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Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Six

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, medical examination

Word Count: 5.2k

Ghost brings you to the safe zone. You find out the meaning of reintegration.

Chapter Five // Chapter Seven

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

“Oh, dove,” purrs Lieutenant Riley. “You’ll look bloody gorgeous choking on mine.”

Honey should be sticky—have a hint of sweetness. This is putrid and rotten, a foul thing that deserves to be discarded. It is regret. Entrapment and regret. Over and under and sliding between bone.

Housed within you are two warring voices. One rebukes the idea of you submitting to Ghost, to fall to your knees and present yourself in obedience. The other preens at the notion, knowing that you would look a gorgeous mess with a stuffed mouth and aching throat.

Lieutenant Riley’s words fuel an itch—a manifestation of a twitch in the tips of your fingers. It is all the realization you have before your flattened palm swings toward Lieutenant Riley’s face. Full comprehension comes like an exploding bullet. Ghost maintains eye contact and seizes your forearm, halting the slap in its tracks.

“Careful,” says Lieutenant Riley, keeping that sultry purr in his voice. “Or it’s a public punishment.”

The muted roar of the room widens, swallowing you into reality. Ghost’s hand shifts, easing its grip, guiding your arm back to your side. Sliding down, the tip of his index finger slowly traces a line along the underside, pausing at your palm before retreating. It’s a fleeting caress, but it sends a shiver through you.

“I’m done with this conversation,” you breathe, backing up, hands trembling slightly as you grasp the sides of the tray.

Retreat is rearing its head. This place is too bright, too loud, too much. Lieutenant Riley’s imposing figure doesn’t help. The way he looms over you, nearly trapping you against the counter, is cage-like.

Lieutenant Riley hardly blinks. Hardly breathes. He is a statue, and that intensity pins you to the spot. “Tell me you’ll stay away from him.”

Tooth and claw and bite.

Gentle doe. Submissive dog. Survival instinct.

Two sides. And the venom wins.

“Jealousy isn’t an attractive quality,” you reply sharply, staring right back.

Ghost is unmoved by your irritation. “Say it,” he growls, and there is so much authority in his voice it gives you pause.

Lieutenant Riley is a stranger. Sergeant Noah Fields is a stranger. Everyone in this room is a stranger. This place is strange. You’ve been wedged into a tight space with little room to turn and face both walls. You’re stuck forward, propelled toward a choice you didn’t make for yourself.

“Fine,” you mutter, the agreement nearly an exasperation. “Fine.”

Better to relent, to ease Ghost’s fears if it gets you to your breakfast faster, to end this conversation. Not that your stomach is growling anymore. Even that has abandoned you.

“If it makes you happy, Lieutenant,” you sigh. “I won’t speak to him.”

“No. You won’t go near him,” corrects Ghost.

“Can I eat now?” you ask, irritation clear in your tone.

“Say it.”

You exhale heavily, rolling your eyes. “I don’t understand you,” you whisper as a young man wearing black fatigues walks past. “Or this possessiveness. I don’t belong to you, Lieutenant.”

Ghost pushes in, and you lean back to maintain eye contact. “You’re under my care and protection. What I say goes.”

“I am not your property.”

His response is a bolt of lightning. “On base, you are.”

On base, you are.

You don’t belong to me.

Maddening. Infuriating. You specifically asked Ghost if the mandate made you his, and he told you no. Now here he is, marking you as a piece of property as if it’s perfectly okay and not a slap in the face.

No choices. No options. You’re nothing more than a penned animal. Worse, actually. You’re the mud in the pen that’s more shit than wet earth. The urge to lash out rises, snapping and hissing like a rattlesnake. You want to strike him, to kick and scream and shriek like a banshee. Burn it all down. Throw a fucking fit.

“Well, your property wants to eat her fucking breakfast.” You say it slowly, adding all your seething anger. “Does she have your permission?”

Lieutenant Riley is silent a long moment, that piercing whiskey-brown gaze of his slicing right through to your marrow. It’s tactical. On purpose. The silence widens and it only squashes whatever resistance you’ve mustered up. Your question dangles in the air—a tempting bite. When you think he won’t speak—that Ghost will say nothing, give no ground—he inclines his head, clearly indicating that you’re finally allowed to sit down, and fucking eat something.

“Great,” you say through clenched teeth.

With hands grasping the sides of the black tray, you lift, turning toward all the tables in the communal dining hall. The overwhelming sensation from earlier reappears to wrap itself around you, hugging you in a vice. A fleeing rabbit stalked by prey. All those eyes on you. Mouths moving, whispering to each other, urging you to drop your tray and fucking bolt. Your vision narrows to a tunnel, and your chest heaves, each inhalation sharp and biting.

Lieutenant Riley’s hand finds your lower back. It flattens. Presses to urge you forward. His touch is enough of an anchor to ground you, to slow some of the racing adrenaline. Your feet are phantoms, moving only at his beckoning touch. Ghost could lead you right out the main doors and back to the cabin and you’d go without hesitation. Like cattle, you are herded, forced into a seat that is isolated and away from everyone. No one even glances in your direction.

Ghost lingers but he doesn’t sit.

“Are you not staying?” you ask, suddenly nervous.

This man might annoy the fuck out of you but not having him around in a room full of strangers is worse.

“I’m staying,” he affirms.

You gesture at the empty seat across from you. “But you’re not sitting?”

“No.”

With that one word—no—Lieutenant Riley disappears. Walks away. Leaves you utterly alone. You sit, stunned, fork clenched in your fist as you attempt to figure out where he’s gone. Scanning the room reveals nothing. He is shadow, melting in until you can’t tell the difference between faces. Turning away from the lingering looks, you focus on the food in front of you.

Fork to plate to mouth to plate again.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Fork. Plate. Mouth. Plate.

Breakfast is all silence. It is you sitting alone at a table while everyone watches but refuses to approach. It’s fucking isolating—almost embarrassing. It’s like you’re a child again, separated from your friends during lunch for misbehaving. And you still sense Ghost. You know he’s nearby, lurking, but just out of sight. There are brief flickers. Fleeting glimpses. You’ll glance up, catch sight of his balaclava. Then he’ll return to the crowd like he was never there at all. But the man doesn’t come sit with you, doesn’t come to tamper with your mood or to aggressively flirt and piss you off. Lieutenant Riley removes himself entirely.

And you?

You’re a machine. Feeding yourself even though you taste nothing. It’s all instinct now. Fueling your body instead of enjoying what’s in front of you.

Sucking your fork clean of syrup, you rest it on your plate, dabbing at your lips with a napkin.

“Left you here by yourself?”

The familiar, Scottish accent draws your gaze upward. Soap stands next to the table, arms crossed over his chest, one eyebrow slightly arched with amused concern.

“I’m sorry?” you choke, startled.

“Lt.”

Lt. Lieutenant. Ghost.

You shrug. “He’s around,” you reply, giving the dining hall a once over.

Soap shrugs, a sheepish expression on his face. “Apologies for interrupting this morning.”

You almost spit out your water. “Nothing happened,” you say quickly, wiping away a dribble of liquid with the back of your hand.

Soap’s lips purse slightly. “Wouldn’t let me join. He always lets me join.”

“He—what?”

“Means he likes you.”

“Sergeant,” you squeak, a little wave of dizziness rising.

Soap opens his mouth, prepared to continue, but Lieutenant Riley appears on your other side as if he snapped into existence, summoned by the fact that you dared speak his name without him around.

“Johnny,” he grumbles.

Soap beams, clearly unaffected by Ghost’s gruff tone. “Came to find you. Thought you’d be with your woman.”

“I’m not his woman,” you growl.

Soap keeps talking. “Convoy’s ready. Price wants to head out soon. Go home.”

Lieutenant Riley nods, his attention turning on you. “Finished?”

“Yes?” you answer, and you have no idea why it comes out a question.

Behind the balaclava, his eyebrows rise slightly. “Not enough?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“It was,” you quickly correct, standing. “Where do I put this?” You gesture at your tray.

Ghost answers by picking it up and walking away. You follow him, Soap snorting with amusement as you try to keep up with Lieutenant Riley’s large strides.

“I can do that,” you say, nearly catching up to him.

All you hear is a muted grunt, and then Ghost is handing the tray off to the dishwashers at the far end of the buffet line. He turns abruptly, almost knocking you down.

“Ready?” he asks.

No. No, of course not. What the fuck kind of question is that?

“Would it matter?” you breathe, defeated.

“No,” he states plainly, because it doesn’t, and you know this. He knows this.

Your choice is obsolete, and autonomy only matters to you. No one else cares that you’ve been dragged away from your previous life, that you’re going to places unknown. They all appear unfazed. Lieutenant Riley certainly doesn’t seem to care. The “mandate” is a duty to him, and you should be thankful for it.

What a fucking honor.

“We should go,” says Ghost, voice gentle and soft like he’s trying to ease your worry.

