecks of red. Everything’s muffled, far away, except for his voice.

“Look at you, little killer. You want to get out of ‘ere?”

Bone-chillingly reverent. Oddly tender. It’s still the kindest thing anyone’s said to you in days.

“Know where you can lie low. You’ll owe me, though.”

Tears break loose, hot and fast, carving tracts through the blood on your cheeks. You try to turn your face, but he beats you to it—watching with eerie intensity, pupils blown. His thumb catches a tear. Lifts it, considering it a second, then smears it across his gums and wipes it over tongue.

Your stomach drops. He’s excited. Giddy, even. Like this is a gift that has been a long time coming.

You don’t move. Can’t.

If there’s anyone who might survive this, it’s him.

What’s another bargain, when the flames are already licking at your heels?

“Okay.”

Even in your daze, you know something’s wrong when the lift carries you up instead of down. The button for the roof aglow, not the garage.

When the doors slide open, they yawn wide to the night, wind whipping into the car and biting your cheeks. An AV waits. Old, dented, and its paint faded to belong to Win. Instinct grinds your heels into the floor but Ghost is a relentless force.

The gullwing door opens, and before you can protest, his hand is at your back, shoving you inside. Piling in after, pushing you to the far wall. He lumbers to the controls and the hatch seals. That’s when you see it. Spray-painted across the inner panel in streaks of lime: a snarling dog, teeth bared. Barghest.

Fuck.

You throw yourself at the manual release, fingers scrabbling for the lever, but it’s too late—the AV’s moving. It lurches. Chugs. You’re climbing into the dark, sailing above a sea of screens and boards.

You grab for the nearest jumpseat as you lose your footing. “Ghost? What...You can’t…”

A click, then a flat and mechanical voice: Autopilot engaged. Flight plan confirmed.

Ghost heaves out from the pilot’s chair. The world lists sideways, not from the ascent, but the sight of his bare face again. His vest hangs from his vest.

He stuffs himself down the narrow aisle, reaching for you.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Your face on every corner?” Ghost asks, cupping your jaw, forcing you to stare down at the city as the AV takes the long way to Dogtown.

Far below, commandeering screen after screen, News 54 takes over the City Center and the Glen. The footage rolls outward from the epicenter, an oil spill smothering everything with the breaking news: the chaos outside your apartment building, Goforth Sr. screaming into a camera. Then there’s your face. Half of every screen, name stamped underneath it.

Suspect at large.

The tears return anew, and he’s ready for them. His mouth brushes your cheek, tongue sweeping to intercept before they fall. A sound rumbles out of him, almost a purr, vibrating against your spine where his chest presses flush to your back.

“Gotta ‘and it to you, wasn’t sure you were gonna do it. Thought I’d ‘ave to save you again. But you did it all by yourself.”

You sniffle, unable to duck him when his mouth finds your neck.

“Shh, shh. It’s alright, princess. We’re goin’ ‘ome.”

166 notes · View notes