The soothing nature of his tone fails to pacify. There is no calmness in your heart. Only defeat and anger.

He places his hand on your lower back again, drawing you away, escorting you toward the main doors. You press into his side, seeking shelter and comfort because it’s all you have. It’s not fair. It’s not right. As much as you loathe him, there is a kindness there that chips away at your shell, exposing the fracturing interior.

The crisp air stings your skin. You keep your gaze ahead, staying pace with Ghost and Soap as the three of you head toward the convoy.

“Ghost! Soap!”

You slow, and Ghost glances over his shoulder at you as the two men move ahead. Gaz approaches, but you’re not part of this group. It feels odd to stand beside Lieutenant Riley. You give a quick shake of your head at Ghost. He turns away.

They grasp hands in greeting, speaking in low voices. If they aren’t paying you any attention, can you slip away? How quickly would they lock this place down in search of you?

“Dove.” Lieutenant Riley’s gruff voice washes over you.

You close your eyes. Inhale. His warm hand slides over your neck to cup your cheek. As your eyelids flutter open, Ghost gently guides your face around to him. He’s standing so close, almost on top of you.

“You shouldn’t touch me like this,” you sigh, hating that you’re enjoying this.

“Why not?”

You lick your lips. “Haven’t earned it.”

The pad of his thumb brushes over your chin, traces the underside of your bottom lip. “You hate me,” murmurs Lieutenant Riley.

“I do,” you agree.

Ghost lowers his head, hovers like he’s waiting for a kiss. “In time, you won’t.”

His touch becomes a firm hold.

Ghost’s hand shifts to the back of your neck, squeezing, fingers lightly digging into your skin. It’s possessive—domineering. And you resist, pulling back just as Lieutenant Riley pulls.

“No, love,” he growls. “Behave.”

“Fuck you.”

Though he wears a balaclava, you know he’s smirking. You see it in the way the skin around his eyes wrinkle. “Think you’re cute?”

“I don’t belong to you.”

Ghost’s hand on your neck tightens even more, the fine hairs there catching in his grip, the roots stinging as they’re pulled. “You will,” he breathes. You smack at his arm but he’s immovable. “And now we’re leaving.”

With Ghost gripping the back of your neck, you’re half-walked, half-dragged to the convoy. This is the shit you hate.

“I can walk,” you growl, attempting to yank yourself from his grasp.

Lieutenant Riley says nothing as he brings you to a stop beside a Humvee. His hand on the back of your neck remains until he opens the back passenger door.

“Get in,” he nods.

This is a demand. No room for arguing.

As his hand falls away, you smack it, deliberately forcing Lieutenant Riley to draw back. You shoot him a death glare. “I’m sick of you touching me.”

“A lie,” he drawls. “Now, get in the vehicle.”

“No.”

“Get. In.”

You stand tall, shoulders back, spine straight. “Fuck. You.”

“More than happy to toss you in.”

“You—fuck.” You glance away, unable to stay strong.

Lieutenant Riley rests his arm against the side of the Humvee. “You worried?”

“Of course I’m fucking worried, Lieutenant.”

“Just asking,” he mutters.

“Why can’t you take me home?” you breathe.

“The man—”

“The fucking mandate. Yes. I know.” You shake your head. “But that’s not an answer.”

“It is,” insists Ghost.

“Not to me,” you gasp, almost choking on a burst of hysterical laughter. “Do you even understand how I feel right now?”

Lieutenant Riley remains silent.

“Fine. Fucking fine,” you mutter, sliding into the Humvee, moving to the far side to give yourself space.

Ghost casually glances over his shoulder before sliding in after you, shutting the door. The front driver and passenger doors open, two soldiers hopping in. You discreetly check their arms. While the United Nations flag is the same, the two country flags are different from the two that drove the Humvee on your way to base.

“Ready to head home, Lieutenant?” asks the driver as the Humvee roars to life.

Ghost nods. “Are you?”

Shifting gears, he answers. “Ready to see my wife. Hug my kids.”

The Humvee rolls forward.

“How old is your youngest?”

“She’s three now.”

“You’ll see them soon,” replies Ghost.

You keep your gaze averted, not wanting to engage in conversation with any of them. It only makes you yearn for home, for your hammock and your books.

As if sensing your discomfort, Ghost leaves you to your solitude. Space is another matter. He spreads out, stretching his legs, and you find yourself pressing yourself against the Humvee door to regain some of that bubble. Distance and quiet is what you crave, to be alone with your thoughts, to fucking brood and be left alone.

Staring out the window, you watch the base become a dark spot in the distance before disappearing entirely. It is open road and overcast skies. Like yesterday, the roads are astoundingly clear and uncongested. Weathering has created holes and cracks, the tarmac sometimes raised or sunken in some areas where the ground has shifted. A few times, the convoy slows, navigating around craters that could easily swallow a vehicle. It’s still strange how the roads themselves aren’t exactly maintained yet are somehow completely clear of cars. Those you do see are pushed off into the medians or ditch, allowing for a clear path.

A question blooms.

You begin to lean toward Lieutenant Riley, the words ready to leave your tongue. His head turns as if sensing your eagerness to ask him a question. Gazes meet. Pupils dilate. Ghost matches your movement, sliding closer to you.

Sudden panic rises.

You think better of it, twisting away from him at the last second to deliberately stare out the window. From your peripheral, Ghost shifts to the right, scooting closer to you. He knows you wanted to say something, and he’s trying to draw your attention back to him.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

The overcast skies dissipate—becomes sunny. The convoy halts briefly to refuel from the tanker. You’re able to stretch your legs, to walk a bit, to enjoy the sun against your skin. Ghost keeps a respectful distance, but you feel his gaze with every step. The respite is brief, a flicker of relief before you’re back in the stuffy Humvee. It’s more road. More silence. At some point you drift off, jerking awake when the Humvee hits a deep dip in the road.

“We’re five miles out, Lieutenant,” says the driver.

“Use the long-range radio.”

He presses a few buttons on a panel embedded in the front dash. He brings the microphone to his mouth. “Eagle this is Bravo. Over.”

He pauses. The vehicle is silent.

“Again,” instructs Ghost.

“Eagle this is Bravo. Over.”

A few seconds, then the radio crackles.

“Bravo this is Eagle.”

“Convoy returning.”

“Heard. Convoy returning. Welcome home, Bravo.”

All three men sigh, their relief palpable. You do not share in their joy. A creeping dread settles in, starting in your stomach, unspooling to claim chest and lung and limb.

“You’re nervous,” murmurs Ghost, and you nearly jump at how close his voice is.

You turn abruptly, finding him in your space. “Why would you think that?” you whisper.

Lieutenant Riley nods downward toward your lap. You follow that nod, and find your hands clenched into fists, the skin taut over the bone from tension. Shaking out your hands, you stretch your fingers to ease the ache.

The convoy crests a hill, and whatever snarky reply you were going to say evaporates.

As the vehicles ahead slow, so does the Humvee as the convoy reaches a checkpoint. It’s not a makeshift box with a gate. The structure consists of two large guard towers connected by a wide overhang that arches over the road. The sides extend outward into a solid stone wall before giving way to high electrical fencing. Machine guns face the road, aimed at some point in the distance. You expect the convoy to come to a stop, but it only creeps through. Several men on the ground wave, but it’s fleeting, and then you’re back on the open road again.

But it’s not empty. There is no barren landscape or desolation. On either side are vast fields full of growing food. People work, moving along the rows, crouched or bent over. Harvesters roll through another.

The world is supposed to be broken. Shattered. But from your current viewpoint, humanity appears to be thriving. Are any of the things you know the truth? Is it all a lie?

“Didn’t expect this?”

This time, Ghost’s voice doesn’t startle you. You lean toward him, so many questions blooming, eagerly wanting to burst forth.

“How?” you whisper, voice breaking slightly. “How is this possible?”

“Not what you thought?”

“No.”

Fields give way to a few low buildings and pastures full of animals only to return to fields again. Through the windshield, a sharp forms. A wall. Not makeshift. Not like the one your little community built. This is a true barrier. This is a city.

“Ghost,” you whisper, as the convoy breaks away from the main road, heading right along the exterior wall. You press your face to the glass, looking upward. “What is this place?”

“The safe zone. Home,” he answers.

You draw back from the window. “But—”

“You’re surprised?”

“Yes,” you hiss.

“You know nothing about the safe zones?”

“Of course I don’t. I thought we already established this.”

“What do you know?”

You lick your lips, not wanting to admit how little you do.

“This is the farthest I’ve been from home since everything…collapsed.”

Lieutenant Riley’s expression is passive. “There’s time to talk about this later.”

“Don’t dismiss me.”

“I’m not,” he growls. “But this conversation deserves space. I can’t give you my full attention right now.” Ghost glances away from you, gazing out the windshield. “When we stop, follow my lead.” He returns his attention to you. “Do not speak to anyone. Do not stop for anything. Stay at my side until I hand you off.”

“For processing?” you deadpan.

“Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” you snap.

What’s the point in fighting? You can’t go back. You can only go forward.

Ghost has his door open the moment the convoy stops. Sliding out, he turns and gestures at you in a “come here” motion with his hand. You shimmy across the bench seat. As you swing your legs to hop out, Ghost grasps your waist and lifts you right out of the Humvee. The move is so startling that your hands grasp his shoulders to steady yourself.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. Ghost gives you a flirty wink. Someone whistles in appreciation.

You promptly drop your hands. “You did that on purpose,” you mutter.

“I did.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. Lieutenant Riley ignores your irritation, placing his hand on your lower back. “Follow me.”

The ground beneath your feet is paved, and where it isn’t is mud, the grass either dead or worn away. Soldiers move about, many in all black, faces covered. They move amongst the buildings and tents, their gazes raking over you but their voices silent. But looming over everything is that wall. It’s not monstrous yet it’s tall enough that you have to look up at a sharp angle to see the top.

Ghost tugs you along, guiding you toward a plain building in a faded army-green. The two of you pass under a partially enclosed awning, but Ghost doesn’t go to open the door. Another sharp tug, and you’re pressed up against the tarp-like fabric of the awning.

“When we pass through that door, I won’t be able to come with you?”

He presses in, enclosing the space until it feels like it’s just the two of you in the world.

“What do you mean?”

“You have to go alone.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you ask, voice rising slightly. “All this and now you’re going to abandon me?”

Ghost’s brow softens, his gaze shifting to a sultry look. “Thought you hated me?”

“This is not the time, Lieutenant.”

His gaze softens even further, rushing toward a concern that you want to wish away. There is no reason for this affection.

Grasping the sides your face, Ghost cradles your head in his hands. “You’ll be fine. But you promise me you’ll do as your told behind that door. Don’t resist.”

Tears start to form. “What’s going to happen to me in there?”

“Nothing bad,” he murmurs. “Promise.”

“But you can’t tell me?”

“You’ll hate me more if I do.”

You shake your head, hands grasping Ghost’s muscled arms. “No,” you whisper. “Just take me home. Please.”

“I’m sorry, dove,” he replies softly, brushing a single tear with his thumb.

He pops that thumb into his mouth, swallowing your tear.

You shove at him even as he grabs your elbow, guiding you to the door, entering a code in the keypad. The buzzer sounds. The door clicks open.

“No.”

You dig your feet in but Ghost is so much stronger.

There’s a bite of where your heels catch—then a stumble. You’re thrust into a small, enclosed atrium, no larger than a bathroom. A plain, grey door leads to an unknown place while a balding man sits at a desk behind a glass panel.

Caged. A trapped animal.

“Have an outsider for reintegration.”

Ghost’s voice is completely detached, like you mean nothing to him, as if he wasn’t between your legs just this morning, kissing you like he wanted to devour you.

The man behind the desk nods, reaching off to the side, pressing a button. “Reintegration. Female,” he says flatly.

Ghost tugs you a little closer, his gaze serious and unreadable. You count the seconds, each passing tick bringing with it a growing fear. Lieutenant Riley is your safety net even if he’s your enemy.

The grey door opens, and a blonde woman with a severe bun steps through. She wears a white coat, and a stethoscope hangs around her neck. Her smile is nice. Happy. No maliciousness lurks beneath.

You turn to Ghost, eyes widening.

“You’ll be fine,” he insists with a whisper.

I don’t lie.

You give a slight shake of your head. Ghost grasps your hand, squeezing it in reassurance. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

He releases your hand. Steps back. There’s a softness in his gaze that you recognize. Ghost knows he’s ripped you away from everything. It’s a silent apology.

“Through here, dear,” the woman urges.

You step toward her, and she moves to the side to allow you to pass. Every step is shaky, but you go, looking back over your shoulder, looking at Lieutenant Riley until the door shuts. With it’s closing comes a coldness. A numbness that settles into your limbs.

“I’m Doctor Roe.” She extends her hand and you take it, giving you name in turn. “It’s lovely to meet you.” She gestures ahead. “We’ll go down this hall, show you where you’ll stay the next five days.”

“Five days?” you ask, voice cracking.

“Did Lieutenant Riley not tell you about quarantine?” Dr. Roe sounds genuinely surprised.

How does she know Lieutenant Riley?

You shake your head. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

Dr. Roe inclines her head, her mouth forming a small frown. “That’s unfortunate. But you don’t have anything to fear.” That frown melts away. “It’s standard procedure. We don’t want to release you into the general population if you’re carrying something.”

“Wouldn’t I have exposed the soldiers?”

“Yes, but they’re fully vaccinated. They’re also tested more often, especially those that go beyond the exterior checkpoint. Stricter requirements.”

The two of you pass by several doors. All of them shut.

“So I’m locked in a room for five days?”

“Oh, no,” she laughs, waving her hand in front of her. “Nothing like that. It’s just where you’re staying. You’ll be pulled periodically. Once the five days are up and you receive a clear bill of health, you’ll meet with someone to talk about your transition to life behind the wall.”

She comes to a stop at the second to last door. There is no lock, no keypad, and at first you think it odd. But where would someone like you go? You wouldn’t get far even if you tried.

The room is small but spacious with a private bathroom and no visible cameras. There’s a queen bed shoved against the wall, a small kitchenette, a lounge chair with a spare bookshelf.

“It’s not much,” Dr. Roe sighs. “But it’s something.”

“I’m a science experiment,” you mutter.

“It does seem like that, doesn’t it? I’ve been asking for more activities to put on the bookshelves, but do they send me anything? No.”

She’s making conversation like this is all completely normal.

“It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll get three meals a day. And snacks.”

“Lovely,” you mutter, poking your head into the bathroom.

Dr. Roe clasps her hands in front of her. “I’ll leave you for now.”

You only nod, because there is little you want to say. When the door shuts and you’re left in silence, you sink to the floor, curling in on yourself. Tears come, and you cannot contain them. They fall and go dry and then you choke.

When someone finally comes to fetch you, it’s another doctor accompanied by a security guard. Their presence is a silent instruction. Comply, or be dealt with. Instead of fighting it, you hesitantly go along, Lieutenant Riley’s words repeating in your head. You’re taken for a full physical with a blood draw. The next day are vaccinations. Then a dental exam. Then a psych eval. You’re poked and prodded and questioned, but the worst comes last.

“Is this necessary?” you ask, staring at the vaginal speculum.

Dr. Roe replies while looking at her chart. “It’s just to ensure everything looks good. We’ll do a swab, check for any abnormalities and sexually transmitted diseases.”

The door opens, the security guard entering the room. He shuts the door, standing just inside like he’s supposed to be there.

“I don’t want to.”

You sound pathetic. Weak.

Dr. Roe side-eyes the guard. “Can you wait outside. Please.”

“Protocol—”

“I’m aware,” she interjects. “Wait outside.”

“I’ll have to file a report.”

“Then file a report.”

He leaves with a grumble. “I’m so sorry,” she sighs. “This entire process isn’t pleasant, and they certainly don’t make it easy.” She settles on her stool. “You had an examination like this before, yes?”

You nod.

“It’s the same thing,” she says with sweet reassurance. “I won’t do anything different. I’ll talk you through everything I’m doing. Okay?”

“Okay.”

It takes all of three minutes. And then it’s two days of silence. Just you in your room with your meals brought to you.

“Congratulations!” You sit up in bed as Dr. Roe bursts through the door. “You’re clear!”

“I’m—oh.” Standing just inside the doorway is Lieutenant Riley. “I’m free to go?”

“Yes,” replies Ghost just as Dr. Roe says “no.”

She shoots him a look. “You’re free to go from here,” she corrects. “But Lieutenant Riley is going to escort you to the Commander.”

“To the who?” you ask, looking toward Ghost for guidance.

“We’ll talk on the walk,” he says firmly.

Dr. Roe’s smile doesn’t faulter. She’s a beaming ball of energy as the three of you return to the grey door you entered from.

“Good luck,” she whispers, waving.

You step outside and into the dark.

“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” you state, turning on him.

“It’s exactly…” Ghost checks his watch. “0300 hours.”

With an annoyed growl, you punch his chest. “Fuck! Why are you so solid?”

“You listened to me, dove,” he says, voice full of affection.

“It was five fucking days! Five!” You punch him again and wince. “You could have warned me!”

“You’d bolt.”

“I might have,” you admit. “But that is not the point.”

“Still hate me?” he asks, a little croon in his question.

You ignore him. “And who is this ‘commander?’” You make quotation marks with your fingers. “Is he the man in charge?”

“No,” replies Ghost, that sweetness in his tone evaporating.

“Then who is he?”

“An arrogant wanker with a title,” he mutters.

Oh. This is interesting. “Since you hate him, does that mean he’s on my side?” It’s a tease. A poke.

“If you find something redeemable about Commander Graves, keep it to yourself.”

You hold up your hands in a placating gesture. “Heard, Lieutenant.”

As your hands drop, Ghost grasps them, pulling you against his hard body. His shoulders hunch forward, creating an intimate barrier from the outside world. It’s just the two of you beneath the awning, obscured by the flapping tarp.

“What comes next?” you ask, energy deflating slightly.

“I take you to Graves. You’ll talk. Then you go to your new home.”

“My home?”

“Yes.”

“Is that with you?”

Ghost lowers his head, the fabric of the balaclava brushing against your cheek. “It can be.”

“That’s not what I want,” you breathe.

“Stop lying to yourself, dove.”

“You don’t know me,” you murmur. “This morning meant nothing.”

Ghost grasps the back of your neck, cradles your cheek. The balaclava presses against your lips. You feel the outline of his mouth beneath.

“You’ll want me,” he states with such confidence you almost believe him. “In time, you’ll want me.”

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@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @xllizs @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving @carbonnite-copy @sobbangchan @codeseven

@youre-a-wallflower-charlie @tiredmetalenthusiast @sporadicpizzainternet @tessakate @mistresssolana

#love love love #I’m beyond obsessed with this series gloom you are simply amazing <3

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haven-1307 · 5 months ago

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The Selkie - oil painting by Kai Carpenter

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haven-1307 · 6 months ago

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Gaz would get Price viagra for secret santa as a joke about his age and come to thoroughly regret it many hours later when he is face down arse up and absolutely dripping with his Captain who is still bloody going and doesn't show any signs of stopping. At this point he is worried he might actually just pass out from the exhaustion and when he wakes up he's still going to be getting ravished :')

#🐙reblogs #i need them carnally

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haven-1307 · 8 months ago

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Well. I’m sorry to all the amazing people here that are unlucky enough to live in America after today. You deserved better than this my heart truly goes out to you all.

#what the fuck

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haven-1307 · 10 months ago

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Simon’s girlfriend touching herself to his gruff voice over the phone while he’s away on deployment. She’s tried and tried to work her fingers into the sweet spot but no matter how much she tries she just can’t quite reach like he can. Her delicate fingers poke and prod trying to find it and you can only huff with annoyance when it doesn’t work.

Simon solution? Getting a mould made of his cock, just for his sweet girl to use when he’s on the other side of the world. It fits perfectly, hitting the spots that have her breath stuttering and her back arching. Curling inside her, feeling the pinch on her cervix when the toy bottoms out.

#cod simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader

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haven-1307 · 11 months ago

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Acts of Service /Husband Nikto

Masterlist

MDNI ta x

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

On AO3

#🐙reblogs

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haven-1307 · 11 months ago

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Soap coaxing his new girlfriend into fooling around on the couch while they have the apartment to themselves (he has a roommate, but "Gaz isnae comin' hame 'til after" he coos, already shoving his hand down the front of your pants and sawing two thick fingers between your folds).

You let him paw at you and peel your clothes off because you've been wound up all day and he's the hottest guy you've ever dated, so why wouldn't you let him feel you up whenever he's horny? (Which is more often than you thought; practically all the time actually.)

Only Gaz walks through the door the second Soap has you spread on your belly on the couch with your ass in the air, fat cock buried to the root. And he doesn't stop when you shriek and Gaz cocks an eyebrow, unfazed by his roommate screwing his girlfriend on the communal couch.

In fact, he wanders over after taking off his coat, greeting Soap in a totally normal voice while you struggle under your boyfriend, trying to cover your bare tits with your arm at the same time until Soap gets irritated by all your fussing and twists both of your arms behind your back.

"Yer back early," Soap grouses, hips pumping into you in shallow plunges, like his roommate coming home early is distracting enough to reign in some of his excitement, but not enough to make him stop.

"Shop closed early today," Gaz shrugs, dropping his bag by the shoe rack, still remarkably unbothered by what's going on in front of him.

You're humiliated, horrified. More upset with yourself than anything (that's a lie - you're way angrier with Soap, but he doesn't even flinch when you scream about covering up and try to buck him off; he just moans and braces a foot on the floor to get a better angle) because you've only gotten wetter since Gaz walked through the front door.

"Fuck, dae that again, sweetie," he pants, cock so deep that you can feel it nudge your cervix with every stroke.

Squirming doesn't help much because all it does is make you tighten around Soap's cock.

"Poor girl," Gaz tuts, standing in front of the two of you now. You think the situation can't get any worse and then he strokes your cheek with the back of his knuckles, looking almost pityingly down at you. The shock at being touched by him leaves you tongue-tied, struck dumb. "Being a bit rough with her, aren't you, mate?"

He smooths a thumb over your cheekbone. You clench up tighter at Gaz's touch, dragging a guttural moan out of your boyfriend. It's awhile before he finds his voice again.

"Christ," Soap hisses through his teeth. "Och, yer fuckin' nasty, bonnie; git aff oan Gaz watchin' ye? She clenched richt up whin ye spoke."

"Can't blame her - miss having someone be nice to you, huh, sweetheart?"

Soap's voice is dismissive and panting when he responds. "Nah, she loves this. Begs fer it rough."

"Aw, that's not true, is it, sweetheart?" Gaz coos down at you, and you swear you're going to say something, swear the next thing out of your mouth won't be a slutty moan.

But a thumb slips into your mouth and presses against your tongue when you part your lips, and you close your lips around it reflexively.

"Yeah; there we go," he says in a low voice, smooth as molasses, unzipping his fly with one hand when you give his thumb a suck. "Nah, Johnny, you got yourself a good girl here. Gotta treat her right."

And that's how you wind up pinned on your belly with your boyfriend's cock deep in your cunt and his roommate's spreading your lips wide, eyes welling up from the stretch. You lose patches of time after that, thoughts fizzling out until you're only aware of being filled at both ends and the slick, wet sounds of the two of them making out over your prone body.

#🐙reblogs #WOAH

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haven-1307 · 1 year ago

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Touch Me 'Till I Vomit (pet!au) [9]

pet!au part 9 | ghoap x fem!reader | tag list

apologies

cw: non-con, alcohol, threats of violence, blood, dark content dead dove do not eat

Summer nights are brutal.

Stuffy, stagnant air hangs thick around you. Its fingers curl around the back of your neck, between your thighs, along your chest, leaving nothing but perspiration in its wake. The window is open but you’re caught in a doldrum. It’s still. No wind to tickle the leaves of the trees; it’s painfully quiet. So much so that the football game blaring on the TV seems ten times louder than normal. It shakes your eardrums, rattles them until your brain turns to mush.

Man United is playing against Liverpool, and Simon has been cursing profanities for the last half hour as he sips on a glass of whiskey. It’s the same brand he ordered the night he hunted you in the bar. You hate that you recognize it. Spiced aroma wafts through the still air — too familiar, like a faded scar.

You despise being around Simon more than you do Johnny these days. Of course you still dream of a day when both their blood soaks the mattress in the bedroom, fresh corpses acting as the keys to undo your bindings and set you free. But there is something rancid about Simon that grows more foul each day. His eyes are darker, mouth set firmer; he looks at you not like a toy to be played with, but a dog to be trained. One he wants to bend and snap until you’re curled up at his feet just like Johnny; mindless and unknowingly cruel.

His sweet Johnny boy has been overly kind lately; saccharine. Sometimes, he almost seems more human than mutt, kind words lulling you into the safety of the chair in his study where you curl and hide like a feral cat. He watches you — you know he does — studying you as he commits your likeness to paper. You’ve seen the drawings. He always shows you with glee, like a child proud of their primary school art project. Elegant and lovingly, he captures your essence like you’re more flesh and blood than a rubber toy.

You do not mind it. It’s easier for him to devour you with his eyes than with teeth and claws.

Still, there are times where he grates your nerves. Greedy hands paw at you from your spot on the couch, mindlessly trailing over the meat of your thigh as his eyes stay locked on the screen in front of you. He’s the whole reason you’re sitting there watching this stupid game. Dragged you by the hand with boyish excitement the moment he heard the announcers. He talks about his time as a kid playing football with his cousin. Goalkeeper was his favorite position, which has been reflected in him poking fun at Liverpool’s inability at blocking shots.

You attempt to get the name of his cousin, but he stays silent. You suspect he might not even remember.

“Bleedin’ christ,” Johnny curses, fingers squeezing your upper thigh. “How’d ye miss that one?”

Another failed save by Liverpool. Simon grunts in satisfaction, reveling in his home team's success so far. You tried not to care about the game. Thought that disconnecting yourself from the situation would make it easier on yourself. Instead, you find the game a nice distraction to Johnny’s aimless wandering of your body. You watch the dancing feet maneuvering tricky shots and passes. Annoyed, twisted facial expressions as things don’t go the players way.

Though, as usual, it only gets worse.

He stretches, arm leaving your knee in favor of wrapping around your shoulders, drawing you closer to him. Warmth radiates off of him like a space heater, and you find yourself grimacing at the sweat that coats your side at the mere contact of him, but it’s nothing compared to the way his hand now paws at your chest. It’s aimless; uncoordinated. You try to ignore the intrusion as his other hand joins in, mindlessly squeezing between your thighs.

One lesson you’ve learned well is that no matter how much you pray, it always gets worse. Testosterone rises high in Johnny’s blood, and you feel the change in his body as his groping becomes more firm, as if he’s just made sense of the fresh meat in his hands. You see the flash of his blue eyes in your periphery, and you attempt to will it away. Starve an animal of attention, and it’ll get bored — but Johnny never gets bored.

The tip of his nose rubs against your temple, and the cheering of the crowd mixes with the harsh sound of his inhale as he breathes you in. Eyes fluttering shut, you try to keep your breath steady as he places a kiss on your cheek. It’s sweet, but barely restrained — he quickly takes more as he turns your head to face him, mouth wasting no time crashing against your lips.

With a muffled grunt, you place your hands on his chest and push against him. You should know by now that it’s no use. Johnny only unlatches himself from you when he’s had his fill. Otherwise, he sinks his claws in deep and refuses to let go.

“Johnny,” you mumble against his lips. He hums as if you saying his name, even obstructed, is the most mellifluous sound he’s ever heard, and he offers you reprieve from his assault on your lips. “Should… Shouldn’t we be watching the game?”

Gentle redirection. It’s the only thing you can think to do when he’s this hungry. You might as well be offering dry kibble to a dog — why would he trade the bone in front of him for that?

“The game?” he repeats. “Ah dinnae care about the game. Nae when a've got something so soft 'n pretty right here in front of me.”

There’s no time to argue with him. There never is. He’s smart and quick, and he’s already got you sitting in his lap by the time you even come up with a response. Teeth knocking against yours, hands pawing at your back; he nearly growls. Gently moaning into your mouth as his fingers tear you to shreds at an excruciating pace. Shirt bunched up, breasts hitting the warm air, your nipples perk against your will as he tugs on them. He stimulates them until they’re hardened, and he chuckles.

“Gettin’ excited for me, Bonnie?” he teases.

You squirm. Writhe like a worm while you’re finally able to breathe without a tongue down your throat. Unwavering esurient hands continue to paw at you while your brain attempts to scrounge up words that might allow Johnny to show pity on you. Babbling, you press against his chest, legs twisting, feet flailing — you have been so good at making yourself behave. Numbing the fear in favor of your torment being swift. Yet now, some latent terror licks its unforgiving flames along your skin, burning you alive until you melt in the palm of his hands.

“I just, uhm, wanna watch the-”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon barks.

His words silent you with a mean yap and a violent shove of your legs. Having been so caught up in your attempted escape, you were left unaware of the way your body so disgustingly desecrated Simon’s space. As you yelp and cling to Johnny — the very creature you’re trying to flee from — Simon glares at you with so much rancor you feel the acidity of it scar before the wound is even made.

“If you’re gonna fuck the bitch, do it on the floor,” he grumbles before pressing the tight neck of his beer bottle against his lips.

While Johnny looks at him in disbelief, the bile boils in your stomach. Thick bubbles sting like vinegar against your vocal chords, terribly sore and overused with pitiful begging. This is the precipice you’ve been dragged towards. Nothing but sharp jagged rocks await.

“Really?” Johnny asks. He can’t be too sure if this is real. If his dreams and wants are finally coming to fruition. “Ye mean it?”

Simon huffs. “Just stay quiet so I can watch the game.”

But you’ve known this the whole time, haven’t you?

Announcers drone on about the game on the screen as Johnny lays you on your back. He shucks your shirt off, then everything else, peeling you apart like sweet maize. You allow him without protest, your pacifism turning you into a victim, and it isn’t long before he’s bare and hovering over you, an incessant insect lured by the sweet aroma of fear that permeates your skin.

The restiveness that haunts Johnny finally seems to be satiated once he’s got you like this. Ignoring the cursing gaze of your eyes, he knows that he’s finally got what he’s been wanting this whole time. He’s too insatiable to take his time. To savor the taste of you as his teeth drag along your stomach. Impatient fingers prod against your cunt and you jolt, skin rippling as muscles tense and flex. There is no arousal for him to collect, yet he grins like a jackal all the same.

“Look at ye,” he croons. A weight settles on your abdomen, hot and needy. Your eyes flutter shut, heart tensing to the point you feel it tear in the cavern of your chest. Mistaking your disgust for adoration, Johnny slides back, pressing the tip of his cock against your reluctant hole, before blanketing your body with his once more. “So pretty. Mah sweet angel. Ah told you. Ah promised you, right? Always keep mah promises.”

When he presses into you, you’re reminded of the papercuts you used to get as a kid. Obsessed with arts and crafts, they’d litter your fingers in little lines, like railroad tracks. Sometimes, you’d pull the severed skin apart. Watch the blood pool between shredded cells. You don’t know why you did it.

As Johnny presses further, splitting you apart, skin searing with the burn as it stretches further than it should, you start to think you did it because it was proof you were alive. A reminder — just as it is now as he bottoms out and groans against your ear. You are alive on that hardwood floor. You are alive even as you tear, even as you’re bifurcated.

You are alive because Simon wills it, and Johnny wants it.

So you lie there and take it. Despite the pain. Despite how much you want to flee. It’s the only reason you continue to draw breath, even if it’s staggered with silent sobs as Johnny gives you everything he promised he would. You wonder if he can feel you dirl.

Once Johnny finds his rhythm, the pain becomes nearly unbearable. The friction is too strong, shredding your skin off layer by layer, but if it’s uncomfortable for him he says nothing of it. Just continues to mutter praise as he pistons himself between your legs with no regard for the way your hands press against his shoulder — desperate waves against unmoving rock.

“Johnny, please,” you choke out. Your plea is hardly heard over the announcers droning on the television. “T-That hurts.”

He offers you little reprieve, a gentle slowing in his pace before he grunts and continues his assault like he’s already forgotten. He says something to you, but you don’t understand it. It’s the same mindless muttering he’s spewed since he’s sunk himself into you, but it’s drowned out by the audio of the game. Someone’s scored another goal — Manchester, judging by Simon’s grunt in approval — and everyone cheers. They cheer and scream and shout, smothering your attempts of mercy.

They mock you. Players running across the field with their fists pumped high in the air, reveling in their accolades, in the love, all while you’re torn apart by a dog on the floor. Skin from bone. Sinew off muscle. It should be one of them here, ravaged by a beast. Bad things aren’t supposed to happen to you. But they do. And they continue to cheer as Johnny gets rougher, and they laugh as nails trace the curves of your body, and they enjoy their drinks and meals as the cameras zoom in — as they enjoy the show in front of them.

Something inside of you snaps as the tip of Johnny’s cock butts against your cervix. It sends a shock throughout your body, synapses jittering, limbs flailing, throat shredding as you cry out. There is nothing you can do to control the way your arms jerk any more than you can control anything else that’s happened to you in the last few weeks. They snap violently before seizing tight against your chest, clinging close to your body as if you can comfort yourself in the midst of such violence.

Johnny stops with a curse as something warm dribbles on your stomach, pooling just above your womb. You grimace as it adheres to your skin, sliding along as it dribbles down your hip and onto the floor. It isn’t until you get your eyes to focus that you realize it’s blood. Brilliant coccineous blood, and it’s dripping from Johnny’s nose despite the way he presses his fingers to the bridge.

“Ah, christ…” he mutters. He slides out of you as he leans back on his haunches, ichor spewing in a haphazard mess.

It isn’t until Simon’s feet hit the ground that you fully realize what you’ve done. Eyes widening, your hands cover your mouth as you watch him loom behind Johnny, gaze fixed on you as he takes in the bloody evidence staining your skin.

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to,” you sputter.

No apology reaches Simon’s ears. He stomps around Johnny, knees colliding in the floor as his fingers hook underneath your collar. It takes little effort for him to yank you up, back jumping off the floor as your hands hold onto his wrist for support. Hot breath fans across your face and the stench of alcohol has your eyes watering. Or maybe you only want to think that because you don’t want to admit you’re crying out of fear.

“Which hand?” he asks.

Throat growing dry, your head shakes. “What?”

“Which fuckin’ hand did you use to hit him?” he repeats, voice cutting. Keeping his fingers firmly locked underneath your collar, he grabs your right hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. It almost feels kind, but it’s falsely saccharine. “C’mon Bonnie, need to know which hand to break.”

Fat, hot tears seep from your eyes as Johnny groans, still trying to get his nose to stop bleeding. Simon’s head tilts as his grip grows more firm. You feel your tendons shift. Metacarpals strain underneath his strength, and you sob, snotty and pathetic as you shake your head.

“I’m sorry!” you cry out, a broken record that can do nothing more than apologize.

“Doesn’t answer my question. Think you can hurt my boy and get away with it? I’ll break ‘em both if I have to,” he threatens.

“Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it was an accident! I didn’t mean to, I swear,” you babble.

Hardly containing the enmity in his eyes, Simon pauses. His thumb continues to rub across your knuckles, relishing in the way you tremble beneath him, craving to feel the bones splinter and crack.

“Sorry?” he repeats, voice terrifyingly void of emotion. “Sorry enough to make it up to him? Gonna lay back down like a good girl then? Gonna let him fuck ya ‘till he’s had his fill?”

Mustering as much feigned enthusiasm as you can, you nod and it seals your fate. Contemplating for a moment, Simon stares at you before he drops your hand and drags you by your collar. You squeak as his hands twist you, contorting you until you’re on your hands and knees. The floor digs into your palms, but it gets worse as he pushes your head down where he keeps you pinned.

“Keep that arse up,” he warns. “This is your apology, remember?”

Penance. Apology. Punishment. You sob throughout it all after Johnny’s able to get the bleeding to stop and he continues. Blood stained hands grip your hips as he pushes himself back into you, and it hurts. That ache burrows deeper, stretching far into your stomach until you’re sapped of every breath you attempt to inhale.

Pressure builds on the side of your head as Simon keeps you pinned, cheek squished against the floor as your tears soak into the wood. He talks Johnny through it with a low voice but you refuse to hear it. Refuse to listen to him praise his favorite dog for tearing you apart.

He’s faster at this angle. Hits deeper. Unrelenting. Grunts and snarls echo against your back as he leans over you, lips brushing against your spine. You wish he’d bite down. Snap his jaw through your spinal cord and end the suffering they subjugate you to.

“Ah, fuck,” Johnny groans. “A’m gonna come.”

“Go on, then,” Simon urges. “She’s not good for anythin’ else.”

Johnny continues for a little while longer before his hips stutter and cease. Thick seed spills into you with the vibrant pulse of his cock and your body betrays the disgusted feeling inside of you with relief. He pumps into you a few more pathetic times before holding himself inside you, refusing to waste a drop as he pants and heaves. There was nothing you could have done to outrun this. Your only reason for being here has been to satisfy this insatiable mutt, and it’s finally over with a strained grunt and gentle curse.

It’s over for now.

Once Johnny’s able to pull himself from the supple softness of your cunt, Simon barks at him to go wait in the bathroom so he can clean him up. The poor boy reaches for you, fingertips bruising against the crux of your ass, but you do not respond. He slinks out of the living room with careful steps, leaving you and Simon alone. The monster’s lips brush against the shell of your ear as he leans down, voice low and quiet as if he’s telling you a secret.

“If you ever hurt my boy like that again, I’ll break every bone in your goddamn body before killing you,” he growls. “You understand?”

The muscles in your neck tense as if to nod, but he’s trained you to know better than that by now. “I understand.”

He gives you no response or praise as he stands, towering over you like you’re nothing but a miserable insect, and he does not linger. Heavy footsteps wander off out of the living room, making way to the bathroom before the door shuts closed behind him.

Cheering erupts on the television just as you allow your body to twist and fall sideways, giving your knees the break they so desperately need from the unforgiving ground. Bloody fingerprints stain your body as if calling you out for the hot sin you committed tonight. It crusts and chips like cheap paint. Bleary eyes focus on the screen just as confetti trickles over the football field like fat flakes of snow. Players sprint across the field, enveloping one another in hugs as camera men storm the field.

The game is over. Man United is triumphant. Water begins to run in the bathroom. You continue to rot on the floor.

#🐙reblogs #!!!!

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haven-1307 · 1 year ago

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In Limbo [Chapter 9]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

ferocious and stubborn as an ox

cw: period talk, fluff

wc: 4.8k

Just as promised, Simon picks you up the following afternoon.

Jack Frost paid you a visit last night, leaving intricate, swirling designs on your windows, casting the grey cityscape beyond your apartment in prismatic light. It diffuses your vision to the point that you don’t recognize Simon when he pulls up, unfamiliar with his car, and you nearly jump out of your skin when he knocks on the door. Shoulders scrunching, muscles tensing; you turn to the door with a grunt as your cramps jolt through your body. They’re worse today than they were yesterday. They always seem to grow more intense with time, but it’s a familiar pain you know how to push through.

Shouldering on a coat, you open the door only to be immediately scrutinized under Simon’s gaze. Dark eyes flicker over your body, checking for dark circles, perspiration, and general fragility. Though you are loads better than when he saw you last week, you’re certain your crossed arms and the slight hunching over your stomach isn’t convincing. Judging by the tight line of his lips, he’s not entirely impressed.

Mustering a smile, you glance behind him, prodding him into action. “Hey. Ready to head out?”

He hums before nodding, boots clomping against the floor as he moves out of the way. “Got the car all warmed up for ya, sweetheart.”

London looks magical around this time of year, especially from the passenger's seat of Simon’s car. Warm white lights twist up the trunk of every tree, spiraling along branches where stray snowflakes glint in their glory. Evergreen garland adorns street lights with faux holly and winter berries, giving your eyes a break from the otherwise barren concrete jungle. It’s beautiful. Picture perfect. Something you’d expect to see on a postcard or in a movie. Glass fogs up with your breath as you lean closer to get a better look at the streets.

With only one more week until Christmas, the pavement bustles with last minute shoppers. Children in too-large coats and fluffy caps trot behind their parents as they squeal in delight at window displays in flashy shops. The holiday has a way of illuminating everything. Casting a warm, yellow glow on the wonderstruck faces peering through the glass. Bathing the streets until they’re lively and buzzing. Banishing the gloom of the city — you almost don’t recognize the streets.

Of course, the grey is always there underneath the surface somewhere. Lurking with sharp, nefarious tendrils, waiting to smother anything it can. For the moment, at least, it’s nice to pretend that it’s gone forever.

Once Simon finds a place to park, you’re able to step out into that wonderland yourself. A soft breeze nips at the tips of your ears and nose, rubbing them raw with crystalline shards like sandpaper across your skin, but you ignore it in favor of the toy shop display flashing through the window. A model train travels through a tiny village dusted with cotton-like snow. Tiny villagers go about their tiny lives as they attend church and visit family or throw snowballs at one another. Each of them are hand painted with care, complete with rosy cheeks and colorful winter attire.

Simon’s reflection dances in the glass as he approaches your side, looking down at the scene you can’t help but gawk at. His arm brushes against yours as he inspects the paintwork on the figurines, and you glance up at him with a smile. His face glows in the light bringing his skin to life, scars and all. It casts shadows on his face perfectly, defining the curve of his jaw and his cheekbones.

Swallowing, you turn your attention back to the scene in front of you. “I wish it would snow more in London.”

He hums, feet shuffling on the pavement. “Would be a lot of shoveling.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have to snow a whole lot,” you chuckle. “Just enough to stick around. Thick enough to make snow angels out of.”

You pause to watch the train travel through the tunnel. A small light fixed to the front of the locomotive cuts through the darkness, and you watch it grow brighter as it nears the exit. In your head, you imagine its whistle. The huff and puff of smoke as the engine burns coal to transport presents. You smile.

“My dad and I used to make frost angels instead. The grass at the park would always glisten with frost, especially in the mornings, so we’d lay in the field and make angels.” You laugh at the memory as a fit of giggles erupts behind you, children passing through with toys in hand. For a moment, you almost feel warm. “They never looked really pretty, but he’d always finish them off with halos anyway.”

“Could always blend up some ice for ya,” he patronizes.

You mock laugh at him. “Oh sure, thanks. Think you can get all of London covered by Christmas?”

“Anythin’ for you, sweetheart.”

Ignoring the way your cheeks warm at his comment, you quickly change the subject, suggesting that you get to shopping before you freeze to death. Thankfully, Simon bites and leads you inside of the toy shop where you’re welcomed by a jovial clerk with a kind smile. A green elf hat sits on his head, leaving the children nearby to gawk at him. Christmas music plays softly through the radio on the back counter and it fades in and out as you wander between shelves where spiced cinnamon and pumpkin wafts just behind you.

A variety of toys adorn the aisles, but Simon appears to be on a mission for something in specific. He completely bypasses the frilly princess costumes, fancy dolls, action figures and crafts supplies in favor of toy cars and model ships. They’re cute; impossibly small. Made perfectly for little hands and fingers.

Then you make the mistake of looking at the price tags.

There’s a special aesthetic that surrounds this time of year. Something beautiful and kind. It’s the type of feeling that tugs on heartstrings, drawing people into warm embraces with hearty meals and laughter. It makes you feel at home even when you’re far from it. Despite it all, there’s always going to be something that’ll separate you from everyone else. You’ll never be the one bringing home gifts to family members. Never be the one to splurge. Each year you can hardly scrounge up enough to give Row something. Hell, you’re not even sure if you’ll have enough to buy the sanitary products you so desperately need.

Then again, it’s not like you have much family left to buy gifts for.

“What kind of present are you looking for?” Push it out of your mind. You can’t mope forever.

“Somethin’ my nephew’s been wantin’ for a bit. He’s been talkin’ his parents ear off ‘bout it for the last few months,” Simon replies, eyes scanning the shelf in front of him. He hums as his fingers ghost over the box to a model plane. “Been obsessed with planes lately.”

“Nephew?” you repeat. “So you have siblings, then?”

“A brother. Thomas. Everyone calls ‘im Tommy. I like to call him a pain in the arse,” he humors.

Chuckling, you crouch down to assist Simon’s search for the perfect gift for his nephew. The movement, curling in on yourself, temporarily eases the cramps that still fester deep in your abdomen, and you sigh. No matter how little the reprieve is, it’s always welcome.

“Big or little brother, then?” you ask.

“Older. Certainly not bigger than me.”

“Yeah, figure it’s pretty hard to be bigger than you.”

Falling quiet, you put in more effort into searching through eye-catching toys flashy enough to steal away any child’s attention. They’ve got everything from small sets made out of metal, to build-your-own models. It’s certainly fancier than anything you remembered from when you were a kid, but it’s also been ages since you’ve last visited a toy store.

“Oh, this is cute!” you coo.

Your hands reach out for a large box padded with smooth cardboard. For its size, it’s incredibly light, so it’s easy work to slide it off of the shelf. A precious, design it yourself RC plane, complete with paint and all. The box depicts what you assume is supposed to be father and son, painting designs on the body of the plane together.

You hold the box up for Simon to see, giving it a little shake. “Look, he could design his own little plane!”

Simon’s eyes widen in recognition as you straighten yourself out, box still in hand. “That’s it.”

Holding it out for him to take, he relieves you of carrying its weight. Large hands flip the box around, reading the description on the back. He smirks, then chuckles before shaking his head.

“As seen on TV,” he quotes. “They play the commercial for this between his favorite cartoons. Been begging his mum for it ever since.”

“What’s his name?” you ask.

“Joseph.”

Before you have the chance to comment further, Simon slides the box underneath his arm while his free hand retrieves his phone. The screen flickers on, casting a dim glow on his face as he flicks through applications.

When he turns it in your direction, you’re met with a half fuzzy photo of a young boy and a woman. They’re outside, sitting in a pile of leaves, their dying colors of red and yellows vibrantly declaring the autumn season. A few torn leaves stick to the boy’s bright blonde hair as he attempts to shove a fistful of them into the woman's hair. They don’t quite stick to her copper locks, but she grins at him anyway. With bright blue eyes and beautiful smiles, they’re near carbon copies of one another.

“Tom sent me this a few months back. That’s little Joey there, and his mum, Beth,” Simon shares.

“He’s adorable,” you coo. “How old is he?”

The very moment Simon answers, an unforgiving contraction rips through your abdomen. Muscles cramping and tightening, pulling so taut you fear they’ll tear each other apart. In a pitiful attempt to soothe yourself, your hand presses right above where your uterus is wreaking havoc on your body. With enough pressure, you’re sure you can phase through your organs. Reach into yourself and remove the nuisance and go on with your life. Instead, you fight back a grimace.

No matter how hard you try, you’re unable to hide such vicious pain from Simon. He catches on quickly. Sniffs it out like a cadaver dog. His phone shuts off yet stays firmly in his palm as he presses the back of his hand against your forehead. Taken aback, you stare up at him, mouth trying to form words, yet nothing falls from your lips. There’s something about this touch that feels familiar. Something that leaves you feeling empty when he moves his hand away.

“Sure you’re feelin’ alright?” he asks. “Still a little warm. Don’t look like you’re feelin’ too good, sweetheart.”

Maybe it’s due to what your body has been going through as of late, or maybe it’s because of the way he’s looking at you, but your mouth grows dry. Like a desert. Devoid of the oasis of words you so desperately need. There’s no use in beating around the bush — or at least, you try to tell yourself as much — you’ve followed him out here for a reason.

“Yeah I’m just… you know. On my menses,” you explain, trying to make it humorous but it sounds more awkward than anything. “That’s, uh, one of the reasons I came with you today. Was sorta hoping I could drop by the pharmacy to pick some stuff up.”

You were hoping the concern etched into his face would melt away with your explanation, but if anything, it only gets worse. “You shoulda said something. Would’ve dropped by there first.”

“It’s no big deal,” you attempt to assure. “I mean, it’s not like this stuff goes away with a magic medication or something.”

God, you wish it would. A simple pop of a pill and a quick nap to have this all fade away sounds heavenly. It would save you from the odd look Simon gives you as he shoves his phone back into his pocket. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made him uncomfortable. Some men get… squeamish around that type of talk. You have a very vivid memory shoved in the back of your mind of one of the cooks getting on Bee for walking in the restaurant with a box of tampons. She told them off with a bravery you could only dream of mustering, and they haven’t mentioned anything since, but the image of their tense faces is forever burned into your mind.

You wonder if it’s the blood or the body it comes from that disgusts them so much.

“C’mon,” Simon urges as he nods towards the end of the aisle. “Should be a pharmacy on the end of the block.”

“But what about presents for your family?” you ask.

“This was the last thing I was lookin’ for. Everythin’ else is already covered,” he assures you. “We’ll go up and pay and get you what you need, yeah?”

If there is one thing that you’ve learned about Simon Riley over the last few months, it’s that he’s a force to be reckoned with. Of course, you’ve known this fairly early on. You’ve known as much since the moment he taught you how to shoot pool, hands firm and unwavering against yours. It’s a force that evolves. One that shows its teeth — ones sharp enough to send a man as terrifying as Andrei whimpering and running for the hills.

You wonder if he brings that same heat to John’s establishment. Doing grunt work in the club, fighting off men gathering around the innocent like flies drawn to rot and decay. How often have those teeth been redirected at him, causing the puffy scars that trace the features of his nose and jaw? Are his claws only razors because someone else sharpened them for him?

Too many times have you seen men like Simon deteriorate. Shatter and become nothing but self-centered beasts who don’t fear spilling blood. Strength and power corrupts even the kindest of people — turns humans into monsters; into men like Marco. Simon should terrify you, but he doesn’t.

You don’t fully realize why that is until you reach the pharmacy

Even with your obvious apprehension about him accompanying you inside, he does anyway. Doesn’t flinch at the hygiene products. Watches intently as you peruse, counting numbers in your head and quids in your hand. It’s that counting game again. Barely scraping by — not having enough to buy supplies that’ll last you more than a few days, forever stuck with travel sized versions of what you require. When he catches on to that frustrated expression on your face, he insists on paying for you.

“Not gonna let you go without what’cha need. These prices are robbin’ you blind,” he says when you try to argue.

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” you retort, guilt eating you alive.

“I’m not buyin’ you a pony here, sweetheart. They’re pads and tampons. Necessities.”

Stubborn as an ox, he doesn’t budge. He’s perseverant, and certainly has more stamina than you. Saving yourself from any further embarrassment, you finally allow it. You’ll just have to buy him something another time. He carries the items up himself, sneaking some over the counter painkillers in his hands in the process. You follow behind him like a wounded animal; or, at least the clerk looks at you as if you are one. Some pathetic, bleeding bitch — it’s like he can smell the blood that stains the insides of your thighs. Shame mixes with the embarrassment in your veins, lighting you on fire until you’re nothing but a boiling mess of a woman.

Suddenly, the only thing you see is Simon’s back.

“Get paid to stare or are you gonna ring us up?” he grunts.

Simon cares ferociously, you realize. That’s why you’re not scared of him. It would be so easy for him to take. To scrape up everything he wants and shove it into his pocket like it’s always belonged to him, but he doesn’t. Simon likes balance. Enjoys peace. When he snarls, it’s with sharp teeth; just enough to get the glares and smirks to dissipate, and when he looks back at you, there is only care. Doesn’t speak about the tally. There are no numbers in the back of his mind. No debt to pay.

He doesn’t count. He cares because that’s what he wants to do. And if it’s not, then he is the greatest pretender you’ve ever met — second only to yourself.

You’re able to breathe again the moment you’re back in Simon’s car, seatbelt fastened and supplies in hand. Dusk settles in the sky with a soft lilac hue as you’re taken back home, but the streets do not darken. Christmas joy keeps the pavement illuminated, bright lights diffusing through the window — they almost look like stars. You squint, try to pick out constellations, try to ignore the cramping and humiliation that festers in your stomach.

“Got plans for Christmas?”

Neither of you have spoken in so long you nearly jump at the warm baritone resonating in his chest. Glancing at him, you quell your heart as you watch him for a moment. Hands carefully on the wheel, safely maneuvering through traffic, eyes flickering to you for only a moment before they’re back on the road.

“Oh, uhm, not really. Usually I spend it with Row and John, but they’re headed out of the country for the holiday. My parents passed when I was a kid so… uh, otherwise I think I’ll probably spend it at home? Relax or whatever,” you explain.

An eternity passes by as you wait for his response. Engine humming, radio playing old Christmas tunes in the background — you know what he’s going to say, and you try not to grimace before the words leave his mouth.

“I’ve got family in Manchester. My mum’s hostin’ my brother and I for the holiday. You’re more than welcome to join, if you’d like,” he offers.

Your eyes flutter shut, and you sigh. “You know you don’t… have to do that, right?” you ask.

“Do what?” he questions, sincere confusion lacing his tone.

“I know that Row asked you to keep an eye on me. That she’s concerned about me, or whatever. And I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me, truly. But Simon, this is your family. I can’t… barge in. You deserve to spend time with them without having to worry about, you know… me.”

His head shakes, eyes daring a glance at you as you fiddle with the bag in your lap. “Row isn’t makin’ me do anything. And you’re not bargin’ in if I invite you,” he says.

Teeth digging into the flesh of your bottom lip, you feel yourself sunder. Long, spiderweb cracks in your foundation, heart pounding so hard you fear it’ll rip itself to shreds. You’re becoming undone in the passenger's seat of a car, and you swear it’ll be the end of you.

“Sweetheart, I’m not askin’ you because of Row, or anyone else. I’m askin’ because I wanna know if you’ll go to Manchester with me or not. That’s it,” he says.

Finally, you bring yourself to look at him, anxiety slithering down your throat as you swallow. “Do you… really want me to go?”

“Course I do. Wouldn’t be askin’ if I didn’t. I’d be chuffed if you did, but it’s up to you.” He pauses as he spares another glance at you. “You can say no.”

Quiet eudaimonia warms your chest at his words, but you’re not sure which part has done you in. Is it his outspoken wish that you join him? That it’d make him happy if you came along? Or is it his quiet reminder that, despite what he wants, you still have a choice?

“When would we leave?” you ask.

“Christmas Eve, most likely. Still got work up until then, and then would have to be back the day after Christmas. It’d be a short trip,” he explains.

Lungs filling with air, your heart settles as you manage a quiet smile. “Okay. Well… I’d love to meet them. Your family. And it’d be nice not to be alone this Christmas.”

Simon smiles, and you find yourself staring at him longer than you should because of it. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. He is really… handsome. Ruggedness, scars, crooked nose and all; all his features come together perfectly, as if sculpted by an artist. This is the same man who fought off a blade for you, the man who assured you were safe on several occasions, who refuses to be bashful or stationary when it comes to ensuring your comfort. This is the man who always walks you up the stairs to your apartment, refusing to let you out of his sight until he knows you’re safe in your residence. The man who fixed your door. Your sink. Everything.

As you say goodnight and reiterate your plans for Christmas, your mind repeats that phrase: Simon Riley cares ferociously.

Simon Riley cares ferociously about you.

It continues. Repetitive. Never ending. Not even as Simon vanishes back down the stairs and you shut and lock the door behind him. Not even when you toss yourself face first into your bed, period products discarded on some forgotten counter in your kitchen. Fervid desire swells in your chest to the point you feel yourself about to pop. Explode in a mess of viscera until you’re unrecognizable and it hurts but feels like the closest thing to freedom you’ve ever tasted.

Something’s gotten into you, surely. Or maybe you’re more sick than you thought. Period hormones wreaking havoc on your psyche. Whatever it is, you realize you haven’t felt this much excitement since you were a kid.

For the first time in ages, something finally feels like it’s changing for the better.

When your phone goes off an hour later, you find yourself looking at the screen hoping it’s Simon. You drop everything, pasta nearly boiling over on the stove, just to fetch the device, and you feel your stomach plummet when you see Row’s caller ID instead of his. A palpable tension still stretches between you two since your last conversation. You still taste the bile. That stomach acid and soup.

Your hand shakes as you press accept and turn the heat down on the burner. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Row greets. Her voice is soft. Careful. “You sound better than you did last week.”

“Yeah, feeling a lot better,” you admit. Your laugh is awkward. Tense. You feel like you’re talking to a stranger, and maybe in some way you are. That’s what you’ve been doing — pushing her away, building walls until you’re unrecognizable to one another. Nothing but strangers who’ve known each other for half your lives.

“Good. That’s good. Hey, uhm…” You brace yourself, eyes shutting as you let steam from the pot brush over your face before she continues. “I wanted to apologize for last week. For… honestly the last few weeks. You’ve… been going through a rough time with work and everything and… what I thought was me being supportive was really just me being a dunce. When I see something I think is a problem, I want to fix it right away, and when I can’t I get frustrated and… and I shouldn’t have said what I said to you the other day. That wasn’t fair to you.”

Row pauses to clear her throat, but it still takes her a moment before she speaks up again. When she does, you freeze at the tightness of her voice. “I just… it makes me sad thinking about you having to do anything alone a-and I know no one likes unwanted help, least of all you but… just know that I’m here for you. Anything, I swear. Both John and I would move heaven and earth for you.”

Trembling lips curve into a smile, and when you laugh you’re not sure if it’s out of love, relief, or both. Row falls silent on the other end of the line, trepidation obvious even through the call.

“You keep saying I’m alone, but I’m not. I have you, silly,” you tease. “I know you’re more of a talker than I am, and you wanna know what’s going on but… that’s just not me. You know that. But just because I’m not sharing my… feelings or whatever, doesn’t mean I’m doing this alone. I have you, and John, and —” and Simon “— and I always have you guys to lean on. I know you feel like you aren’t doing enough, or that you should be doing more, but Row, you’re doing more for me than anyone else in my entire life ever has.”

A long stretch of silence interrupts the call as you wait for Row to respond, and when she finally does, all she can muster is a quiet: “Oh.” There’s a slightly longer silence before she’s finally able to string the correct words together. “Well, when you put it that way… I sound really stupid.”

“You have your moments,” you humor.

A melodic fit of giggles erupts from both you and Row. Sweet, carefree, and loving. You sound like kids again. Gossiping school girls snickering to one another when you shouldn’t be.

“Well, thanks for helping me get my head on straight, then,” she chuckles. “Really. It’s always nice to know it was worse in my head than it was in real life.”

“I notice things usually are like that,” you quip.

“Well, I might have gone a little overboard. The idea of you spending Christmas alone still really makes me sad, so I talked to my mum. She said you’re more than welcome to spend the day with her and granny, if you’re needing company,” Row explains. There’s a short pause before she anxiously adds: “You don’t have to go, of course, if you’d rather stay home.”

There’s another ardent swell that expands in your chest. It travels all throughout your body, synapses tingling, neurons buzzing. Leaning against the counter, you look down at the floor — which could use a good sweep — as your toes wiggle in your slippers.

“Well, I’ve actually got plans for Christmas now. Simon invited me to go to Manchester for the holiday. We’ll be spending it with his family,” you share.

An over dramatic gasp crackles through the speaker. “Seriously? You’re not joking? Wait, did you suggest it? Or was he seriously, like, let me take you to Manchester?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” you say with an awkward laugh. “It was… really sweet.”

“Oh? Sweet, was it?” Row jests.

What you thought was going to be a quick call consisting of setting scores straight and airing baggage quickly devolves into a childish conversation about a potential relationship with Simon. You have to flip your phone on speaker to finish up dinner, and even then Row persists well after you’ve washed your dishes.

It is… strange to be having this conversation. Even as a kid, you never pursued any sort of relationship. No one ever caught your eye. Nothing ever sparked what you imagined infatuation would feel like. For a long while, you thought you were broken. Meant to forever go about the world without a partner to crawl next to in bed or someone to make breakfast for. It would have been fine. You’ve gone your entire life so far without that bond.

But now? Now that it feels so close you can reach out and touch it? You’re too frightened to name it — to call it love — lest you scare it off before you even have the chance to hold it in your hands.

Eventually the call ends with promises and oaths, each of you swearing to tell one another about your Christmas excursions when Row returns from her trip with John. Lights flicker off as you slip into pajamas, soft cotton warming your skin as you slip under covers. As you lay on your back, eyes bleary as they attempt to focus on the pale ceiling above you, you think of Simon. Fingers itch to reach for your phone, to shoot him a text — to thank him for his kindness today.

Don’t you remind yourself. Simon is the water you try to cup in your hands. Palms pressed tight together, wrists contorting into the perfect cup — you’ll spill it if you’re not careful. So you close your eyes, and for once you allow yourself to hope. To yearn. You lay there and pray that when Simon thinks of you, his heart beats just as wildly as yours does when you think of him.

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